Look, the swans are back. They are facing each other, their necks forming a love heart. ‘Just for us, my love’, you said when they did it once before. I wish you could see them now.
The sun’s hiding behind the clouds. I’ll forever remember the time you clapped your hands and it suddenly reappeared. ‘Magic’, you said. I pretended to believed you!
Listen to me, talking to myself. Silly me.
There you are! What took you so long? You only went to the shop to get some toilet rolls and disinfectant.
They were the happiest few years of my life. The perfect couple, they called us. She was amazing, always the life and soul of the party. I was invariably the butt of her jokes but I didn’t mind!
Sadly, she lost her life but her soul lives on. I never believed in ghosts. She did, and now I know she was right.
She waits until I’m alone then softly creeps up on me. I know she’s nearby because there’s a chill in the air.
She tries differing ways to kindle my interest. She moves things around, makes things spin and even tickles me. She’d dig me in the ribs if she wasn’t such a softie! Yesterday she tried to surprise me by coming down the chimney. She got covered in soot, you should have seen her!
Sometimes, just for fun, I blow her around the room with my fan! She loves it. Tonight I’ve a new plan, it’s a bit of a risk but it shouldn’t cause her any harm – I’m going to chase her with my vacuum cleaner!
Our unusual relationship shows no sign of waning. It’ll keep it going until it’s my turn to pop my clogs, then once again we’ll be the perfect couple, a couple of gleeful ghosts that will entertain those we’ve left behind – you’ve been warned!
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Thanks to Brenda for hosting The Sunday Whirl. This week’s given words are – kindle risk dig until differing chill spin waning ghost softly alone know.
For reasons which may become apparent, I decided not to attempt an audio!
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She was born Philomena, but she calls herself Mena because she dislikes words with more than a handful of letters. I wouldn’t call her hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobic though, mainly because I can’t pronounce it!
We went to a pub quiz. She did well! The capital of Italy …., singer Lady …., president of the USA, Donald ….., she actually said ‘Duck’, which was fitting bearing in mind that unfortunate incident a couple of years ago!
We were asked to define the word Inkling. Her face lit up, she had a vague idea what it meant.
Here we are again at The Baaamy Inn where, on the farmers table, a thermos flask surounded by tankards of ale is attracting interest; “I popped into the milking parlour to see how Ditzy Daisy was getting on”, said Ted, “and she gave it to me; she said it was supposed to keep hot things hot and cold things cold, well, she said she’d filled it with steaming coffee then dropped in a scoop of ice cream, but later when she opened it, it hadn’t worked – I left her to her udder-tugging, I’ll have a go at at explaining where she went wrong tomorrow!”
Babs had been to visit her mother in her old folks home, “a bloke was standing up making them laugh, he said ‘twelve’, and they laughed, he said ‘fifteen’ and they laughed, I was interested to know why it was funny; apparently he only knows a few jokes and they all know them too, so instead of repeating them at length each time, he’s given each one a number; well, I was asked to sing a song, they like my dulcet tones, and when I finished I thought I’d amuse myself by saying ‘twenty-one’ – they nearly fell out of their chairs with laughter, some probably wet themselves – I asked why it was funny and a guy said, ‘because we’ve not heard that one before’!”
“I went to funeral”, said George, “old Johnnie, he was always the life and soul of the party, a serial prankster, he would have hated seeing his friends and family all dressed in black looking glum, I remember him once saying he’d like to open an undertakers for people who wanted fun funerals, after all, the word funeral starts with f-u-n – he’d have a brightly coloured hearse that played tunes like an ice cream van, pallbearers dresses as ghosts and hilarious liturgies – he’d even scatter un-popped popcorn in the coffins to make cremations more interesting!”
Over at the knitting circle, eavesdropper Polly was talking about her friend Fiona, “she was married to a banker, when he died she married an actor, unfortunately he died too then she married priest; she says that if he dies she’ll marry an undertaker, they must be well off because it’s the only dying business that keeps going – Suzie at the next table leapt to her feet and started to sing – “one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready then go go go!”
“I used to be a banker”, said Colin, “but I lost interest – Irish bankers are successful because their capital is always Dublin – the banker stayed single because he was a loner – I asked my banker to check my balance and she pushed me – I gave a speech about savings but it didn’t get much interest – I’m going to retire tomorrow and live off my savings, what I’ll do on day two I haven’t a clue – I’m not attending my mate’s funeral, why should I, he’s not coming to mine – funeral directors start their day with a mourning coffee – people are always dying to get their attention – I asked one how many bodies were buried in the cemetary and he said ‘all of them’ – being a mortician is gross but selling fruit and vegetables is grocer – I found a new interest in playing backwards origami, I’ll let you know how it unfolds – I’m giving away a puppet if anyone’s interested, no strings attached – the World Health Organisation has your best interests in mind, WHO knew ……..!”
Landlord Len is not that computer literate, but now and again he tries to be creative, infact he’s just composed, printed and scattered about some leaflets advertising a Spelling Contest, but so far there’s been little interest and he was wondering why – ‘it’s probably because they’re not keen on smelling compost’, his dearly departed Maggie whispered in his ear’ – “oh no, that wretched auto-correct’s been playing games with me again”, he muttered!
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Thanks to Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge for hosting Six Sentence Storieswhere our given word is Interest.
I knew I should have gone with you. Get some holiday clothes I said, and just look what you got.
When I said buy a colourful shirt I didn’t mean a Hawaiian one. What do you mean h-why not? Because I want you to blend in, not stand out, and as for those t-shirts, they’re so tight your man-boobs look bigger than my boobs.
When I said get some swimming trunks I meant baggy ones not skin tight budgie-smugglers, and just look at that hat. A baseball cap with that written on it is offensive!
Before I leave, the picture of the beach on which Froggie is standing is one of several I took yesterday afternoon. A busy beach is not something we expect to see here on a weekday in May! Here are a couple more –
I stand motionless as a moving stairway carries me down, down, down.
A tunnel envelopes me. To my left and right, behind me and before, people stand in silence. Motionless like so many statues, seemingly unaware of others that surround them.
The stillness is disturbed by a sudden rush of wind. A distant rumble becomes a roar as a silver snake rattles to a halt before me. A row of menacing doors hiss open, like hungry gaping mouths. I watch as a surging mass makes its escape, buffeting me in its frantic bid for freedom.
‘Mind the gap’ commands an echoing voice.
I am carried forward by a throng, seemingly eager to be swallowed up. We cram against each other like sardines in a can. A jerk. I grip a post. We sway as one, this way and that, that way and this. Nobody speaks.
We are deep underground. My body is here, but it yearns to be above in a bustling street where folk are going about their lives oblivious to what is happening beneath their feet.
‘We are now approaching Angel’, utters a langid voice.
‘Mind the gap’, it says.
I stand motionless as a moving stairway carries me up, up, up.
Once again it was time for the annual Produce Prizegiving Event, a celebration of all things home grown and edible! In the fluttering marquee Mrs Green’s gooseberries stood proudly alongside Molly’s marvellous marmalade. Freda’s fabulous fruit cake sat between Tom’s tower of tomatoes and Mr Cox’s ramrod cucumbers. Sally’s strawberry and cream fancies, Screams as she calls them, appeared scrumptious and Miss Penelope’s petit-poi looked like tiny green jewels. Beneath the benches were sacks of spuds and piles of parsnips.
However, self-centred Cedric Dobbs’ carrots were well past their best, his lettuce limp and his apples knocking on a bit. Whilst he he claimed his exhibits were the best in their class, it looked like his entries had lost to their rivals once again.
Sadly, the prize giving ceremony was spoilt by Cedric’s heckling. True to form, he complained when John James’ beetroots were judged the best and jeered when Mr Jackson’s jam was named the fruitiest.
“A curse on your cauliflowers and a blight on your beans” he yelled at the assembled crowd. There were sighs and groans all round.
Police Constable Potter who’d dropped by to ensure everything was fair and square, put down his glass of Mr Winstanley’s winning white wine and escorted Cedric out doors.
Master of Ceremonies Major Mason regained his composure and resumed.
“Dear friends, it’s time to present this season’s top award, the coveted Silver Spade for the Village’s Finest Garden”.
The head judge handed him an envelope. The marquee fell still. A hush descended.
“The award goes to…oh…erm….”
The Major fanned his face with the slip of paper.
“PC Potter, would you mind popping outside and bringing back Cedric Dobbs?”
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Thanks to Brenda for hosting The Sunday Whirlwhere this week’s given words are – sighs siren knocking still centered lost slip doors true screams beneath and curse. I used all but one!
