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Fool on a Bike
Daily Prompt: Trains, Planes, and Automobiles – You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, or car? (Or something else entirely — bike? Hot air balloon?)
Chad was a dreamer. A dreamer and a fool. Everyone knew it. Chad knew everyone knew it. And he didn’t care.
He’d had ideas for this, ideas for that. He thought they’d make him famous. Some great invention, or a feat of daring. Nothing ever came of any of them. In fact, his biggest claim to fame was that he failed at absolutely everything. People often wondered how that could be – out of all of his thousands of hair-brained schemes, surely he would have accidentally succeeded at least once? Read more…
Minty Merriwether – Book Imp!
Weekly Writing Challenge: Clicking Through the Pages – break up longer posts by adding pagination to them – be sure to click on the page numbers at the bottom to read the whole story – there are 3 pages!
“Katherine Mary Williams!”
Katie’s Mum’s voice drifted up the stairs. She didn’t sound happy.
Uh oh, thought Katie. Whenever Mum used her full name, she was in trouble.
“You’ve been at the cheese again! You’ll have nightmares! Go to bed, we’ll talk in the morning.”
“OK, Mum, sorry Mum!” Katie called back, and closed her bedroom door. She loved her cheese. A little telling off tomorrow would be worth it. She climbed into her Hello Kitty pyjamas, tucked herself into bed and fell asleep.
It was the small hours of the morning when there was a popping sound, a cloud of smoke and a flash of light. Standing on the end of the bed was a small creature. He looked around and opened his mouth, as if he were about to speak.
Katie slept on, oblivious.
The little creature looked at her, a perplexed look on his face as her snores filled the room. With a “harrumph” he abruptly disappeared, quite suddenly and without any of the ceremony which had heralded his arrival.
Seconds later there was another, much louder popping sound, even more smoke and a significantly brighter flash of light and the creature returned. Katie shot bolt upright in bed, eyes wide.
The Final Challenge
Weekly Writing Challenge: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words – tell us a story based on this photo.
Photo courtesy of Michelle Weber, used by permission of The Daily Post (see above link)
Jacques glared at Gianni across the work table. Gianni glared back. Two chefs at the top of their game, their culinary prowess was matched only by the hatred they harboured for each other. A healthy rivalry twenty years ago, it had grown to a loathing famous in culinary circles – no mean feat in a world in which rivalry was second nature.
Today their feud – and “feud” was not too strong a word to describe the feelings between these two – would, in some measure, be settled. Each was cooking his signature dessert. The other would eat it. Neither was foolish enough to believe that his nemesis would admit that the other’s dish was superior, but that was not required. The lesser chef (and each was convinced it would be the other) would know, deep down, that he was beaten.
This would be their final challenge. Their last battlefield.
Jacques worked quickly, his nimble fingers expertly preparing the ingredients. A man in his late fifties, he hailed from a small town to the south of Paris (nobody knew quite where, exactly – Jacques felt a little mystery added to his charm). Married once, he now lived alone in a luxury apartment off the Champs Elysées. His wife could never contend with his first love – cooking – and had left him seven years ago, taking their children with her. It had been two weeks before Jacques had even noticed. He had no idea where they had gone, nor did he care.
Gianni, a man of indeterminate age from southern Italy, had never entered into any relationship lasting longer than a night. He needed to let off steam occasionally but he never let any woman distract him from his chosen profession. He scorned Jacques for his one attempt at a normal life – he knew better than to allow foolish ideas of “love” and “family” to get in the way of his cooking.
Leaving his dessert for a moment, Gianni grabbed a carrot and held it aloft, a knife clenched in his other hand, looking at Jacques with bushy eyebrows raised. Jacques rose to the challenge and fetched a second carrot, and at a silent signal both began to chop in earnest. Faster and faster they worked, their knives a blur until both carrots lay in pieces upon the work table. They had played this game before – a dead heat as always. They returned to their desserts with a snarl.
At last both were ready. They stood back, each eyeing the other’s masterpiece. As Gianni admired his dessert, a nagging fear overtook him until he felt his body grow suddenly cold. Sugar. He hadn’t added the sugar! Twenty years of rivalry had culminated in this moment, and in his anger he had spoiled his dessert. This had never happened before! Why today?
He knew he could never win now. He began to tremble – he would be a laughing stock. His whole life a waste! He felt a red mist descend, the same red mist he had first experienced that day, so long ago, when he had beaten his little brother half to death for breaking his toy.
Beyond reason, he grabbed the wickedly sharp chef’s knife from the counter and lunged forward, plunging it into Jacques’ chest. Jacques grunted and looked down in surprise as a red stain blossomed across his immaculate white jacket. He slumped to the floor, a disbelieving look on his face.
Gianni laughed. He had won. At last, he had won! As Jacques lay gasping on the tiled floor, blood pooling beneath him, Gianni picked up Jacques’ dessert and began to take huge mouthfuls. It was good! Maybe the knife had been a surer way to win. As he ate, he heard a horrible gurgling sound. Jacques was laughing, blood-flecked spittle foaming around his mouth.
“What the hell is so funny?” demanded Gianni, wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow. His heart had begun to thump against his chest, beating alarmingly quickly, making him feel quite dizzy. Something was very wrong.
“I really wouldn’t,” croaked Jacques, his vision beginning to darken, “have eaten that dessert, if I were you.”
Life Story
Daily Prompt: Elevator – You’re stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger.
I yawned as the lift approached the third floor. Seven floors down and the damn thing had stopped at every floor. The third was no exception. I groaned inwardly as the doors slid open to reveal a short, grey-haired man. He tottered in, barely making it inside before the doors slid closed.
“Which floor?” I enquired as the lift began to move again, gesturing towards the buttons as he smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his white linen suit.
He looked at me and smiled, his aged face crinkling even more (if that were possible), a glint in his surprisingly bright blue eyes.
The lift shuddered and ground to a halt.
The first flicker of fear trickled through me as I moved to the control panel. I wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but I did harbour a secret fear of plummeting to my death. I jabbed at the buttons. Nothing. I pushed the alarm switch. Still nothing. Maybe it’s a silent alarm?
The man spoke.
“I remember when all this was trees and fields,” he said, gesturing expansively, moving his arms to encompass the entire lift.
“Right, yes,” I replied.
“Over here,” he continued, pointing towards the back wall, “was the lane I walked on my way to school.”
I looked at the wall and nodded, humouring him.
“When I went to school at all!” he cackled. “We often didn’t make it on hot summer days. You see that factory, just there?” He pointed to his left.
“Um, factory…?” I replied.
“That used to be a field, we played there on the hot summer days when we didn’t go to school,” he continued, ignoring me. “Ah, those were the days.”
I jabbed at the buttons on the control panel again. I was feeling more and more anxious. This guy seemed harmless enough, but he obviously wasn’t in complete control of his faculties.
“And over there,” he went on, “was the farm where I worked when I left school.” He was pointing to the right wall now. “As you can see, it’s an industrial estate now.”
I looked at the wall.
“An industrial estate, um, yes,” I replied.
“And there’s the park where I met my wife,” he went on, a faint smile on his face. “Fifty five years we were married.” He was staring at the wall, a wistful look in his eyes. “Fifty five years.”
Poor old guy. I wonder if he knows where he is? I wondered. There’s probably someone looking for him. He’s probably wandered off from assisted living.
“That was the church where I married my Masie.” He was looking at the wall to his right. “As you can see it’s still there. Not everything has changed.”
His tone turned sombre. “That was the church where I buried my Masie.”
He bowed his head and turned away, trying but failing to hide the tears which sprung into his eyes at the memory.
I hesitantly placed my hand on his shoulder and we just stood a moment as he relived old memories.
The lift started again with a jerk and I stood back, feeling awkward. A second later the doors slid open.
“This is me!” he exclaimed brightly and stepped out of the lift, all hint of sadness gone. I stared past him but could see only darkness. Maybe the power was out. Maybe that was why the lift was having problems. Maybe the stairs would be a better option. Besides, I couldn’t just let the poor old guy wander around all confused. I moved to follow him but the doors closed abruptly, forcing me to take a step backwards. They opened again immediately. Beyond was the familiar second floor, brightly lit. A couple of people were waiting to get on, seemingly unaware that the lift had been stuck between floors for the last five minutes.
I stepped out of the lift and looked down the corridor, first to the left and then to the right. There was no sign of the man.
“Excuse me,” I asked the couple as they moved past me into the lift. “Did you see which way that old chap in the white suit went?”
“I’m sorry, who?” asked one.
As the doors closed I saw their blank faces as they looked at each other, frowning in confusion.
Ripples
Daily Prompt: Fill In the Blank – Three people walk into a bar…
… although to even the most casual of observers it is obvious that their arrival together is mere coincidence. The barman watches as they approach. He recognises each one, knowing what they will order, where they will sit.
The Businessman
He looks out of place in his Savile Row suit, silk tie and expensive wrist watch. He takes his order – a double whisky on the rocks – to a seat in the corner and sips slowly. He is in the business of buying struggling companies for next to nothing, stripping them and selling them off piecemeal for huge profit. Now highly successful, he never forgets his roots. His Dad brought him to this bar when he was small – he’d practically grown up here. On completion of every successful deal he comes in, sits in the corner and sips his whisky while his driver waits patiently in the Bentley. You wouldn’t leave such a car unattended in this neighbourhood.
The Mechanic
Looking older than his years, he orders a glass of iced water and sits next to a window where he can watch the world go by. He splits his time between bars, shopping centres and, when weather permits, the park. He lost his job three months ago and hasn’t found the courage to tell his wife. He hides the letters from her – letters threatening repossession of his house. Where will he live? What about the kids? He burns through their savings in secret while he hopes fate will provide him a new job. He remembers the day he found out his job was gone. A nameless, faceless company had bought the chain of car servicing specialists he had devoted his life to and split it apart. Ninety percent redundancies. Stunned, he had walked away from the car he’d been servicing, neither knowing nor caring that the brake system replacement was left half-finished.
The Drunk
A sad shell of a man, he walks on unsteady legs to the bar. Unkempt and unshaven, he orders the cheapest cider. Although barely midday, he already reeks of booze. His hand shakes as he downs his drink and the memories of that day three months ago come unbidden to his mind. Walking with his beloved wife across the pedestrian crossing. The car which threw him sideways, breaking his leg. His wife, thrown across the bonnet into the windscreen, killed instantly. The police had told him that it was “mechanical failure”. A failed service had left the car with only drops of brake fluid in the cylinder. It was impossible to find the person who had serviced the car, they’d said. The company had recently been bought out and split apart. The paperwork had been lost.
Ripples
Every act, every decision causes ripples which spread outwards to touch, change, save, destroy lives.
The ruthless businessman. The negligent mechanic. The grieving drunk.
Three people walk into a bar.
Out of Time
Weekly Writing Challenge: Through the Door – The door to your house/flat/apartment/abode has come unstuck in time. The next time you walk through it, you find yourself in the same place, but a different time entirely. Where are you, and what happens next?
I trudged on leaden feet up to the door to my flat. Helluva day. Hell of a day. I fumbled the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door. I was looking forward to relaxing on the sofa.
Falling into the dark as the air was pulled explosively from my lungs was not on the evening’s to-do list.
It happened so suddenly I didn’t have time to feel fear. I just sat there for a moment, not breathing, and just as fear finally made an appearance something hard shot out of the dark, grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways. Just as blackness overtook me I heard a swishing sound and bright light flooded in.
Aaargh! Who’s pounding on my head? I cautiously opened my eyes. Staring down at me were two people. No, two trees – am I in a forest? No, two tree people. Holy smokes! Tree people! I blinked and looked again. Still tree people. Skin rough like bark, a dark cherry red. Kind of pretty, actually. Wide staring eyes and, oh boy, what a lot of teeth. Teeth, big, sharp teeth, teeth like razors, teeth made for ripping, tearing…
“Strewth, mate, are you OK?” asked the taller of the two. “What’re you doing in the hold? There’s no air in there, mate!”
A tree with an Australian accent! I had met a red tree with an Australian accent! My life was now complete. I closed my eyes again and waited for the Reaper.
“I think he’s passed out again, mate,” said the other.
Hmm, strange dream. I opened my eyes and took another look. They were still there.
“Um, where am I?” I asked, rather hesitantly. “This isn’t my flat.”
“You, mate, are on our ship. Our interplanetary transport.”
“What? Why is there a spaceship where my flat should be?”
“There’s a spaceship where your planet should be, mate,” the shorter one said.
I was feeling a little out of my depth at this point.
“So,” I said, thinking it best to humour them, “what happened to my planet?”
“Gone,” said the taller tree-person-thing. “Someone thought it a good idea to harness the boundless energy of the Earth’s core. As soon as they broke through, the immense pressure caused a fountain of magma to shoot out of the crust. A bit like a rocket engine. Propelled your planet into the sun.”
“BANG!” added the shorter one helpfully, miming a huge explosion with his gnarled red hands.
“You’ve fallen though an inter-temporal spacial flux. You’ve shot two thousand years into your future! You’re in the same place, geographically speaking, or cosmologically speaking if you prefer, but no longer in the same time!” concluded the taller one. He sounded entirely too happy about the whole situation.
“OK,” I said. “let’s see if I’ve got this right. I’m lost in the future, on a space ship run by talking trees, my home is long destroyed and I’ll never see it again?” This was so surreal it was beginning to sound a bit funny. I feared I was going into shock.
“You’re not lost in the future, you’re lost in the present.” explained the taller one patiently.
“OK, my future, Mr Pedantic!” I yelled, my voice starting to sound a little shrill.
“And we can get you home!” he finished triumphantly.
“Really?”
“Probably.”
“Then let’s do it!” I exclaimed. “If nothing else, I need to get back and warn everyone about the impending doom!”
“Sorry mate, you won’t remember any of this,” said the shorter one. He sounded a little sad.
“Oh, I think I will.”
“This is your future, mate,” he explained. “You can’t remember something that won’t, um, will not yet, um be about to happen in the future, um.”
I stared at him. “Whatever. Just get me home.”
“Nothing simpler. Stand there. Good. Ready?”
The shorter one gave me the thumbs up and flashed me a grin, which I’m sure was supposed to be reassuring and probably would have been if it hadn’t been accompanied by more teeth than anyone should be allowed to possess.
The taller tree pressed some buttons. There was a clunk, a flash of light, a feeling of disorientation and…
…I fumbled my key in the lock, trudged into my flat and collapsed on the couch, switching on the TV as I did so. Great. The news. Some scientists reckon they can solve all the world’s problems by tapping the energy of the Earth’s core. Sounds kind of dangerous.
Still, I guess they know what they’re doing.
A Last Goodbye
Maxwell turned up the collar of his winter coat as he made his way down the damp street. Raindrops shimmered in the glare of the street lamps as they fell to the pavement. A tall man in his late twenties, Maxwell always took care of his appearance while stopping short of vanity. He turned down a side street, a short cut to his parents’ house. He had an hour, the man in the sharp suit had said. An hour to say goodbye.
This route took him past his office building. He could see it on the other side of the street, an investment banking firm. He was working there in Accounts when he had first noticed the discrepancy. A small error (or so he thought) which had led him to one of the biggest embezzlement scams in recent history.
He couldn’t keep quiet, could he? He had to call the authorities. He’d have to go into protective custody, they said. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone where he was. Chances were he’d never again have any contact with his friends, his family. These were nasty people, he’d been told. People with “connections”.
The doors opened and he felt a pang of regret as he saw his office mates come out. A flash of gold caught his eye. Maria. Maria with the golden hair, the big blue eyes, the heart of an angel. He’d spent the last eight months plucking up the courage to ask her out. Ever since she’d stumbled over to him at the Christmas party and kissed him under the mistletoe. He watched as Simon put his arm around her. Simon the snake! They were laughing. Too late now. He walked on towards his home.
He could see his parents through the kitchen window. They were preparing dinner. His Dad had his arm around his Mum. Twenty-eight years of marriage and still so close. He watched as his Mum chopped vegetables while his Dad walked to the table and began setting out plates and cutlery. Three places – Mum, Dad, and… him. But he couldn’t even go in to say goodbye. A tear in his eye, he turned and walked back the way he had come.
Forty minutes had passed by the time he returned to the alley, nestled between Sonny’s Bar and Mario’s Pizza. “The best pizza in town!” Mario proclaimed to anyone who would listen. Maybe not the best, in Maxwell’s opinion, but admittedly, pretty good.
The alley was awash with activity. He could see the man in the sharp suit, waiting for him. He picked his way past the police and the crime scene techs and lingered a moment to look down at the body. It was strange, surreal, to see himself lying on the street, the small hole just above the bridge of his nose, his eyes staring sightless at the stormy sky, congealed blood forming a halo about his head.
The man in the sharp suit took his hand and he looked around, bidding a last goodbye as they slowly faded away to nothing.
A Fluffy House
Daily Prompt: Mad Libs – Turn to your co-workers, kids, Facebook friends, family — anyone who’s accessible — and ask them to suggest an article, an adjective, and a noun. There’s your post title! Now write.
I wasn’t at work yesterday so I sent my friend three separate texts and he sent back “fluffy”, “a” and “house”. Hmm.
The Parable of A Fluffy House
Samuel took one last look in the mirror. Hair – check. Tie – correctly fastened. Shirt – immaculately pressed. Everything in order.
Samuel was a vain man. Arrogant and conceited, he was always perfectly dressed, spending upwards of an hour checking his appearance before leaving the house. A man of indeterminate age, opinions ranged from mid-thirties to early fifties.
An architect by trade, he had created a house designed to set him apart from the rest. Boasting twelve bedrooms, three bathrooms and a kitchen a chef would be proud of, it nestled against a hillside two miles outside of town.
All of this was nothing compared to the house’s crowning glory. Samuel smiled as he stroked the outside of the house. Soft, fluffy.
He had looked at other houses. The houses belonging to lesser people – people who were not him. They looked so bland. Concrete, brick, wood. This would not do. Samuel had covered the outside of his house, his masterpiece, with the softest and most luxuriant of fabrics.
People came from miles around to see his house. His house! They would take pictures (for a reasonable price, of course). They would spend time touching the fabric, running their fingers through the soft, deep fibres covering the walls (discounts available for parties over five persons).
Samuel was the envy of all. He basked in the adoration of the admiring crowds. He had reached his pinnacle!
Then the rains came. At first only a few solitary drops, then a heavy deluge. It rained day after day. The fabric covering Samuel’s house grew wetter and wetter, heavier and heavier.
The walls creaked. The timbers shook.
Three days after the rains began, Samuel’s house, his creation, the ultimate extension of his towering ego, slowly, almost gently, collapsed in upon itself under its own weight, until it was nothing more than a mound of wood and extremely expensive, extremely wet fabric.
People still came from miles around, not to admire but to laugh at Samuel’s house. At his foolishness.
And the moral of this story?
“Practicality before pride”
or
“The carpets go on the inside, dumb ass!”
The Time of Reconciliation
Dr Franklin was walking through the town’s plaza with his official Guide, enjoying the warmth of Tranek Major’s twin suns when the bells rang.
“What’s that all about?” he asked.
“It is the Time of Reconciliation. For exactly one hour in every month, the Rule of Law is suspended for those who have filed an official Tak’reh, or grievance, against another. Some talk things through, though violence is not uncommon. Some deaths are inevitable.”
“By the Mercies, that’s madness!” exclaimed Franklin. Looking around he saw some people arguing. In the distance a couple were hitting each other.
The Guide shook his head sadly. “And still you continue to insult our ways. Did you not read the Rules of Entry upon your arrival at the spaceport?”
“I assumed it was the usual stuff,” replied Franklin. “No hats to be worn on the day of rest, don’t walk on the grass, that sort of thing, common to a dozen different worlds.”
“Indeed, one would not wish to walk on the grass. Incurring a Tak’reh from the Department of Parks is inadvisable. One finds that they have long memories, short tempers and all manner of sharpened gardening implements.”
“Mercies above!” Franklin exclaimed.
“And when I took you into my home and you complained about the room I gave you, did I not once again exhort you to read the Rules of Entry?”
Franklin’s face went ashen.”You, uh, didn’t file one of these Tak’reh things against me for that, did you?”
“Of course not! You are a visitor to our world after all, and I am above such minor indiscretions.”
Franklin’s look of relief changed to wide-eyed shock as he looked down at the knife protruding from his chest.
“However,” continued the Guide, “you insulted my wife’s cooking. I’m afraid that won’t do, Dr. Franklin. No, that won’t do at all.”
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