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Literary Lion – Vera Versus Las Vegas
Here is my post for Laura’s Literary Lion. The prompt word this time is “gamble” and I’ve managed to get it just under the 400 word limit. Which is quite long, but don’t worry, it’s all dialogue!
This is Vera’s third adventure. Vera is a rather doddery old lady from “up North” (of England) who manages to get herself into all sorts of situations but always manages to extricate herself while remaining largely oblivious to the danger she’s in. Her other adventures are Vera Versus the Devil and Vera Versus the Muggers. This time, she’s off on a jolly to Las Vegas, America.
“Eee, look at this place, I think I’ll try the slots…”
Push. Shove.
“… eh, me money ain’t goin’ in…”
Shove. Bang.
“Excuse me Madam, what seems to be the trouble?”
“… ooh, you’re a strapping young lad, jus’ like me friend Ethel’s boy, do ya know ‘im, ‘e’s ‘bout your age, me money won’t go in the machine….”
“Ah, that’s English coinage, Madam, you’ll…”
“… if me money’s good enough fer the Queen (bless ‘er) it’s good enough fer me…”
“You’re in America, now Madam, so you…”
“… when I were a lass, all this were the British Empire…”
“Ha ha, Madam, very funny, now if I could ask you to…”
“… don’t you laugh at me, young man, me cousin Beryl’s youngest daughter’s hairdresser’s second cousin’s granny once stood this close to the Queen this close she’s prac’ly royalty so don’t you laugh at me…”
“I do apologise Madam (security to the slots, security to the slots), if you could just calm down a little…”
“…don’t you tell me to calm down, no respect fer yer elders your generation…”
“FREEZE! Don’t move!”
“… eee, who’s this now, waving yer gun around, what you need is a nice calming cup ‘a tea, now where did I put me flask, here in me handbag…”
“GUN!”
Blam. Ping!
“… eh, will you look at that, you’ve punctured me flask, that’s lovely Yorkshire tea all goin’ ta waste, all the way from England too…”
“Shit, I thought you were reaching for a gun…”
“… it’s just not good enough, does your mamma know you’re running round with a gun…”
“I’m so sorr…”
“… it would never have happened in my day, the youth today, no respect…”
“Madam, please…”
“… shooting people left right and centre, shouldn’t be allowed..”
“Oh God…”
“… there ought ta be a law, shooting little old ladies indeed, I never saw the like…”
“Excuse me, Madam, I’m the manager and as an apology, and on the understanding you never mention this little… incident again, we would like to offer you a thousand dollars worth of chips…”
“… ooh, I could just go some fish ‘n chips right now, that sounds lovely with a nice cup ‘o tea, lead on, did I tell you about me grandchildren, look, here’s a picture, ooh, there’s a bullet hole in it ramble ramble mutter mutter…”
Vera Versus the Muggers
Here is my second story about Vera, the doddery old lady from “up North” (of England) who unwittingly gets herself into situations and, completely oblivious to the danger she’s in, extricates herself. The first story, “Vera Versus the Devil“, in which she outwits the Devil Himself, is here.
Vera Versus the Muggers
“Awright, Grandma. Hand over yer purse!”
“Eeh, you’re a bunch o’ strappin’ lads. Me grandson’s about your age, do you know ‘im? Nigel he’s called, probably goes to your school?”
“Um… jus’ hand over the money, Grandma.”
“Look, here’s a picture. Isn’t he lovely!”
“Hmm, he does ring a bell, um… hey, money!”
“Ooh, I can see your underpants. You need a belt. Why don’t we go belt shopping and then we can have a nice cuppa.”
“This is the fashion! Cash and cards or I slash ya!”
“Is that a Kitchen Master chopping knife? Good with carrots, that knife.”
“Um, what? Carrots?”
“Don’t I know you? Ooh, you’re Marjorie’s lad. Nathaniel.”
“It’s ‘Snake’! Jus’ hand over the money!”
“Eeh, I used to look after you when Marjorie was out shoppin’. You used to call me ‘Auntie Vera’. Did yer nappie rash ever clear up?”
“Auntie Vera, please! Not in front of my crew!”
“Who’s this? Is this your girlfriend? I’m Nathaniel’s Auntie Vera. I bathed him when he were knee-high to a grasshopper. Sorry about his tiny tinky winky, dear.”
“Oh Hell. Please, make her stop.”
“Why don’t you all come with me to bingo? They have smashing prizes and they do a lovely bit o’ Madeira cake and a tasty cuppa… ooh, where did they go? Youth today mutter mutter no respect for their elders mutter mutter I’ll be havin’ a word with Marjorie about this mutter mutter…”
Friday Fictioneers – Vera Versus the Devil
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by Rochelle. This week’s picture was contributed by FF stalwart Sandra Crook.
I’ve had a very odd and worrying week, so here’s a very odd story to go with it, best I can summon up right now.
Meet my heroine, doddery old Vera, as she sits on the beach enjoying a nice cup of tea. Feel free to apply a Northern English accent to her words :-).
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Sandra Crook
“Look at them cliffs, dearie. Lovely view!”
“I CARE NOTHING OF VIEWS! I AM COME…”
“Nice cup o’ tea?”
“… TO, um, TEAR YOUR REALM TO SHREDS…”
“And a tasty biscuit?”
“… um, AND DRAG YOU TO THE DEPTHS OF, um, yes, thank you… WAIT! I CARE NOTHING OF BISCUITS…”
“What did you say your name was, dearie?”
“Um, YOU WILL BURN, um, ‘Satan’, Ma’am.”
“Ooh, I knew some Seytons once, from over York way, are you related? Strange bunch. Nice bit o’ Madeira cake? Fresh this mornin’.”
“Um, BURN IN THE FIRES OF… oh, what’s the point.”
“Ooh, where’d he go? Odd fellow.”
Friday Fictioneers – People in Glass Houses
Here is my little story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted every week by Rochelle. This week’s photo was contributed by C.E. Ayr.
To read the other stories, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright C.E. Ayr
“What’s that, Daddy?” asked little Sammie.
“That,” replied Daddy, “is a cattle grate for ants.”
“Geoffrey!” snapped Mummy. “It’s a drain, Sammie.”
“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Is Daddy a liar then, Mummy?”
“Yes, Sammie,” replied Mummy, “he is. That’s why I’m divorcing him.”
“Gahhhh!” yelled Daddy, eyeballs bulging. “You &&*$^%^% what?!”
“Language, Geoffrey,” said Mummy calmly.
“What’s ‘divorce’, Mummy?” asked Sammie.
“That’s when Mummy loved Daddy very much, but Daddy turned out to be a womanising asshat so she’s throwing him out,” explained Mummy.
“Ooh,” said Sammie. “Should I call Uncle Frank ‘Daddy’ from now on, then?”
“Frank from Accounting?!” yelled Daddy.
“Gahhhh!” exclaimed Mummy.
Friday Fictioneers – Those We Leave Behind
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers on this Armistice Day. Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle, and this week’s photo was kindly supplied by J. Hardy Carroll.
Click on the blue frog for this week’s other stories.
Copyright J Hardy Carroll
Cynthia watched, eyes damp, as her twin daughters scampered over to the grave. She saw them solemnly place the flowers before heading back.
They’d never met their father – he’d been deployed overseas while they were still living safe and unaware beneath her heart. This year they were old enough to place the flowers. In a few years’ time they would understand the sacrifice their father had made. They’d understand why he wasn’t there, why he’d never been there for them. Why he’d had to go.
Cynthia understood. But that didn’t make it any easier. There were some wounds even time couldn’t heal.
FF – The Day Brian Killed the World
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, the weekly 100 word flash fiction challenge headed up by Rochelle over at Addicted to Purple. This week’s photo comes courtesy of Connie Gayer, or Mrs Russell:-).
I could have done with another 50 words for this one, but them’s the breaks. Hopefully I haven’t stripped out too much. And I thought this was a pipe rather than a wire at first glance.
To read this week’s other stories, click the blue froggy.
Copyright Connie Gayer
“What’s that?” asked Brian.
“Dunno. Some pipe. There’s a sign. What’s it say?”
“No idea.” Brian tugged at the pipe until one end came free. With a sound reminiscent of air escaping a balloon, Earth deflated to the size of a marble. Trees, cars and dead people floated off into space.
“WHAT A MESS!” boomed a voice from the darkness. “I’M NOT CLEANING THIS UP. WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS PLANET?” The Angelic Host appeared. One of their number raised a wing.
“Me,” he mumbled. “But, but, I left a sign. Look!”
Emergency Planet Release Valve
Authorised Angelic Personnel Only
DO NOT TOUCH!
MFTS – Live By the Coin…
Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. The supplied opening line is in bold in my story.
I had trouble merging a constantly nervous and tense woman with coins, but here it is all the same! Click on the blue froggy for all this week’s other stories.
Copyright B.W. Beacham
She lived a life that some would describe as being on edge. She was constantly panicking, especially when it came to make a decision. Watching Batman, she was terribly impressed by “Two Face”, making all his decisions by flipping a coin. Her salvation!
Rummaging around at the back of the sofa she found one, depicting a bison. Everything changed.
Everything was in the lap of fate. “No bison” – she binned her boyfriend. “Bison” – she stayed at her appalling job. “Bison” – she took an axe and found a family, letting the husband live, killing the wife, sparing the toddler and killing the teenager. The bison had spoken.
Karma caught up when the judge, staring her straight in the eye, flipped a coin, declared “bison” and sent her to the chair. Arriving at the gates of Heaven, the angel flipped a coin, declared “no bison” and sent her downstairs. Fate is a jealous mistress – once you give yourself to Her, She’ll never let you go.
Friday Fictioneers – Pioneer Monkey
Here is my story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s photo is by Dale Rogerson. Thanks, Dale!
To read this week’s other contributions, click on the blue froggy.
Copyright Dale Rogerson
“What-ho, Simpkins, our submersible prototype returns!”
“Indeed, Pendergast. But wait, it is full to the brim with water!”
“Dash it. Quickly, retrieve the monkey.” They opened the hatch and pulled out a rather waterlogged simian.
“How fares he, Simpkins?” asked Pendergast.
“Speak to me, Chester!” shouted Simpkins, hammering on the monkey’s chest. Water spouted from its mouth.
Ook.
“Thank Heavens! Chester lives!”
“A palpable success, Simpkins,” said Pendergast. “I’ll wager you’re glad to be out of there, Chester!”
Ook! Ook!
“Tomorrow,” said Simpkins, “we shall trial our rocket ship, powered only by the flatulence of cattle. To the stars, Chester!”
Ooooook.
MFTS – Musings of a Dead Man
Here is my story for this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, conceived and hosted by Barbara Beacham. We are given a sentence to start us off, plus a picture. The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story below.
To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy. My story this week is a little bit gruesome! I blame the photo :-).
Copyright B W. Beacham
I watched the vulture looking at me hungrily as I lay on the ground bleeding and injured.
Well, “injured” is putting it mildly. I’ve been dead for days, but here I lie, waiting for… whatever. Maybe they’ve forgotten about me?
What’s that damn vulture up to now? Here it comes, right on my face. Great. There goes the other eyeball. I hope you choke on it, you stupid bird. Now I can’t see anything at all.
What happened to the chorus of angels? What happened to the bright light? Come to think of it, how will I even see the bright light with no eyeballs?
What’s that now I hear? Howling? Well, that’s just bloody brilliant, that is. Wolves. Marvellous. Here they come. At least they’ve scared the vulture away, the bastard. Yes, that’s it, feast on my intestines. No shoving, there’s enough for everyone. Bollocks.
Not that I have either of those left. The vulture had them yesterday.
Hello? Hello? Angels? Anyone? Is there anybody up there…?
Literary Lion – A Well-Honed Edge
Here is my story for Laura’s Literary Lion challenge. The Literary Lion has pawed around in his stash of prompts and for this fortnight has produced the prompt word “edge“.
A Well-Honed Edge
Always look after your tools, his Master had told him. He had taken this to heart, spending hours oiling, sharpening, polishing. His routine had always seen him right. His tools had never failed him.
As darkness fell, he pulled on his work clothes, picked up his tools and left the dark, dingy flat – not his everyday home, but nicely anonymous on the nights he worked. Unusually, he felt a little stab of… fear? No, anticipation. He usually worked for money, but tonight he was upholding a tradition, one as ancient as the hills, a tradition which would allow him to take his place as Master.
Blending in with the night, he entered the old man’s house on silent feet, slipping through the hallways until he saw him sitting in his study, reading. As the knife slid easily – oh, so easily – between his former Master’s ribs, he saw a flicker of pride in the old man’s dying eyes of a tradition upheld, a job well executed, and an edge well-honed.
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