Tom

Flash Fiction Friday – from http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/


Prompt: Write a happy story.

Up to 1000 words.

      -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom

Tom watched as the horizon bobbed up and down, as the world slowly drifted past. Life, he thought, didn’t get much better than this.


What more could a boy ever want than a day like today? Some days were bad, some good, but today? Well today was amazing.

Tiredness pulled on the boy’s eyelids, making them oh so heavy, but there was no way they were closing right now, not a chance.

There was someone to go and see; someone to cuddle.

As Tom rode his dad’s shoulders, he rested his chin upon the balding head and clung on tightly around his solid neck.

The strong shoulders felt safe, felt warm.

Earlier they had played football together, and Dad had let him win again – but not without some light fowls and blatant cheating, which always made Tom laugh until his ribs ached.

Tom’s dad had taken him to McDonalds for dinner – a rare treat, and he’d even allowed him pudding. Since when was anyone ever allowed pudding in McDonalds?

The man had just smiled warmly and sat there watching him eat.

Silent.

Thinking.

Worrying.

The greying man had done a lot of worrying recently.

But then the phone call came.

That brilliant, wonderful phone call.

It was Tom’s mum, calling from the hospital.

The results were in – she had beaten it!

The Cancer was gone!

Everything was new, everything was different. Dad jumped up, and with tears in his eyes gave the boy the biggest, strongest bear hug he’d ever had, before popping to the counter and ordering himself an apple pie.

This was a special occasion after all!

And now, as the light faded in the distance Tom sighed. They were on the way to get her; they were heading to the hospital to bring her home.

But not before Tom passed on that bear hug to his mum.

Some things were too good not to share.

So DOES my bum look big in this?

Does it?




Well there is only one way to find out for sure…

Parenting mathematics

One Man.

Two children.

One school run.

One train to catch.

One heat wave

One bottle of sun cream.

Equals one mother of all battles!

Karma strikes back

Karma!


It looks like Karma has decided to get me back for the whole laughing at people with wet backsides thing.

I feel like Earl!

Yesterday I went for a haircut.

What? I hear you say – how fascinating?

Okay you can put the sarcasm back to bed, let me explain. So I’m a very simple guy when it comes to haircuts. Nothing fancy, just get those clippers out and get going.

I have the same cut every time. Simple.

Number one on the back and sides and a number three on top, job done - where’s my lollypop?

Easy.

I’ve indicated here before that although I have to accept that my hair is receding faster than the Arctic ice, I don’t have to like it.

I don’t – I hate it.

So that number three on the top is important. It matters. It means I don’t feel too shiny up there as I walk about.

So I went for a haircut and gave my instructions as usual, and my man grabbed his clippers and got going

Just before he clipped the top bit he stopped.

“Are you sure sir? It is very short – will be quite obvious? Are you sure sir?”

Now I’ve had this before. I leave my hair quite long to get a cut, so a three and a one is quite drastic compared to when I walk in the place. Barbers often double check that I know what I am doing. I assured him it was fine.

“But sir, it is quite a difference – are you sure you don’t want something else?”

At this I failed to hide my annoyance – dammit I get the same haircut every time! I know the bloody numbers – I’ve been getting this cut for twenty years! I expressed as much to the barber and indicated that maybe he could perhaps get on with it.

As soon as the clippers completed their first stroke across my head I knew something was wrong.

I was bald.

Properly slap-head-bald!

What on Earth had gone wrong? I started to panic – I asked him what he thought he was doing? It never looks like this – he must have used the wrong tool!

And then it hit me.

Everything came into focus.

I replayed the start of the cut in my head – the moment I’d sat down – the moment I’d asked for the style – OH BLOODY HELL!

I’d asked for it the wrong way around! I’d said number three on the back and sides and a number one on top. A NUMBER ONE ON TOP!

And my man had tried so hard to stop me! He had repeatedly questioned it, and I’d repeatedly and eventually crossly affirmed it.

My barber’s poker face was good, but the man in the next chair along could not hold back his mirth.

The laugh rippled through the salon.

I look a complete arse.

An arse with no hair.

Karma!

The Job

Flash Fiction Friday – from http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/
Prompt – Write a ‘buddy’ story involving buddy movie stalwarts Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Dean has to be the straight suave guy and Jerry the bungling buddy.

The Job

“So where are they? Why aren’t they here – you said they’d be here!”

“Relax Jerry, I told you they’d come and they will come. Just remember everything we talked about, everything we practiced. You have to stay calm”

Jerry didn’t feel calm. What he felt was worried.

Very worried.

So much could go wrong, and so much was riding on this. Yes they had been over the plan thousands of times and he knew exactly what he had to do, but the pressure was getting to him.

But he trusted his mate, always had done ever since he had first met him at nursery all those years ago. What wasn’t to trust? Dean was everything that Jerry always wanted to be – cool, calm, good looking and clever. Almost all of Jerry’s girlfriends had come to him via Dean’s generosity as a friend. Dean could pick them up for him every time, and was never greedy. I mean yeah he kept the best looking ones for himself, but that was fair enough – it was him attracting them in the first place.

Dean was confident that their latest scheme would work, and that was good enough for Jerry, so he sat down, crushing a box as he did so and then breaking the shelf as he tried to get up.

“Jerry, for Christ’s sake will you take it easy – you are causing a scene – you’ll ruin everything!”

“I can’t help it mate – I hate this – it’s so cramped and we’ve been here ages, I can’t take it, I just can’t, the noise man – the noise! How can you take it?”

“Look, I know it’s cramped in here, but it’s the way of it, and the noise? We need that mate, without that we are in serious trouble. The noise is our friend. The noise is your friend. Love it Jerry. Love the noise.”

“No Dean I can’t love this racket – it’s awful and these boxes – why so many boxes in such a small place? There’s no room – no room man!”

Dean just smiled at his friend. Jerry had always been this way, never comfortable wherever they were; he was just so lanky and ungainly. He moved everywhere at 100 miles an hour and never actually managed to arrive. Somehow Dean always thought of Jerry as the hare in the old fable. But then… but then he was always there. He always had Dean’s back, always listened and always cared. Dean could never imagine himself loving any man as much as he loved Jerry. Everything was wrong about him except his heart, and his heart was what made him a man. Dean felt that made him a very big man indeed. Even if he was a pain in the arse sometimes.

“Okay - okay – lose the noise – I think it’s done its job now. Alright? Is that better?”

“Thanks man – thanks, I needed that”

“Lookout – see I told you – I told you! Someone’s coming now – go get them Jerry – come on, this is what we have been planning all these months, now’s your moment!”

“Oh good lord – I’m not sure I can do this – I’m just not – oh God I think he’s seen me”

“Stay calm”

Jerry wasn’t calm at all, but then suddenly it all came into focus. Everything made sense. He was ready after all. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Jerry looked down and there they were staring up at him through the window. Those eyes – those eyes! Jerry had never been stared at so intently in his life – never felt so naked and pierced. The eyes read him like he was the calorie count on a weight watcher’s chocolate bar.

He gulped slowly and deeply and with an unfortunate squeak said, “Yes?”

The eyes looked at him for just that little bit longer, long enough to force yet another bead of sweat to roll down the length of Jerry’s spine, before finally their owner spoke.

“One 99 and a Calippo lolly please mister”

While Dean coolly dipped his hand into the freezer for the lolly, Jerry stared nervously at the ice cream machine in front of him and the fragile stack of cones next to it.

Somehow he just knew that something was about to go very, very wrong…

Am I a bad man?

I have a confession to make. The other day I laughed quite brazenly at someone’s misfortune on the underground.


Does that make me a bad man?

Let me explain and you can decide for yourself.

It was raining in London – hard. When I boarded the train at Paddington it had just recently gone underground and as I dashed onboard, the first thing I noticed was a seat.

Result! A seat is a rare treat and in fact it looked like two seats – space!

I headed speedily towards this ‘Golden Ticket’, this was my chance to sit.

These chances don’t come along that often.

I was just about to throw myself into my own legend when a sixth sense left me hovering in mid air.

It had all been too easy – no one had tried to block me or push by me. The seat should never have been there in the first place and yet the crowds of people standing there were happily letting me past to get to it? Something smelled wrong.

I looked closer and saw that the seats were soaking wet, at least they certainly looked wet – I wasn’t about to touch and check in case it wasn’t your actual rain water. At the same time I felt a small splash hit my head. Looking up I saw that there was a leak coming in and dripping onto the seats.

Good – so it was water and nothing nastier – but none the less, the seats were soaked and getting wetter by the moment.

I backed off. The moment of excitement had passed.

Had that been the end of the story I wouldn’t have to be ashamed of myself, but it isn’t the end.

A moment later a young kid (20 ish) pushed by. He had all the latest gear on. The latest hairstyle. The most expensive looking headphones were playing the most annoyingly loud music for everyone’s pleasure, it seemed. This guy thought himself to be very, very cool.

He smiled cockily as he spotted the seat.

Smiled smugly as he pushed me out of the way to get to it.

Smiled – awkwardly – as he settled into it.

He desperately wanted to pretend that his error hadn’t just happened. There was no way in a million years he would lose his cool. Had it been me I would have screamed like a little girl and jumped up. I would have turned and angrily cursed the seat, the train, the rain, God and everyone in the carriage for ganging up against me. But not cool guy.

Cool guy sat there with the stoniest poker face you have ever seen on his face. He absolutely did NOT have a wet arse, and no way on this planet were occasional drips of water landing on his head. He ignored it all but his eyes slightly faltered in their attempt to hide his true feelings.

And what did I do?

I laughed – loudly.

I know – sorry. I know I should be more compassionate. What is worse I fear my laugh might have then been responsible for the ripple of laughs that snaked their way through the carriage. That could have been me sitting there – it so nearly was.

Am I bad? Have you ever found yourself taking far too much pleasure from someone else’s discomfort than you know you really ought too?

Have you ever been that person sat on the wet seat hoping like hell that no one noticed? Let me know guys!

The Tooth Fairy returns...

The other night Daniel, my eldest, shed another tooth with a gappy grin. He has recently declared his lack of belief in tooth fairies, and so it was with an intelligent smirk that he placed it under the very centre of his pillow.


I suggested he put it a little closer to the edge because it makes it a bit easier for the poor old fairy to reach.

He laughed.

I laughed.

I went downstairs and left him to sleep.

Later that night I popped in to do my duty – only…

I couldn’t find the tooth. I carefully searched but it was nowhere to be found. What had the little idiot done with it?

I’ll tell you what he did with it!

As I was feeling around under his pillow I noticed something odd in his hand. In the dim light I started to work out what the loon had attempted to do.

My son had set a trap.

A Tooth Fairy trap.

Daniel had used sticky tape to fix a piece of string to his finger. The string went up his arm, inside his pyjama sleeve, and out of the neck of his top poked the other end of the string – with something wrapped up in a huge blob of tape.

I’d found the tooth.

In my son’s head, any attempt to remove the tape would pull at his finger and wake him. Daniel was all set to catch himself a fairy.

Unfortunately I couldn’t quite see where the string was going yet and couldn’t be certain about what he had done – so I called in reinforcements – mainly because this was something that my wife absolutely had to see for herself.

I considered leaving him exactly as he was and then explaining in the morning that the fairy isn’t that stupid and so had left him to it.

I considered attempting to swap the tooth for a coin in its place, without waking him – which would surely have amazed him in the morning.

The thing that I was most tempted to do was to hunt for a doll of some kind – make it look like a fairy and then tangle it up round the neck in the string. Maybe have a little bag in its hand full of coins and teeth. In the morning Daniel would think that he had managed to not just trap – but seemingly kill the tooth Fairy. It was tempting, I can tell you.

As it was, I knew that as I’d seen the string, I couldn’t leave it there. The danger of it tangling around his own neck was all too scary. So we woke him up and untangled him – while affecting the fastest switch ever made. He told me the tooth was at the end of the string – I showed him that in fact it wasn’t. He screwed up his face, but I repeated that the tooth was simply not there.

Swiftly he turned and lifted his pillow, gasping in sheer disbelief at the shiny coin glinting at him.

It was a nice try son – but I’m afraid I’m just too good, and it looks like you are going to have to wait a bit longer to be absolutely certain!

A regular guy in the powder room

I’m not sure who this mystery guy dispensing words of wisdom in a woman’s world is, but he sure talks sense.


Worth a read I’d say.

The message

Flash Fiction Friday - Unprompted.

Word count 250

Note: This is not standard ‘Glen’s Life’ material. It covers an upsetting subject which is all too worryingly real, even though this piece is fiction. If it in any way resonates with your life, or upsets you then I apologise. I did not intend to cause any offence, I just wanted to write something a little deeper than usual, in order to extend and improve my own writing. Thanks for understanding.


              ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The message

Her screaming continued from the next room, dominated only by the shouts from the man.


Their noise pierced the boy’s soul and tore him apart as he rocked back and forth sobbing, long since giving up trying to block the sound out with his hands.

Another bang.

Another scream.

Tenderly, he reached up and felt the heat from the bruise on the side of his own face, wincing at the memory of its creation.

Everything had happened so fast this time. Usually you could see it coming, read the signs, smell the whiskey.

Not this time though, this time it had just blown up out of thin air.

He desperately wanted to reach out and tell somebody, anybody. He had so much to say, so much to tell.

What would be the use though? Nobody would listen, no one would hear, nobody would care. There was only one way this was ever going to stop; only one way to be heard.

Carefully, and so very quietly, he tied the belt to the post, slipping the other looped end over his head.

Tightly gripping Pooh Bear for support, he threw his young body off the top bunk and his message was sent.

In the morning, with her latest conquest long gone, his hung-over mother would come in to yet again blame him for her failed one night stand and abusive behaviour.

Only this time she would hear his pain.

This time she would listen.

This time she would care.

My first kiss

Hello all. Today I am mostly discussing a life changing moment from my youth – over at Real Bloggers United.

Thank you so very muchly for your extra clickage over there to read it.

Ta.

The Ruthless Romans

This weekend we went to see a play. The play was based on Terry Deary’s Horrible Histories books and in particular – Ruthless Romans.


For anyone who doesn’t frequent kid’s bookshops, or spend their early evenings watching children’s TV, the Horrible Histories books and programs are brilliant.

They make genuinely educational history lessons fun, by simply understanding children – and therefore only talking about the filth and horror from our past. What’s not to love about stories that involve poo or skulls? The stories do this through humour and a silliness that has taken my two boys by storm. They are not alone.

I genuinely think Terry Deary is a genius for tapping into parent’s desires to get their kids interested in history, while feeding the children’s desire for gore. Very clever writing.

So this is why we found ourselves at Oxford’s ‘New Theatre’ on Saturday after dragging two hyper excited children through the city’s tourist filled streets. I for one was feeling a little frazzled but the boys were just bouncing.

The theatre was full to the rafters with noisy, fidgety kids, all asking their parents when the show will start with ever increasing regularity. Mine were no different.

The show was great.

The first half was very good as they played out various scenes about the Romans in Britain; plenty of ‘over the young head’ gags were thrown in to amuse us parents, so everyone was happy. The second half became more technical with a big screen showing 3D effects to wow the crowd.

This was where I discovered something.

You see, my boys like TV. They like their WII. In short they are normal kids of their age. However, they also like playing. They also like riding their bikes. They also like reading. All these things are what kids should be doing, and I think that mostly they all do. There are some exceptions though.

Take the boys that were sitting in front of me.

Please – take them.

These boys (one more so than the other) were prime examples of children dependant on technology for their entertainment. Which is a shame because their mum had, presumably, spent quite a lot of money to take them to something different?

Throughout the whole of the first half they annoyed the hell out of me. They jiffled, they chatted, they looked around, they even got comic books out and compared notes. They literally couldn’t have been less interested.

You see, the actors were not the same ones that appear on TV. They were just a group of adults they didn’t recognise, standing around talking; they might as well have been at school!

Suddenly the second half had them wearing 3D glasses and looking at a screen. Suddenly they were interested. The second half kept their interest in a way that the first half never could, because the second half felt more realistic to them.

The screen felt familiar, the effects felt exciting. I don’t know if they actually listened to the dialogue, but they loved the action. The only times their attention started to drift was in between the effects – while the actors were doing their bits. Unbelievable!

I have to say I was somewhat proud of my two lads. Yes of course they loved the second half more than the first – for all the same reasons – but the critical difference is that they are grounded enough to enjoy the excellent first half too, as did I.

My boys do love their TV, but they love life more!

Differences when men and women cook

Hello – This week I have attempted to write two short (250 word) pieces of serious fiction. This is out of my usual comfort zone as I usually write daft things, which you may have noticed already. I have sent one of the stories off to a competition, the other I will be posting here, on Friday.


Anyway, it transpires that when I try and be serious I get quite dark, and so to try and lift my depressed mood, I thought I’d repost this from two years ago (almost to the day) – because it is very, very silly.

The differences between men and women cooking

 Women making dinner for two.

The plan: make dinner in time for husband coming home from work.

1. Come home from work, look in fridge.

2. Take out chicken.

3. Look in cupboard, take out rice and accompaniments

4. Start throwing herbs and spices and things into a pan without measuring anything.

5. Make sauce quickly, and taste it.

6. Throw in chicken.

7. Boil some water, throw in some rice

8. Set everything to simmer, go and watch The One Show.

9. As husband returns, serve with a beer and chat about the day.

Men making dinner for two.


The plan: make dinner in time for wife coming home from work.


1. Come home from work carrying ingredients in with you from Tesco, you don’t know what’s in the fridge and are not taking chances.

2. Lay everything out on the bench in size order and study.

3. Change everything to be in chronological cooking order instead.

4. Look at the clock and note the time, write list of what goes in at what time, working out to seconds rather than minutes.

5. Get out the frying pan and put in a large dollop of oil, start heating.

6. Read instructions printed from Delia Smith’s website once more and unwrap the chicken.

7. Open newly purchased measuring spoons and start adding the herbs.

8. Accidently add Tobasco which isn’t in the instructions

9. Leave it over heating whilst reading the instructions again, crossing off the first steps from the procedure, re-work the times to adjust for the extra time needed to work out which measuring spoon was which.

10. Add in the chicken

11. Measure rice out for 2 exact portions.

12. Get the largest pan out and fill it with water.

13. Turn on the heat to start boiling the water.

14. Re-adjust times on paper to account for 5 minutes water boiling time lost.

15. mix some beer into the herbs and chicken mix as it’s looking a bit crusty and dry.

16. Delia has not mentioned how black the mix should look so assume it’s ok, add a little more Tobasco for seasoning.

17. Have a look through Nigella Lawson’s book to see if she says how long rice takes, get distracted by puddings and low cut dresses.

18. Wave a tea-towel at smoke alarm to stop it ringing.

19. Attempt to scrape chicken mix out of frying pan, give up and throw whole thing in bin.

20. Shout at wife, who has just returned, telling her to keep out the kitchen.

21. Notice water pouring on floor from the rice pan that has boiled over and gone dry.

22. Throw burnt rice pan in bin

23. Order Chinese, serve on Sunday best plates with a beer, eat in silence.

And another thing...

As an addition to yesterday’s “ unanswerable questions ” post, I thought I’d tell you what prompted me to write that after well over a year.


It was a conversation the other day.

We were joking about, and the boys had been asked to do something trivial.

Jamie, my six year old, put up resistance to the task, and Jo jokingly went into the whole “I carried you for 9 months to get you here, the least you could do is…” routine to cajole him into action.

I couldn’t myself help chiming in from the background…

“…And you really don’t want to know what I had to do to get you here son…”

At which point my eldest son nearly died of a heart attack laughing, while all the time nodding in total and utter agreement that I had, by far, had the toughest job in Jamie’s creation – he could barely breathe.

What have I done?

unanswerable questions...

Random questions that stump you…


It was a year or so ago now, and it was bath time.

“Dad?”

“Yes”

“What’s it like?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s it like when you give your sperms to the lady, when you want a baby?”

“Wha? Cough, splutter, hack, gulp, wha?”

“What’s it like?”

“…........Well it’s okay.........I suppose.........I managed to do it a second time for your younger Brother, didn’t I? – That was enough though“

Oh dear – I’m not entirely convinced I handled that too well.



What questions have stumped you?

Poseidon's Hell

Flash Fiction Friday - from http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/


Prompt: Write a story including the words “banana, iguana, elbow, flaming, and pogostick” and make it wacky, absurd, or bizarre.
Max 1000 words.
                               ============================

Poseidon's Hell

It was Friday.

Poseidon hated Fridays.

The main reason that Poseidon hated Fridays was because it was the day that Mrs. Pilkington (who runs the Bed and Breakfast in which he now resided) forced ‘fish and chips supper’ on all her guests, and he really hated fish.

The only fish worth bothering with, in the opinion of this particular god, is dolphin, and you just can’t get good dolphin in Oxford.

Oh you can get haddock, plaice or even hake, can you believe, but ask for dolphin and you get thrown out on your arse.

A tear formed in his eye as he tried to remember the last time he’d had a dolphin kebab. It was so long ago.

Next to the 2nd rate slab of cod, that was swimming in its own sea of grease on the plate, was what the proprietor insisted on calling chips. Poseidon was not at all sure about chips. When all is said and done they are clearly just chopped up bits of potato, and last time he had checked, potatoes were vegetables. Had he not actually been very specific about vegetables on that little form he had filled in under ‘special dietary requirements’? Poseidon had very clearly ticked the box to say he was vegetarian – which everyone knows full well means that he can’t stand the grubby things. How can anything grown using horse poo be good for you? Bloody snooty old ‘you can look at them but no touching’ Demeter, and her precious farmers, Poseidon just couldn’t be doing with vegetables. Everything you ever needed to know about farmers can be summed up by looking at a marrow, a cucumber or a banana – the dirty minded bastards!

The other thing irking him about Fridays was that he was missing poker night with the boys. They would all be there on Olympus now, bragging about their latest heretic smiting, and then settling into a really good game.

Poseidon’s shoulders sagged, he recalled the bet that had landed him here in this pox of a city, with not so much as a sniff of a Mermaid’s arse to keep him interested for a century.

How could he have been so stupid? Sambuca – that’s how, same thing that always got him in these messes. Why did his mouth always run away with him after a couple of Flaming Sambucas?

Triumphantly he had stood there with the proof in his hands – so smugly he had declared his success and demanded Athena marry him as his prize, but instead of Athena’s hand, all he got was her elbow as she cynically mocked him.

“No, that is not a snake that can walk you salty old buffoon – it’s a bloody lizard!”

“What – no way? It’s a snake with legs, I tell you!”

“Nope, sorry Pozzy, it’s an iguana and you bet that you could make a snake walk – so you lose big boy”

Why had he not stuck to what he was good at and just done his clam impression or shown them his collection of shark teeth instead of trying to bet against them? If he had to gamble, why did he have to aim so high with the prize? The higher you aim the further you fall – he knew that, but sadly Sambuca didn’t!

Poseidon was expelled, not just from the mountain but also forced to spend the next hundred years living on land, far from his beloved sea, and everything that he loves. Worse still, he had to live like a mortal, here in this cheap bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere.

Poseidon banged his fist on the table in a frustrated rage, but it didn’t help. All that happened was that Mrs. Pilkington shot him an extra fierce glance when she brought him his pudding, and distinctly short changed him on the custard. Rosanna Pilkington did not have any time for table bangers and knew exactly what buttons to press to let them know this.

An hour later, and the great god of the sea lay on his bed concentrating. Somehow there had to be a way back to Olympus.

“DOUBLE OR QUITS!”

The excitement of the thought threw him off the bed and onto the bedside table. In a panic, Poseidon tried desperately to fix the broken furniture, fear spreading rapidly down his spine. Oh who cares about the bloody table? In a few days Poseidon would be a god, and the first thing he would do is send a Tsunami to wipe Pilkington’s guest house off the planet! “Ha – regret half filling my custard bowl now do you?”

Yes, that was it – he could go back to the gang and play for a reprieve. Win and they call off the penance, lose and they double it. Gods are suckers for a challenge – they won’t be able to resist!

He would bet he could name every seahorse in the ocean - he could do that backwards.

It would be a couple of hours before he could summon the gang to hear his plea – so he popped down to the bar.

Three beers disappeared and lubricated his brain just enough to allow the suggestion of a quick Sambuca to pass the logic test.

“Why have you to disturbed us on Poker night Pozzy?” Athena demanded.

“I request the chance to go double or quits! I have a bet ready and waiting.”

“Hmmm, double or quits eh? So if you win we let you come back?

“That’s right – and if I fail…”

“...Then you will pay, and then some”

“Yes”

“What’s your bet?”

“I bet………… I bet……… hic………” dammit, what was the bet?

“I bet I can ride a pogo stick across Africa in six days!”



Seven days later.

It was Friday.

Poseidon hated Fridays.

The main reason Poseidon hated Fridays was because Mrs. Pilkington had banned him from having any custard with his pudding, as penance for the broken table.

Where's my Glow?

G’day cobblers. Stone the crows, and no mistake – I’m only guest posting over at Sheila’s 'Where’s my Glow?' today. She uses the pen name Glowless but we all know her real name is Sheila.


Anyway, she said she was too busy putting ‘shrumps on the Barbie’ (I’ve no idea what shrumps actually are) so could I write for her?
I said “no worries, she’ll be right” and then sung a couple of lines from Men at Work at her.

I haven’t actually heard back from her yet, but I assume everything is okay though….



Click here for Glen’s Life on ‘Where’s my Glow’

When good jokes go bad

This morning I had one of those awkward joke failures that make you cringe in pain.


I was on the platform at Paddington feeling quite happy – fairly positive about the new day.

The train pulled in – packed as ever - and I squeezed myself into a spot near the end of the seating row.

I looked down and saw a pretty – but very, VERY pregnant - woman sitting in the ‘priority’ seat on the end. I strongly suspected from her shape, and her body language, that she really needed that seat, and that it really wasn’t going to long until she would be not pregnant any more.

That was when my mouth ran away with itself, without asking my brain for permission.

My mouth decided that the following joke would be funny… I’ll let you decide on whether or not my mouth knows anything about comedy

Me: “ahem”

Pregnant Lady (PL):  “Ugh?”

Me: “Are you not going to offer me your seat then?” - While simultaneously rubbing my stomach as if I were 'with child' and nodding at the ‘priority seating’ sign.

Somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul I was laughing my head off. The irony in my gag was knocking the crowds wild…

PL: “What?”

Me: ”Er …I could do with sitting” I was still rubbing my stomach, but my confidence in the joke about making a pregnant woman stand for me on the grounds that I am 'stocky' (ahem) was waning fast under her disgusted stare.

I heard a tut from my right, and the sound of silence erupted through the carriage as everyone froze in disbelief.

PL: ”What?”

Me: “er….” Rub, rub, rub, nod, wink, nod, wink, grin, rub, sweat, shake, beg…

About an hour passed, until...
PL: “Oh – right – haha” She gave me a pitying smile, the type you give to a 6 year old that has just told you his favourite Knock-Knock joke for the thousandth time, and fixed her eyes determinedly into her book.

The carriage relaxed and went back to ignoring each other.

I stood quietly staring into space.

I stepped back slightly, and tried to pretend to be someone else – equally as unimpressed in whoever that idiot was, that had tried to make a pregnant woman stand for him, as everyone else was – whoever he was!

The ground failed to do the decent thing and swallow me up.

So what head bangingly awkward joke have you had fail on you that, just for an instant, had seemed so funny in your mind? Or have you been present when someone else dug a pit of despair for themselves? I’d love to hear about these moments, even if only to console myself that it isn’t only me that does it.

Painting the moon red

Flash Fiction Friday – from http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/
Prompt: Write a story based on a common conspiracy theory
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1000 words


Hello - this is my first attempt at joining in on Flash Friday - where I need to write a short piece of fiction. Today I am following the lead from http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/ and so have to write about a popular conspiracy theory as if I believe it. Idon't of course, but that is the point isn't it - it's fiction!

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Painting the Moon Red.

For fourteen long hours Chris toiled in the sweat boiling heat of an airless studio in Florida, his back screaming in agony from the endless monotony of its day. Every bone in his body clicked as he stood back, stretching long and hard, before surveying his work. The boulder was perfect.

Like all the other people working on NASA’s new training film, Chris was absolutely determined to make his section of moon as realistic as possible.

Okay, so he had to use his imagination a little on account of the fact that nobody has actually been to the moon yet, but thanks to his obsession with Buster Crabbe’s work as Flash Gordon in the films from his youth, Chris had more than a good idea about the effect he was after.

This was why he was painting them red.

Red seemed like an obvious colour for his rocks. After all he wanted them to stand out a little so that his Mum could point out his work to her friends around the coffee table, provided NASA ever released the film to the general public, and assuming Chris’s Dad ever bought a TV.

Or a coffee table.

All that seemed so far away and unlikely though, why on Earth would NASA release a training film to the general public? It’s not like they needed any more PR is it? With six more boulders to make, and quarter shares in a crater, it was going to be tight to be ready for the June deadline. It was almost May already, and the first boulder had taken three weeks

With a flourish, Chris painted his trademark ‘C’ on the side of the rock and left it to dry.

Four months ago the concept had been explained to the guys about what the film would be used for, and why it was so vitally important that the Russians didn’t find out about it. The film would be used to train the astronauts for the July mission, quite how was all too complicated to remember. All Chris knew was that it had to be realistic if Mr. Armstrong was going to be able to survive the real thing, and it had to be secret because if the Russians got to the moon first they would eat his babies.

Chris never really knew why the Russians ate babies, but he was certain that they would do that if they got to the moon first. Even though Chris hadn’t managed to get a girlfriend yet, and so wasn’t even close to reproduction, he was determined not to have any future offspring devoured by a Commie.

When his section was complete, and when the technicians weren’t looking, Chris moved the lights about to make his boulders stand out more. Admittedly it messed up the shadow lines a little, but what would that matter? At least it meant his signature ‘C’ could be seen clearer. Chris was proud of his work and really wanted to be able to see it, if he ever got the chance.

When the time came to make the film, Chris and the crew were upset to discover they weren’t needed on the closed set, but the man in the suit stood there and explained that the Ruskies were looking over their shoulders, and so it was safer for them to not be there. Mr. Armstrong could be instantly slaughtered by a space suited Commie if they somehow got hold of these tapes. NASA needed this film to stay out of the Red Army’s hands if they were to get their men safely back from the lunar surface, and that was good enough for Chris, as it had been a few days earlier when the other man in a different but identical suit, had made him repaint his boulders white.

Chris beamed with pride as he walked home that night; his rocks were saving democracy and the lives of his still unborn Son.

The astoundingly large pay check, he had received for his silence, paid for a brand new 12 inch TV set to be installed proudly next to his Mum’s new coffee table. His work had helped three of America’s finest living men fly to the moon and now his work was going to let him watch it in style.

And so he watched.

The crowd of people filling his parent’s lounge barely drew breath. The air was absolutely still.

The Module landed.

Everyone breathed out.

A party started and the hours ticked by until the first human ever was able to walk on a different planet.

As Neil uttered those timeless words, and leapt from the module, the lounge erupted with excitement. America had done it. Russia would be devouring no babies this day.

Hands were shaken, backs were patted. Melissa Stevens, the daughter of Dr. Stevens from next door, even let Chris kiss her cheek. Things were indeed getting interesting. The future was now.

And then Chris stopped.

Stopped completely.

Everything.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t stand. Instead he sank to his knees.

The noise of the crowd slipped desperately far from his ears. The world was silent.

The shadows on the moon were wrong, and the light that cast them was making a large boulder stand out.

A boulder with a ‘C’ on it.

Slowly Chris stood and walked out of the room, out of the house and looked up into the sky.

The world rested itself squarely onto his shoulders and waited. Every free thinking, decent, Christian Westerner’s life was in the balance and depended on America’s presence on that little ball of light. The weight of responsibility crushed down upon his back.

In that instant Christopher Ray Thompson made a decision.

And it haunted him for the rest of his life.



Mad Cap sleeping arrangements

“I mean, obviously I’m not bothered either way – it’s Jamie that wants to do it – but can we Dad? Can we? CAN WE?”


My eldest Son Daniel fixed me his best orphan stare and grinned.

His scheme had sprung to life a few moments before, when I’d said to the boys that it was bath time. “Wait there Dad, I just need to talk to Jamie a minute – in private!”, had been the first clue that Daniel was coking something up, followed a short while later by my six year old sheepishly walking up to me.

“Er… Dad, can we, can we …. What was it again?” Jamie had quietly asked while looking at his Brother.

Daniel had rolled his eyes and then – on Jamie’s behalf – explained the idea…

“Jamie wants to sleep in my bed tonight, while I sleep underneath it?”

“What?” I asked.

“Tonight, after all it is half term so we don’t have school tomorrow, can I sleep under my bed while Jamie sleeps on it?”

“On the floor? Under your bed?”

“Yes”

Who comes up with plans that bad?

My head shook itself in disbelief, not even bothering to check if my brain was okay with this course of action, but his eyes were penetrating deep into my inner parent.

I also respected his attempt to make the idea appear to come from his younger sibling in a blatant attempt to use the ‘It’s not fair, why does Jamie get to do it and I don’t?’ argument against me.

In fact I knew that in no way would common sense explanations be any use in deterring Daniel from his cunning plan, any attempt on my part to convince him to see reason, would undoubtedly result in a fight – so I decided he would have to come to his own decision about this one.

I let them do it.

I know!

I carefully said “whatever” and tip-toed away. Sometimes it’s better that way.

My Wife asked me exactly seven times what it was precisely that I had agreed to letting them do, and still couldn’t quite get her head around it, so she popped upstairs to see for herself. Sure enough, there was Daniel wrapped up in a duvet under the bed. Jo tip-ted down the stairs, no closer to understanding it all than she had been on the way up, but determined to pretend that she hadn’t seen it.

So we ignored the situation for about an hour and a half, but even after that the banging about still hadn’t stopped.

I crept up the stairs and listened as Jamie whined – “…but I’ve been trying for ages and still can’t get to sleep, I’m not sure I like it really Daniel”

In the room my elder and more cunning Son was comfortably tucked up in his own bed. My younger and slightly more gullible boy was underneath it, and not really sure or happy about quite how he had got there. I never will know exactly how Daniel had managed to talk him into swapping with him when it finally sunk into his head how crap the plan was in the first place, but there you go.

I pulled Jamie out and walked him back to his own bed. The plan was cancelled. Maybe they had learned a valuable lesson in not messing about with nature and letting bed time just take its course.

Maybe not.

Last night…

“Dad – can we swap rooms tonight? Jamie wants to sleep in my room and I don’t mind….”

I noticed with some level of smugness, that when I went to bed last night, they were both fast asleep – in their own beds. I never even heard them swapping back.

What mad half baked scheme do you think Daniel will come up with tonight?