A Song Or Two

 (Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

My dearest pink cheeked lady

You make me go Boom! Bang! Pow!

My heart drum rolls every time I behold you

You are an inspiration to my musical chow.

~~

If you are the pluck, I am the string

If you are the rhythm, I am the tune

If you are the piano’s white, I am the black

For you my love, I’ll even jam on the moon.

~~

You complete the harmony of my unmelodious life

I wonder if you would like to be my wife

We’ll make songs of love and despair

If the neighbours complain, we just wouldn’t care.

I Was Something Else, You Know

(Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by Claire Fuller

Photograph by Claire Fuller

You are famous – there are those who are awed by you and want to emulate you in every way. Flattering? Of course!

You are famous – killed for being so lovable, set in stone for the rest of eternity, someone steals your identity and parades around pretending to be you. Flattering? No way!

Welcome to the wo-duh-rld of San Claude.

Have you perchance seen that bulge-bellied, red-donning, sack-carrying, bearded man? That’s the crook. Goes by the name ‘Santa Claus’. Hand him o’er to the sheriff the next time you see him.

And the ‘HO-HO-HO!’ was originally my signature laugh.

fat-santa

 

 

The Window Scraper

(Written for Friday Fictioneers)

It has been so many months since I wrote a flash for FF. Glad to be back 🙂

Photograph by Ted Strutz

Photograph by Ted Strutz

 

Scrape! Scrape!

Without glancing at the screen behind her, Stella knew it was Dooz at work again.

Dooz had been given his plastic dental tools as a reward for good behaviour.

Each day, he spent some time trying to scrape the life out of the window. ‘I need some fresh air’, he complained in his shrill voice.

It had been three years but there was not even a scratch on the fortified window.

Stella suddenly felt a tap on her shoulder.

The last thing she heard was Dooz’s icy voice in her ear – “You forgot the door was made of weaker glass missy.”

 

 

 

Finding Joy In A Thrift Store

(Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by John Nixon

Photograph by John Nixon

“Ermm..how much are the china glasses for?”

“15 bucks for these, 10 for the floral.”

“P-paper cups?”

“Buck a dozen.”

“That Kodak camera?”

“4 – with a film’

“The blue suit in the corner?”

“30 bucks – that’s the least for a slow day.”

“I’ll take the brown jacket in the corner please.”

“Ok. I’ll throw in a bowtie and socks for free.”

“And the…”, the old man blushed, “And the white gown?”

“So it’s a wedding! Whose?”

“Mine”.

Arnie couldn’t wait to see the astonished expression on Edith’s face, providing little comfort for being 40 years late.

Courtesy - Google

Courtesy – Google

 

The Souvenirs

(Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

People collect souvenirs as reminders of the fine moments they have experienced. For Rufus, it was to remind him to be glad that he was alive.

He remembered the little girl who handed him her skating shoes, right before getting buried under a burning beam.

And the other time when a dying old man gave him a silver trophy before breathing his last – “I was the best singer in the county”, he spluttered.

And the golden pram he found in a debris. Ironic how this symbol of birth reminded him of death.

It wasn’t easy being a fireman with emotions.

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The Knife Story

(Written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction)

It was late when I got home.

The first thing I heard were ominous whispers emanating through the door.

Take the big knife, and cut the thigh here.

O god an evil sadist has got Grandma! , I panicked.

Then take the medium knife to separate the shoulder joint.

My feet seemed to have fallen asleep and wouldn’t accompany my upper body in the sudden dash towards the door. The inertia made me fall. I expected the hacker to lunge towards me at any moment but the whispering continued.

And use the smallest knife for better precision.

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Photograph by Alastair Forbes

Large, medium, small!

HE WAS USING THE SAMURAI SWORDS MOM GOT LAST YEAR FROM CHINA AND WAS CALLING THEM KNIVES!

Shushing the ‘English teacher’ in me, I decided to take matters into my (horribly jittery and sweaty) hands.

I could barely hear the whispers now, because my heart was beating in my ears.

 ‘..and then grill the meat..’

I couldn’t bear to hear anymore and rushed to rescue (what remained of) Grandma.

.

.

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Grandma slept on the couch peacefully and a chef on TV was sharing his recipe for making Chicken Tandoori.

Not everything is a murder mystery.

If wishes were horses…

(Written for #FWF: Free Write Friday)

This week’s FWF prompt is a word bank: blanket – falsetto – cumbersome – cinema – coins

~~~~~~~~~~

mother-and-daughter

They returned from the cinema house to their shabby home,

Dreaming of London, Paris, New York and Rome.

“Mama why can’t we live in bungalow like the movie stars”, asked young Jill

“Instead of this rundown down place on a lonely hill”

“But we live in such a lovely house,” argued Mary

With a wide open playground and trees full of cherry”

“But this rain taps annoyingly on the tin roof all night”

Oh but the wonderful rhythm it gives to our songs is just perfectly right.

“Mama why can’t we eat cheese and pasta and the delicious risotto?”

“But that doesn’t beat the taste of our garden veggies, eh?”, Mary asked, acutely aware of her own falsetto

“I too want to be rich movie star and wear pretty frocks”

“Dream high pretty girl”, said Mary, counting the pennies stashed in some torn socks.

“Why can’t I come with you Mama, it scares me to be alone when all is dark outside”

“Honey the stars will give you company tonight, I’ll soon be back by your side”

It was not an easy job to have these cumbersome conversations all day long

Life would have been so nice if it was just one happy song

How Mary wished she could be like the other mothers and not live a life of lies

And tuck her baby under the blanket each night and sing her lullabies

She put on her fishnet stockings and corset and whipped a brush through her hair

“Life is unfortunately not a movie, little one”, her tear whispered in the air.

~~~~~~

Building A Dream

(Written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction)

18-07-july-28th-2013

Photograph by Alastair Forbes

“Steady now!”, Jacob whispered – his voice hoarse from all the hollering in the previous hour.

The first plank hung in the air precariously. The crane proceeded to sever its ties with the plank. One by one. Each snap of the connecting ropes cut across like a sharp whiplash. THWACK!

Just as planned.

After what seemed like an eternity (but was just a few minutes), all the ropes gave way.

Everyone looked at the plank, half expecting it to plunge into the water like every earlier attempt. Five minutes later (and after most of the onlookers had turned blue from holding their breaths), the plank stood still.

After years of planning, experiments, rejections and failures, Jacob had been successful in suspending the first plank without any support.

Jacob let out a war cry to every person who had ridiculed his idea – Who said you couldn’t build castles in the air?

Out in the Blue

(Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by Douglas M. MacIlroy

Photograph by Douglas M. MacIlroy

“I’m a bird Mommy”, Jimmy had squealed.

“The airplane is flying, not us!” Julia had replied, her knuckles white from clutching the armrest.

“I know we’re birds Mommy, you and me”, Jimmy had whispered.

Julia was white as a sheet. But she had to do this. For Jimmy. Oh how her boy had loved to fly! And fly he did – straight in to an unfortunate mountain last summer.

Julia held her breath as the countdown began.

“3…2…1…JUMP”

She squealed and skydived right into the arms of the blue sky.

“We’re really are BIRDS!”, she shouted at an imaginary speck thousands of feet below – which looked like her son in a wheelchair.

A chance to live

(Written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction)

If the rumours were true, I was on my way to get the key to eternal happiness. I was desperate at the time. Exhausted with my broken life. Seeking redemption.

“Find the purple flower with a red shadow growing around the roots of the tallest tree on the banks of the Ganges”, the cherubic monk had said.

It took me 8 months, 21 days, 5 hours and 33 minutes. But I did find the flower.

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Photograph by Alastair Forbes

“Run towards the end of this platform and you will see –”

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I ran as I had never run before. The sweet taste of freedom on my lips.

Closer and closer to the darkness. The flower gripped in my sweaty palm.

I was out of breath by the time I opened the Great Oak Door.

What lay ahead surprised me.

“THAT is the key to life’s secret!”, I laughed aloud. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? It was the simplest answer.

What I saw was a –

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.

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Look inside you. Maybe you won’t take that long to find your key.