Category: Writing

100 Word Challenge For Grown Ups # 37

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, Food, Humour, WritingTagged , , , , , , , , 23 Comments

Julia’s 100 WCGU this we at http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/04/02/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-37/ says this:-

The prompt this week is to go back to last week’s entries. You are to use the last 10 words of the post next to yours and using just 100 words create a story. It may be a follow-on from the previous one or you may like to take it in a different direction.

I’m told that what I have written is quite a bit ‘Off in left field’  and that it will confirm my craziness but hey, I like to play! My section of prompt is ‘walked up to the table slowly, “what is going on?”, here it is.

Growing Table

The medical authority, are battling to control an obesity epidemic, but an abundance of sweets and biscuits covered the office table. There were back-from-a-Transylvanian-holiday treats, and dunkies provided by the plumptious boss. Fresh today, a stack of cakes, brownies and shortbread, courtesy of GT Porky and Co, auditors.

The scrawny dietician walked up to the table slowly, ‘What is going on here?’ ‘Not in my clinic, WE set an example.’ Behind her, the boss’s kilogramically challenged boss, with an epicurean feast of hot cross buns and Easter eggs, retreats, his face flaming, as she swept the booty into the bin.

Jaisalmer, Camel Safari at the Worlds End

Posted on Posted in Humour, India, Photography, Travel, WritingTagged , , , , , , , , , 28 Comments

Khuri is a little desert village with a hotel of whitewashed huts.

Khuri

We had cold drinks, and then went to meet our camels and make a decision, to camp in the desert, under the stars with a bed roll, or sleep in a hut with beds. We had several things to weigh up, what the food would be like – I don’t eat meat so didn’t fancy chicken, goat or camel roasted over an open fire! I’m joking of course, but no-one could tell me what the possibilities were. And what if pennies needed to be spent in the middle of the night? Let’s face it, there were no trees to hide behind. What swung it though was the possibility of scorpions. Who remembers a James bond film where one was climbing up 007’s chest? We chose to come back to the hotel.

Camel Saddles

It’s really quite difficult to get onto a camel, the saddles look good, well padded, but your legs are spread wide apart. Anyway, they are reluctantly in their lowest possible position, to enable you to climb on, then you have to time it just right and lean backwards, when they get up. That’s a very unnatural position, given that they sway as they do so. You soon get used to the motion; it’s a bit like a Space Hopper on legs. But then you go downhill, and not only do you need to lean backwards again, but also you have to squeeze tight with any muscles you can find in your thighs. So we were off into the dunes, to seek the sunset. That same still silence and heat that we experienced in Khuldera, something almost tangible, wrapped itself around us, lulling us into a state of euphoria and creating an inner glow, a bit like a meditation.

Unrepentant!

I could have been riding around for hours, travelling miles, or round in a figure of eight for ten minutes, because I had no sense of time or bearings. We reached a crest where a dozen people had already parked their humps and settled down to wait. This is where it went wrong. I dismounted and turned to where travelling friend was doing the same, just in time to see it get back up as she was getting off. Result – she fell, luckily there was no real damage but she was shocked and disorientated for a while and didn’t want to ride the pesky thing back.

We eased our hump shaped legs down onto the sand and waited while the sky became sky-blue-pink, it was beautiful but was like looking through a veil of micro fine sand. Travelling friend did ride back, very bravely. We couldn’t help thinking of what might have happened, of course it was hideous, scary and even embarrassing but thank heavens nothing was broken because Devon Air Ambulance was a tad out of range.

We were the only non Germans at the hotel, sitting around listening to some musicians, and dancing in the dark. We shocked Mr Singh again, with our capacity for Tiger, it comes in quite large bottles over there and well, it was very hot, even after the stars came out.

Excellent entertainment

Quite well lubricated, we headed for our hut. It was clean but very basic, with a loo in a cubby hole. Help came very quickly when I screamed. Spiders. Lots of very large spiders. We were laughed at but rescued. I insisted on checking under the beds for any that could be waiting for some fresh, juicy, English or American woman to feast on. The trouble was, checking when the light was one little dangling bulb, was pretty difficult. Attempting to push a bed aside, we found that it was a mattress, on planks that rested on piles of bricks! We didn’t find any more octopods, but didn’t sleep well either for worrying about them. The lesson – we would probably have fared better risking the scorpions.

I would highly recommend a camels safari, there’s nothing quite like the perspective you get aboard a foul breathed, bottom burping beastie with long eyelashes.

Don't I look the part?

100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups Week #36

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This week Julia at http://jfb57.wordpress.com/ says,

‘Now for this week’s prompt. As you know I like to be topical so I’m thinking Easter. However, I’m thinking a little outside the box! The prompt is quite simple but the trick this week is to prepare for NEXT week!

I want you to write a piece with

….‘What was the rabbit late for,’ wondered Alice…..

in it. You have 100 words making a total of 108. However, the last 10 words are going to be used to start a piece by someone else next week!! Good eh! The idea isn’t mine – it came from Winchester House School‘

And so here are my 100+8 words plus some photos because I just happen to have them!

Alice knew she was named after THAT Alice and she hated it. Her mother would read it to her at bedtime, and she would drift away dreaming about Pippi Longstocking instead. If only she had been named Pippi, how adventurous she would have been! But no, she was dull Alice with beige hair, and her cousin’s old clothes.

And now, we’re reading it again, all through double English. And her form mistress was asking silly questions about Wonderland. What was the rabbit late for . . . wondered Alice. March Hatters, uh. . . mad hair? grinning cats? Oh no, Mrs Skinner is looking straight at me.                                                                                                                                                     

100 word Challenge for Grown Ups: Week 35

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, flash fiction, WritingTagged , , , , 21 Comments

This weeks 100 word challenge over at Julia’s http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/03/19/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-35/

is ‘The Red box’ and this is my take on it!

Red Box Versus Tree

It wasn’t exactly a bang, more a low clunk like an Ikea drawer closing.

‘You’re going to die’ he mocked the older sister he was so jealous of, ‘Just wait ‘til . . .’

‘Shut up, I’ll just have to pay’.

‘Yeah, for about seven years, that’s how long he waited for it’.

She couldn’t settle, Luke kept smirking at her. She checked the window every five minutes, eventually the Jack Russell yapped as it chased through the gate. She went outside.

‘Dad . . .’ she sobbed.

‘I saw, don’t cry angel it’s just a red box on wheels’.

 

A Contrast of Elderly Men

Posted on Posted in Old age, WritingTagged , 36 Comments

I’ve tried to speak to an elderly man who lives around the corner and walks to the local shop most days but he doesn’t make eye contact with me at all. I always smile hopefully. He leans heavily on his stick and is slow as if in pain. He must be well into his eighties and seems so miserable and alone. I wonder if he has anyone in his life. It’s not just me that he ignores – there is another man his age that he passes by without any acknowledgment.

Elderly man number two is a darling. He has a beaming open face with a warm smile and I also see him most mornings, in fact if I miss him for a few days I start to wonder. He also has a stick because he has very bad joints. He’s very happy to talk about his ailments, he has chest problems and recently has had eye surgery and has a very tenuous hold on his sight, but he just keeps smiling. And everyone smiles back. I walked along a little way with him today and he joked with me about being late for work because we were chatting, ‘they won’t pay you’ he said.

I don’t care if I’m a few minutes late, it’s a sad world if I can’t pass the time of day with him. I know his wife dies many years ago but he spends an afternoon with a lady friend sometimes; he twinkled when he told me! This morning he also spoke to a pretty school girl who smiled back and then headed into the shop. I know they love him in there; he hangs out with the dreadlocked shop guy putting the world to rights, getting his milk and bread. Despite his physical problems he still keeps moving, he walks to town – fifteen minutes for me – even if it takes a while, he doesn’t need to rush and I suspect he chats along the way.

So I wonder why elderly man number one is so different, he could just be more reserved, I hope it’s that and nothing worse. But I also hope that I’ll be like number two when I’m getting on a bit (if I’m spared), as we sow so we reap and I really want to keep on talking with anyone who will!

None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm, Thoreau.

How it should be

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 16 Comments

He just wished that one day he would come home from work to find her normal. Not perfect, he didn’t expect an immaculate house, squeaky clean kids and for her to be glamorous. No, if nothing else he was realistic. He’d seen his ideal when he’d followed Geoff home to fix his computer. Alice tried to persuade him to stay and eat with them, an aromatic curry cooked from scratch. Geoff dipped his finger in to taste and pretended to groan in agony when she swiped him with the spoon. ‘Oh I’m sorry, let me kiss it better’ she reached for him and then thrashed and giggled as he tried to claim a full on snog with tongues.

‘Get him mum,’ the teenaged twins said in unison, accompanied by the manic yelps of their Labrador. Biting his lower lip, Paul leant against the table watching while a scene of mock smacks and tickles unfolded, yes this is how it should be.

That night was one of the worst for ages, because he was late. He heard a smash of glass as he pulled into the drive and found her trying to mash shards down the sink with an empty wine bottle.

‘Come here’, he took her hand and wrapped a towel around it; her blood had mixed with the wine in the sink. She let him help for a minute then pushed him away and slumped on the sofa. He felt the familiar rocks in his belly as he climbed the stairs.

‘Hello dad, thank God you’re home, Dan’s really miserable’. Jessica was oldest by a year and Paul was ashamed at how much he relied on her.

‘Come on, let’s talk, did you and Dan eat? ‘ello mate, how you doin?’ the boy maintained his stare at the screen where fantasy fighters destroyed each other and the planet. ‘Dan, can you leave that a minute I’ve got something to say.’ Paul hit the power on the speaker and swivelled his son around to face him.

‘We’re going at the weekend; I’ve got the keys today. There won’t be a garden but it’s a huge flat, really funky and you’ll love it. What d’you think?’ the boy’s eyes welled up, a small chink in his mask and Jess held on to both of them.

‘But mum . . . what will happen to her?’

‘There’s help if she will take it and we’ll see, but this can’t carry on. I’m going to look after you now, we’re going to be normal.’

A Post for International Women’s Day

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, short story, WritingTagged , , , , 26 Comments

This is a story I wrote a while back and I’ve chose to post it today because things aren’t always what they seem. Myfanwy at http://chittlechattle.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/international-womens-day-part-2/ will be hosting for International Women’s Day.

Rashini’s Girl Child

The woman, Rashini, plied her goods on the Niger from Mopti, Kassoum and north to Timbuktu taking her daughter Aliyah along. Malaria had taken the child’s father when she was small and Rashini had defiantly refused to re-marry, upsetting her family who had found her a husband wanting a second wife. Rashini had seen how her mother had suffered as a junior wife and knew that she and Aliyah would become slaves. As Aliyah grew near the age of the ritual they rarely stayed in the village for long, she was fearful for her daughter. Not for her the thorns and cutting of the vile village witch, her mother was saving to have a doctor perform it cleanly.

The ferry pulled up to the river bank and the throngs of people gathered their baggage. Some had been sitting squashed in the same spot for days and their movements released aromas of unwashed body mixed with spices, saltfish and ripening fruit from their packages. They tightened their scarves around nose and mouth until they were able to breathe cleaner air on land. She thanked Allah for their safe arrival and for her daughter’s health and strength. Opening an indigo dyed bag, she found small sticks, and passed one to her daughter

‘Your teeth Aliyah, and soon we will find some breakfast’.

They had bought some flat bread made on the boat, but then disgusted threw it overboard as it was infested with worm. Arriving at Timbuktu was always joyful; there they could choose from many foods that could not be found anywhere else. Water carriers strutted around with their goatskins on their heads, containing pure, sweet water from mountain springs.

‘Ma can we have millet patties please?’

‘We have to sell the cotton first’. . .

‘And some egg?’

Rashini smiled at her child’s dancing eyes; she could deny her nothing and would protect her from all. The air in Timbuktu was hazy and relentlessly hot, harmattan had left a sandy veneer over the city. Mother and daughter carefully stepped over bits of unidentifiable animal carcass, clattering metal pans and calabashes in the river side market.

‘Timbuktu is kind to us Ali, but I never want to live in this noisy chaos, with many people whose words I can’t understand’

‘Can we go and stay in the village forever one day ma?’

Afraid to commit herself Rashini smiled but turned towards the weaver’s lanes,

‘Hurry child we need to sell before the boat comes in with big sacks of cotton’. If only we could go home and settle in peace, I’m so afraid for you.

There was a clackety clack crescendo of noise as they got closer to the Weaving Men. Here they were able to sell their best quality raw cotton, grown near their village. They lingered over tempting cotton and fine wool wrappers fresh from the looms, but hunger ruled and they headed back to the street with a full purse.

Heading towards the Tuareg women when a call through the crowd reached them,

‘Rashi hello, let’s have tea’

They exchanged greetings with Fauziya from home and headed to a shady tea stall to share news.

‘There is circumcision of six girls next month and your mother has asked for reports of you because it is Ali’s time, you must come home she says’

‘Oh you must not say you have seen us please, we will go to the hospital soon’

‘Uh . . . okay but she will be angry when she finds out’

‘No, she can say nothing, if it is done it is done, I will not allow it her way for my daughter’

They spoke of trade before parting and well breakfasted returned to the business of selling. The Tuareg women were always hungry for the thick nourishing Shea butter to protect their skin from the dryness of the Sahel which left their faces like paper so they paid well for Rashini’s supply from the far east of the Niger.

That was a lucky meeting, I was heading home for a few days rest once we had sold our stock and refilled with things to sell there. Not now though, we must go to the women’s hospital in Koutiala instead. I will never forget my marriage night. My husband broke my body. I was cut and sewn up at Ali’s age and there was no way in for him. He pushed and pushed until his penis was soft and painful then he tried for hours with his hand and a wooden tool. He couldn’t get up in the morning and face the other men without evidence of my virginity and so he found a way . . . exhausted and already in pain I must have lost consciousness when he cut . . . I woke many hours later.  Aliyah was made that night.

There was a call to prayer from the minaret nearby and Rashini thought God is great, where was he then?  She counted her savings and decided there was enough and some spare for emergencies, it was time.

‘Aliyah, we have to travel a long way now, we go to Koutiala to take care of you and it will take many days. First we must buy food for the journey’.

‘A big journey on a bus is exciting and I will be brave when we arrive ma, you will be proud of me’, she smiled but there she had a look of fear that only her mother would notice.

Mammy wagons and trotro’s were parked nose to nose in the central bus area. All were treacherously overloaded with crates and livestock headed all ways out of Timbuktu. Rashini and Aliyah wandered in search of a south bound one that looked likely to reach the destination without overturning on the sharp bends. It looked as if there wasn‘t space for a mouse on the wagons but always more squeezed on so they were as high as they were long,  travelling villages where anything could be bought at a price. Eventually they chose one that had been freshly painted, bright mottos of ‘Allah u’Akbar’ alongside ‘Jesus Saves’ and a picture of Haile Selasie suggested both a well maintained truck and a broad minded driver. It would take them to Bounadougou and then they would get a tro-tro the rest of the way.

The journey was mercifully uneventful, they passed several wagons not so blessed and were able to help themselves to produce abandoned by the roadside. Lilting music accompanied them on the journey. The trancelike rhythm of Toumani Diabate’s kora, occasionally a haunting flute quelled arguments and the engine purred like a choir of cats. The tro-tro was quick and dropped them near to the hospital. Rashini gave her daughter to the care of the doctor and waited.

She watched her while she slept on a pallet in a bare but clean room and held her in her arms as she regained consciousness. She shed no tears from her antelope eyes but allowed herself to be comforted in her pain. Later they took refuge in a cousin’s home for a few days and then began the slow journey home to the village. Rejoicing in the triumphant act, Rashini took her daughter to the enclosure and greeted her family.

‘Rashini, you have brought the girl for her circumcision at last, we have been . . .’

‘No auntie it is done, it is done in the hospital’ she said with pride.

A couple more takes on IWD

http://aipetcher.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day/

http://roughseasinthemed.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/international-womens-day-and-my-gibraltar-angle/

The Write Stuff, A Slight Refrain

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Humour, WritingTagged , , , , 22 Comments

For two days now I have been learning to write. No, not the creative type that I have studied with the Open University, but handwriting, just like this, that you may or may not be able to read. If you have paid attention, you will have seen a post a month ago, where I exposed myself as one of the worst scribes on the planet.

Last week there was a development, a patient at work commented ‘Oh you have such cute little handwriting’. It made my colleague laugh rather too much  and gave me a nice warm glow all day. It actually wasn’t cute or nearly readable like this, it was more my old style. You see,I think I might just have turned over a new leaf!

I started to think about why it is so messy. I know that part of the problem is that I am really always in a hurry but it has to be more than that. And then I remembered, a few people over the years have said that I don’t hold my pen correctly, so I looked at how others did it. It seemed to be something to do with the angle, so instead of my usual grasp,

I tried like this,

and guess what? It’s instantly better, whoop, whoop I’m so excited, I can nearly do it. At this point my daughter will be thinking special mummy and laughing her head off. But why did it go wrong in the first place? I really was neat as a child and feel a bit cheated when I could have had really stylish writing all my life. My next challenge will be to keep  trying to improve until it does look beautiful. I may have to work on making it a little bigger as well, I can remember my old boss saying my writing was too small as well as illegible and I would defensively tell him that he should be pleased that a pen would last longer because I didn’t use as much ink.

So, click on the two photos, can you all see some improvement? 🙂

100 Word Challenge for grown Ups Week #33

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, Humour, WritingTagged , , , 46 Comments

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/03/05/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-33/

This week’s prompt from Julia is an image of one of the wonderful sculptures at the Eden Project, a Heather Jansch horse.

Apparently no-one will ‘get’ my flash this week but I’ve been dared to post it anyway!

Eden Horse

My back’s numb thank God, but I’m worried my arm’s so blue. There’s some light coming in the window, so someone’s gonna come soon. Then I’ll know my fate. I spect I’ll be out of a job. I’ve heard it’s worth thirty thousand pounds. Can’t see it myself. I was dusting see. I wondered how it stayed in one piece, so I crouched down to look for some screws. Just a tiny tug and I found out there aren’t many. It creaked, and slipped an bit, so I held it still else it’d collapse. I’ve been holding it all night.

An Igbo Marriage

Posted on Posted in Marriage, WritingTagged , , , , 23 Comments

My little sister got married yesterday, back home in Nigeria. I wasn’t there unfortunately, that would have been extremely complicated. More unusual, for us in the West at least, the groom wasn’t there either; the traditional wedding was conducted in absentia while he was three thousand miles away in London. Yesterday was the culmination of several months of planning starting with the Introduction Meeting between the two families to check each other out. Chibuzor is an expensive young woman with an almost royal bride price. A while ago the groom sent money to the elder men in his family, to pay to the bride’s mother, who has longed for this day. She has waited her turn to be amongst the women of the village, who share out the bounty of a bride price and wondered if the day would ever come, while her high flying daughter pursued a career in law.

And so they came, they were approved of, my sister and her husband to be breathed a sigh of relief while her mother, Felicia, received the cash to go shopping, no mean feat when the list looks something like this.

Bride price list

Cake in the shape of a palm wine pot

2 wrappers for Felicia – lace

3 blouses – Holland

2 head ties

Sandals, slippers, wristwatch, necklace (gold plated)

20kg sacks of salt,

2 x 40kg bags of rice (cost £40)

Beverages – Milo, milk, tea, cocoa,

Beauty products, skin creams, cosmetics etc

20 litres of kerosene – I for Felicia, 1 to share with the village

Palm oil and other vegetable oil (groundnut)

Stockfish

Sugar

Detergent/soap 50 bars

42 yams, some to share

Kola nuts

Alcohol for the men – gallons of palm wine, beer, Mackeson

Minerals, Fanta, coke etc

Felicia would be very happy despite the hard work and her women friends would have helped her go to market so that by yesterday a feast could take place.

The next stage of affairs will be either a court ceremony and/or a church ceremony which may even take place in London. I know they have a wonderful future ahead of them and I wish them all the love and happiness they deserve!