Daily Prompt – Page 2

On being really fat

They say one should write about what one knows, so I I think I shall perhaps write about being fat.

Now, I don’t yet know if it will be a cake and pork fuelled celebration of my wobbly belly and chafing thighs or whether I shall use this as a shameful catalyst to stir me in my eternal attempt to lose weight. I haven’t quite worked myself up to a commitment one way or another yet having only just penned the thought, plus I have a rather nice hot beef and mustard sandwich that needs to be eaten before I do any sort of serious decision making.

Now if I was to attempt to lose weight, which I indeed might but let’s not be too hasty as we are still working through the premise for this piece, then It obviously goes without saying that typing will not help me shed a single chin. I am also pretty sure that a few of the particularly energetic amongst you may well be thinking that I should simply stop typing right now, wipe the quite delicious beef juice from my chubby little fingers and get myself on a treadmill or go for a nice walk. I won’t argue against that point, and the matter of the treadmill is one I will address another time most likely, but for now I think I shall either, but I shall persist with writing something first at that was my aim when I sat down. That and to eat my rather delicious sandwich which I have done whilst typing this.

So where to next I ask myself. I am not certain yet but how about I float a couple of ideas to see whether any of them stir me as to my preferred course of action:

· When bending over to pick things up became an embarrassment to my children.

· Why my jeans need pulling up whenever I stand.

· Failing at not being fat.

· Stamina, what stamina.

· I woke up with a lollipop stuck to my jumper

· What do you mean I have piles!

· Late night eating by refrigerator light.

· Please put a shirt on the neighbours might see you.

As much as that feels like Weird Al album track listing, I think I might have enough ideas to take this somewhere you know.

Perhaps I will see you next time when I tackle the difficult subject of ‘Why my bathroom scale hates me and lies just to make me feel bad about myself’.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/Lollipop/

Passenger – An Armitage Tangent

Alex stood frozen. Looking across the empty lanes of the motorway he could see his brother’s red Mustang, crumpled and twisted, steam billowing from the radiator. His first thought was “Mum and dad are going to kill him!”, and it never occurred to him that everything wouldn’t be ok, because when you’re 15 everything usually is.

“Weird” he thought, scratching his head through a mop of dark curly hair, something was nagging at him, his thoughts very much a fog. “This is a dream right?” He asked himself.

“You know, that’s usually what you lot ask at this point” came a response out of nowhere “and then I tell you it isn’t” it continued, “and then you freak out”.

Alex turned to the source of the voice, seeing before him a small bald man with a warm smile and piercing blue eyes. He wore a sharp well fitted dark suit, crisp white shirt and a black tie tied with a Windsor knot and despite his stature had all the air of someone who could quite easily do you harm if you forgot to pay him for whatever you might own a man like him for.

“Calm yourself curly locks” he said, a thin smile breaking out on his face “I know this is all a shock and you want to run over and see what’s going on and blah blah blah but we really need to get moving”.

Alex indeed wanted to run over to the scene where a fire truck, lights flashing and horns blaring had just pulled up, but he couldn’t. His head told his body to ignore the small bald man and do exactly that but he simply remained where he stood. His thinking was so slow, words escaped him, concepts too.

“I need to go over! My brother’s still in there” he mumbled. That he knew, foggy headed or not.

The Bald headed man remained unmoved. “Hate to break it to you kiddo but you’re dead” he said dispassionately. “You aren’t going anywhere other than recycling.” It was simply a fact to him. He had done this so many times that he found it far easier to just get right to the heart of the matter rather than to try flowering things up.

Early on in his career he had developed a real flair for the dramatic, and relished these moments. He’d dabbled in poetry and religious imagery and had even used props for a while but it soon wore thin.

These days he was a fan of a nice suit over the effort of a hooded cloak. They were rather more uncomfortable than one might think and forever dragging on the floor and needing to be washed. and as menacing as a scythe is it’s a real nuisance to cart around all day

Alex stood, saying nothing because some part of him knew he was dead. There was a feint recollection of a party – perhaps someone’s birthday – and rain, lots of rain. After that there was a horn, loud noise and then …well then he was stood where he found himself right now.

After a while he spoke “Is he ok?” he asked.

“Id not worry about him for now kiddo” bald man replied, “come on, follow me. You’ll like this.”

Alex turned slowly to follow, his head swimming. “Where are we going? What will happen to him?“

“Always with the questions” the bald man mumbled under his breath. “Just follow me, I’ll explain everything in a bit”.

The bald man led him up a small path and just over the brow of the embankment that ran adjacent to the motorway. “Keep up” the bald man called, disappearing inside an open door, “Ive got places to be.”

Now as far as doors go this one was for the most part a rather regular and unassuming door, the type you would find on any street. It was 8 panelled with a brass handle, letter box and knocker and painted jet black with a number two positioned slightly off centre to the right about three quarters of the way up. What made it wholly unusual though was the way it simply stood unsupported just alongside a busy motorway where he had apparently just died.

Bald man popped his head around the door. “Are you coming or not?” he shouted, and disappeared back inside.

As Alex approached he could see inside into what looked very much like an office. There was a large empty hall, white floors and walls and the bald man seemed to be stood at what looked like reception desk. Bald man looked over beckoning for him to hurry across as Alex stepped through the door. He felt it close behind him and a lock clicked.

“Alex” he said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him over, “this is The Receptionist, she’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

She looked a bit like the woman his mum didn’t like his dad talking to at work he thought, the one mum described as “that hot home wrecking blonde” and dad always described as “harmless” and “just really friendly”.

Alex heard a voice in his head, it seemed to cut through the fog. “It’s very nice to meet you Alex” she said, “If you want to take a seat on one of the chairs behind you I will be with you in a short while. I just need to have a word with Mr Goodwin”.

He had a million questions going through his head but he felt compelled to do as she had asked, and nodding he turned on his heels and walked across to the chairs and took a seat.

He watched Goodwin and the receptionist for a while, him speaking and her simply looking directly at him. He nodded once or twice, made a few notes in a small notebook which he then tucked inside his breast pocket and with that he was gone, pausing only briefly to look back across at him before exiting through the door they had passed through earlier.

She beckoned him over with a long elegant finger. Stood before her he heard her in his head “Well Alex, I guess you are wondering what exactly is going on.” He nodded. “Mr Goodwin should have explained but alas he has a tendency to neglect his duties sometimes. I really must have a word.”

Her voice was cold, he felt it not only in his head but in his bones.

“You must have a lot of questions” she continued. He nodded again. “All in good time Alex. For now you need to know this. So listen carefully.”

He nodded. It was all he seemed capable of.

“You’re dead I’m afraid Alex, and Mr Goodwin has just left to fetch your brother who did not make it despite the best efforts of the emergency services. You and your brother are very special, and possess certain qualities that I value most highly and because of that I asked him to being you back for recycling.”

She could see from his face that he was confused. Understandably so she thought, these people with their antiquated belief systems really had no idea of just what lay out there in the universe. The universes.

“Is this heaven?” he asked.

“No Alex, this is not heaven” she replied, “You’re in the council offices. We are here to recycle you and get you back out there because there is something you need to do for me”.

That was not what he had expected to hear. He had always gone to Sunday school and was pretty sure that if he were dead he really ought to be heading off to heaven and ot stood at the council office reception.

“No such thing as heaven or hell I am afraid. Regardless of which of your many god’s you root for” she explained “Though from what I read neither sound particularly interesting. You really need to just forget everything you may have been told and trust me that this is the best place for you. You got lucky really today Alex, we could have simply let you dissolve into nothing but you’re here so let’s get on with the job at hand shall we.?

Her tone was suddenly less friendly and that was not a question. Alex nodded again as Mr Goodwin burst through the door, his brother in tow.

“Justin!” he exclaimed, waving him over. Justin had the same foggy look Alex had had just ten minutes prior. Mr Goodwin lead Justin over to stand with him.

“Thank you Mr Goodwin” the receptionist said, her gaze fixed on Justin. “Very nice to meet you, I’m terribly sorry about being dead and all but it really is nothing to get too upset about.”

She looked at Alex now, he was pretty sure that they were all hearing her in their heads.

“If you would be so kind to explain to your brother what is going on I shall go and prepare you a couple of nice new bodies and we will have you back out on there in no time at all. We have a lot to get done today.”

***I started this piece about the death of a passenger in a car then thought I’d explore an idea for the Armitage stuff I am writing so kind of just went with it. It probably slots into the Armitage story somewhere, just not really sure at the moment. – Michael***

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/passenger/

Is it really so bad ?

I, like most of you , am probably prone to over exaggeration. If I were to say “I am going to kill the kids if they leave a towel on the bathroom floor again” then I think you probably know what I mean and where I am heading with this. Unless of course I am prone to killing children for acts of untidiness – which I am not.

Just to be absolutely clear on that matter – I have not nor will I kill my children for leaving a bit of a mess in the upstairs bathroom.

Equally, as it turns out I did not actually nearly die when filling up my car recently despite me insisting to my wife to the contrary. My life did not flash before my eyes, I was not filled with the urge to hold my sons one last time, and I did not re-evaluate my existence as a consequence of paying £1.20 a litre.

I also had to reconsider whether leaving a chicken in the oven for what was maybe 15 minutes too long last Sunday – resulting in the breasts being a little dry – was in fact the disaster I supposed. Would I classify the lack of moistness as a serious disruption, occurring over a relatively short time, of a community or a society involving widespread human, material, economic or environmental loss and impacts, which exceeds the ability of the affected community or society to cope using its own resources?

Probably not, I just made a little extra gravy.

With the realisation that I am prone to such exaggerations I ask myself whether I will perhaps use more appropriate language in the future.

No, obviously not and I am sure you feel the same.

I will still insist that I very nearly soil myself every time something surprises me and I will continue to insist that the neighbour, who drives so terribly, is indeed as blind as a bat and by that token navigates via sonar. No one ever became excited or intrigued and leaned in with great interest upon being told that they are absolutely going to believe a tale I am about to tell.

There is a joy in exaggeration, a freedom and a licence to share an excitement that is ours and which we simply want others to feel. It helps us express, albeit lazily, the things we feel and lets us get straight to the somewhat more mundane details of the thing we are expressing.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/disastrous/

Soil – An Armitage Tangent

“A scotch egg is not a fruit!” Wednesday insisted forcefully, “it is an egg wrapped in sausage meat then crumbed and deep fried!”

“All I’m saying” replied Thomas, “Is that if you use your imagination, and think of it maybe as a meat apple then it maybe could be.” He paused for a moment. “Don’t you think?”

Wednesday did not think. Not for one moment.

“Why do you insist on being so completely ridiculous?” He ranted, face flushed and his jaw clenched. “I swear you do it just to annoy me!”

“What if I gave you an apple flavoured one?”

“That’s a bloody apple!” Wednesday raged. “We’ve got a job to do here – stop going on about scotch egg flavoured apples and apple flavoured scotch eggs and dig!”

“What about an orange flavoured one?”

“Ok, you know full well that an orange flavoured apple flavoured scotch egg is a bleeding orange!” A vein pulsed just above his right temple. “Just keep digging and stop being an idiot.”

Thomas allowed himself just a little smile. He loved Wednesday deeply but he was a frightful bore at times and took things far too seriously. No imagination at all sadly. “It’s nature’s goodness Wednesday” he grinned, attempting to push the large brown pork ball into his friend’s hand. “Here”, he said “Take a bite they’re delicious!”

Wednesday hit Thomas’ hand away and the scotch egg fell to the floor “Stop it!” he shouted, “I don’t want a bloody pork apple!”

“So you admit it then!” Thomas laughed in delight, picking up the scotch egg from the floor “Oh Wednesday, you are funny. You won’t grow if you don’t eat your vegetables” he teased.

Wednesday did not find any of this funny at all. His sense of humour was not his strong suite. It served very little purpose in his line of work.

“Just keep digging the hole and then we’ll get out of here” he said thrusting a shovel into Thomas’ free hand.

“I don’t see why I always have to do the digging “ said thomas “you could help”.

Wednesday rolled his head, bones cracking in his neck. “You dig because I do most of the killing” he replied curtly. “If you want to do more of the killing then I will quite happily dig but if you insist of eating scotch eggs and being an idiot then you get to dig.”

“I only asked, bloody hell mate” Thomas said “This should be deep enough anyway, drag him over I’ll get him covered up.”

Thomas shovelled the majority of the soil over what was quite obviously the body of a rather portly gentleman, a single polished shoe protruding from a thick white wrapping that did very little to hide what was inside.

“Job Done” Thomas said satisfactorily, brushing the dust from his clothes.

Wednesday smiled “You got any of those scotch eggs left, I’m starving.”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/soil/

Edible – Daily Prompt

I would often think that my first born was a fussy eater. From the earliest age he would take a spoonful of the lovingly prepared broccoli and tuna paste I had whipped up and spit it back out with such delight, perhaps pausing only to rub it into his hair or hurl it across the kitchen.

“What’s wrong Sam?” I would ask, pretending that the heaving spoon full of pulverised cauliflower and chicken was a train and his mouth the tunnel. “Choo Choo here comes the dinner train!”. He looked at me with such distaste and promptly closed the tunnel for maintenance works.

The meals were nutritionally balanced and everything that a growing boy would need. They were also a bugger to get out of the carpets.

I once managed to persuade him to eat a Tuna, sweet potato and sweetcorn mush, and proud as only a new father can be I rewarded his with time In the bouncer which we hung from the kitchen door frame. Once I had finished cleaning up my wife was quick to remind me that I should have known that allowing a child to bounce so wildly so soon after eating would “quite obviously” result in throwing up.

Oh how I wish Pizza was a vegetable.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/edible/

Dash – a collection of hastily scribbled limericks – Daily prompt

>A fellow from Bangor I met

Had a shirt that was soaked through with sweat

As he’d been on the run

From a priest and a nun

And a Bishop whos wife he got wet

>A lady with bosoms aplenty

Proved a hit with the men of the gentry

They succumbed to her wiles

And her winks and her smiles

But to church she was oft refused entry

>A chap met a lass in a bush

Passion and lust what a rush

Pulses raced what a thrill

As they rolled on the hill

Until doctor confirmed he had thrush

>A wife bored at home with burst pipe

Hastily scrubbed with a wipe

As the plumber quite handy

Made her head swim like brandy

She was ready for plucking, quite ripe

>Please do not show these words to the wife

I really do not want the strife

“A grown man should man should know better,

your kids cold read this letter…

writing slightly rude rhymes, get a life!”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/dash/

Sail – A Tenuous Daily Prompt

Today I shall sit in my chair

and write a poem of despair

or something deep or maybe sad

but nothing fun and nothing glad.

With teenage angst perhaps I’ll write

of when my jeans became too tight

or of my hair when it fell out

or of last Saturday’s beer drought.

Ill dim the lights and play whale songs

and bemoan all the world’s wrongs

and type about my slow net speeds

of morning traffic hell in Leeds

Ill hug myself and watch the rain

wear baggy clothes and spout my pain

That time TIVO missed GOT

or of my boats main sail ripped in ’03

My pain is shared so now you feel

the things I do that make me real

Perhaps you’ll like to show you care

my tale of woe, pain and despair

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/sail/

Moxie – An Armitage tangent.

“I do not for one minute” ranted Jones, his face quite beetroot in complexion ” believe that all people are created Equal”. A large vein throbbed above his right temple. “And I will tell you another thing while I’m at it” he continued, jutting out a sausage like finger and spitting as he spoke “there is no way we are taking in any more of those confounded Illegals!”

He seemed rather convinced of his point. Out of breath he plopped his portly frame back into his chair and folded his arms defiantly. As usual though, he failed to acknowledge that these were not solely his decisions to make.

“Now come on Arthur, you know full well this is a decision for the council and not for you alone” Alastair Brown reminded him. Alastair was the local milkman and had known Arthur for as long as he could remember and was quite adept at calming him down. He was in most aspects larger than life and with a will that was seldom swayed.

Arthur let out what sounded like ‘harumph’ and attempted to fold his arms even tighter in defiance, but this simply served to push up his chest until it looked like he had a rather full pair of breasts.

Alastair surveyed the room, and all the other council members eyes were fixed firmly upon him. Anderson, Smith, Wesley and Carpenter were going to let him deal with this one. They backed him, but they weren’t going to let Jones know that.

“All I’m saying Arthur, is that we can take more. We have room. We have resources.”

Arthur didn’t respond.

“The world has changed Arthur, we cannot keep resisting. They need our help, we need to show compassion” Alastair pleaded.

Arthur unwrapped his arms and stood slowly, heaving his considerable frame out of the chair. He had always been a bully, from very young, and being bigger than the other children he learnt from an early age how to use his size to his advantage.

“I will not, and cannot, tolerate one more of those ‘things’ in our village!” He drew himself to his full height and puffed out his chest. He continued, now ignoring Jones and addressing the room “the world may have changed but we are not for changing gentleman. We belong to this village and this village belongs to us!”

Alastair tried to speak but Arthur was not for listening.

“When the rifts opened and those things came through, feasting and destroying and ruining our flower beds they didn’t show us any compassion. They didn’t show us any kindness!”

“Now come on Arthur”, Alastair exclaimed, “That was nearly 20 years ago. They need us, they have nowhere to go.”

“That is not true, they can go home!”

“Their home is dying, you know that. That’s why they’re here”.

Carpenter was about to speak, and noticing Arthur immediately pointed a finger at him “Giles, you surely don’t expect us to take in anymore given what happened to your Mary.”

Giles fell silent. No one spoke until Alastair broke the silence.

“That was low Arthur. You really didn’t need to bring that up.”

Alastair felt he was losing the battle. They had all suffered when the rift opened, they had all lost someone and they had all fought so hard to rebuild their village. The others were too afraid of Arthur to stand up to him, and he felt rather isolated.

Arthur didn’t care how Giles felt. He didn’t care how anyone felt. “So that’s decided then, we don’t take in any more of those confounded blue furred creatures. Let them rot I say!”

The other said nothing.

Arthur sat slowly, savouring the moment. He took a slow drink of water from the glass in front of him. “Moving on to point 2 on the Agenda then, Donations for the summer fete raffle…Giles, I believe that was one for you.”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/moxie/

Pile them high – Daily prompt

Breathing heavily Bjorn leaned on his bloodied battle axe, surveying the carnage before him. The smell of war and death filled the air and screams of the dying could be heard from every direction.

“And what exactly are we supposed to do with this lot?” he pondered, crows already picking hungrily at the dead.

Helgar laughed. “Don’t look at me my friend, they can lay here and rot for all I’m concerned.” He scratched his thick beard, matted with blood. “And besides” he continued, “My back is killing me and there is no way I’m piling up the dead. And besides have you seen this blister! Digging holes like this Christians prefer will make a right old mess of my hand” Helgar thrust out a bloodied hand, a large blister forming on the webbing between thumb and fore finger. “Look, it really hurts!”

“Oh don’t give me that about your back” Bjorn replied, heaving a large scarred shield from the ground “you’re always going on about it. It looked perfectly fine when you were hacking that Goth’s head off!”

Helgar wasn’t a fan of manual labour. Pillaging and raping were all good and well but fetching and carrying wasn’t for him. “Oh how dare you, you’re one to talk!” he replied, “Were it not for me and my axe you’d have been crow meat by now!”

“How about we just finish off some of the dying and decide then, how does that sound?”

Helgar loved finishing off the dead. It was one of his favourite things, that and ale. And women of course – apart from those British ones he’d encountered in Britannia – they were a rather unpleasant lot. His blue eyes twinkled and a broad smile spread across his bloodied face. “I think I’ll use a sword today though, given how my back aches. It’s a bit less wearing than swinging an axe you know”. He winked at Bjorn playfully.

“Oh will you shut up about your back! “Said Bjorn, swinging his axe casually into the chest of a young Goth warrior who lay groaning as he clutched a rather nasty stomach would.

“Ooh look at this” Helgar exclaimed, reaching down to snatch a gold pendant from around the neck of a fat corpse. “This will look great with that cloak I took from that priest last week!”

“Oh I like that“, said Bjorn, slowly pushing his thick blade into the heart of a young shield maiden “it’s a bit like that one I wore to Tobar’s wedding.”

Helgar remembered it well. “Oh now that was a great night! That roast they had was gorgeous. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“I think it was the salt and garlic you know” said Bjorn. “I spoke to him afterwards and he said the fellow for Aarlsberg has a chap who gets it for him”.

Bjorn pulled out a small knife and bending down slit the throat of an older Goth chieftain. “Funny you know Helgar, I like to send off the older ones a little more intimately.”

Helgar snorted “you’re all heart my friend”.

Bjorn wiped his blade and put it back in it’s sheath on his belt. “You know what else I was thinking?”

“What” said Helgar.

“I was thinking about doing some poetry”.

“Whooooo” exclaimed Helgar excitedly as he removed the head of a chap who was already missing an arm. “Poetry you say? I did a bit when I was younger you know.”

“Did you Really?” Bjorn responded, “I never had you down as the poetic type”

“Oh yeah, did a great piece about a long boat once. I painted a rather vivid picture apparently”.

“Hmmm” Bjorn mused. “I’m definitely going to have a go when we get back to the village. I always get a bit bored when pillaging season is over”

“Great idea” Helgar replied. “It will help you relax. Lately I’ve been doing some basket making. Helps immensely with the creative urges”.

“Well you are a dark horse aren’t you“.

“Oh yeah” he grinned, stabbing a thrashing horse in the eye and driving his blade deep into its brain until it lay still on the blood stained grass. “What a waste of a bloody good horse!”

Helgar adjusted his armour; it had a terrible habit of riding up on him. “You hungry?”

“Starving” Bjorn replied, “Have you got anything to eat? “

“No but I left some bread up with the rest of my stuff up on the hill. Shall we go get something to eat and carry on with this later?”

“Sounds good to me, we can finish this later they’re not going anywhere”. He smiled. “We can take a look at that blister as well”.

Https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/bury/

Bernard and Charles – Daily prompt

“Ill tell you what Charles” said Bernard, shuffling his newspaper and staring out of the large communal room window. His eyes followed an older woman in a blue dress being walked by a small pack of dogs on the lawn outside. “Things are a lot better than they used to be you know”.

“Uh-huh, is that so?” replied Charles distantly, not looking up from his cross word and scratching his head through a thick mop of white hair. He was having a real problem with three across.

“Oh yes, absolutely” Bernard insisted. “Look at the world now. It’s not like in our day Charles. Kids don’t know how lucky they have it.”

Charles muttered loudly “20th century Canadian Liberal, four letters”?

Bernard wasn’t listening, intent only on voicing his opinions whilst continuing to watch the woman in the blue dress, who was now struggling to disentangle herself from the dog leashes which were now wrapped around her legs.

“They never had to deal with any of the things we had to deal with in our day you know!”

Charles lifted his head from his crossword. “And what was it we had to deal with Bernard?” he asked. Three across was really starting to frustrate him.

Bernard fell quiet, staring out of the window, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.

Charles knew it was mean of him to do that, he knew that Bernard wouldn’t remember. He never did.

The woman in the blue dress had lost her battle with the dogs and was now attempting pick up a jack Russell in one hand and at the same time prevent the Chihuahua from attempting to mount a rather indifferent looking Rottweiler with the other.

Suddenly Bernard returned to the room, his face animated. “Now that’s ambition Charles” he exclaimed, pointing towards the woman in the blue dress.

“Look at that, that little bugger doesn’t know it’s a Chihuahua! It thinks it’s a Rottweiler Charles!”.

Charles looked over, smiling at his old friend. “Indeed it does Bernard, indeed it does”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/grit/

I don’t have a dog called Caper – Daily prompt

I do not have a dog, and his name is not Caper. That is to say If I did have a trusted canine companion, then I am sure that Caper would be his name. Not Brian, nor Carl.

We do not go for long walks, and I do not have a special stick that I throw for him which he retrieves with such pleasure, dropping it at my feed for a treat and great praise. If though , as I have supposed, I did have a dog – named Caper (not Brian nor Carl) – then we would most definitely enjoy the outdoors more than I do now and he would always be there for me through thick and thin as only a dog called caper could be.

I do not have a dog named Caper and Caper and I do not sit on the couch on a Saturday night and watch television and eat pizza together, but if we did it would definitely be pepperoni because that would be his favourite I am sure and Caper would almost certainly eat the crusts that I leave.

Because I do not have a dog named Caper, each morning I am not awakened by him, and he is not happy to see me as much today as yesterday but not quite as much as he will be tomorrow.

I do not have a dog, and his name is not Caper and he did not run out into the road in front of a car.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/caper/

via Daily Prompt: Caper

Playground – Daily prompt

Caleb looked up from the floor, head spinning and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He breathed in deeply, wiping his bleeding lip against the back of his hand. Ben towered over him menacingly, almost willing him to stand up. He was a foot taller and more than that wider and he had a short fuse and a mean right hook

“Get up Caleb!” he roared. “Not got such a big mouth now have you!”

The gathered crowd chanted Ben’s name loudly, cries of “hit him again” and “Kick him” could be heard above the general hubbub. It wasn’t that they particularly disliked him or liked Ben, kids are just like that. No explaining, they just side with the bigger kid sometimes – perhaps out of fear – and on this occasion Ben was definitely the bigger kid.

“Ben please” stammered Caleb, his fists clenched and his heart pounding wildly in his chest “I didn’t mean anything by it honest”.

A tall boy in Blue jeans a black tee shirt leant in and whispered something in Ben’s ear. Ben smiled and took a step closer to Caleb. Caleb stayed down, his eyes fixed intently on his adversary expecting another blow any moment.

“Come on” he said, reaching out a hand to help Caleb up, “get up its fine I won’t hit you again”.

Caleb breathed a sigh of relief, he couldn’t take another shot like that. His mouth hurt like hell and he was already welling up and on the verge of tears. He wanted to go home to his mum and to forget this day had ever happened.

“Thanks Ben” he muttered, taking Ben’s hand and letting him pull him to his feet. “I really didn’t mean to…”

Ben hit him another almighty blow this time square to the nose, his head snapping back and his knees buckling as he fell to the ground. He started to cry, blood now running from his nose as well as his lip.

The Children were silent for a moment as he fell into a crumpled heap, holding his face and sobbing until they suddenly erupted into a cacophony of howls and cheers. Some patted him on the back, others acting out the punch they had just witnessed.

Ben stood over him again, a vicious smile on his face and nostrils flared. Caleb didn’t look up.

“See you at school tomorrow Mummy’s little cry baby!” he snarled.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/savage/

Mr No Jangle – Daily promot

I have nothing. There is no spark, no chord struck, no glimmer of an idea that will take shape and become something that was not. If I ponder, reaching deep, there is perhaps an ember of a thought lurking in the back of my mind but that will not be formed today. Elusive as it is. Sounds of the sea will occasionally surface and shimmering silvers and golds are whispering somewhere far off but the more I listen the less I hear. Reaching out for a note that will resonate I understand there are things to know, to see and to experience but for today, they are not for me.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/jangle/

Scratch – Daily prompt

Only the incessant scratch scratch scratch of quill on parchment breaks the stony silence. Head down, failing eyes squinting the gnarled hand grips the long gull feather with aching fingers. The thick leather bound ledger, with its yellowing pages, drinks in each slow and deliberate mark he makes. Each page filled with names, amounts, dates. Simple transactions in a ledger. A dark celebration of the efficiency of books well kept. He looks up as the door swings open slowly, wincing as the late afternoon sun streams through illuminating the room within. The scratching stops. Both the sunlight and the stranger are not welcome, and already he knows what happens next.

The dilapidated stranger stands before him, cap in hand and eyes filled with a sadness he has seen so often in so many men in these recent years.

“I am looking for my wife and children” he states quite calmly, voice trembling. “You sold them 7 years ago and I need to know where they are”

He won’t remember the face of the man standing before him when he has gone, the conversation will melt away like all the others, and for that he is grateful. Only time can now release him from the things he has seen and done. He picks up the quill, the scratch scratch scratch resumes as the door closes, and at last he is again alone.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/quill/