Tag Archives: humour

Bad Writer

melbourne-australia

This spot, they said. You’ll find your muse, just go there and thoughts shall flow. You shall be able to write again, they said.

I can barely read what I’ve written.

Little toy boats all in a row. Blue and white are the predominant colours. You can’t see it but the table cloth at this café is blue and white as well. The plates, you guessed right, blue and white.’

Backspace.

The waitress hovers and I get the feeling that she’s reading over my shoulder. I minimize the screen, waiting for her to leave. She scuttles off to another table.

The row of little yachts, perfection. The skyline of the city, etched across the sky, just so. Hard to believe that chaos can exist in such perfection.’

Delete.

I slam the laptop shut and order lunch. The food’s worth the trip, I decide.

And oh, they; they were so wrong.

[150 words]

Written for What Pegman Saw, a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps. This week Pegman takes us to Melbourne, Australia. The photograph is of St. Kilda Pier, Melbourne, Australia.  © Paul Huang Google Maps

 

Up with the Lark!

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It’s over. I shall not sacrifice my Sunday morning sleep for you, any more. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. I pedaled, pushed, wheeled and cycled this morning, allowing you to hoodwink me into trying out ‘the fresh air of the early morn, the incessant chirps of birds and the gentle breeze that whispers in the ear’. NO! Shut up! Stop right there! Beautiful morn, indeed! Arrrrgh! Your infuriating enthusiasm! The birds had never been more annoying and as for the breeze, it howled in my ears. What was I doing out there, cycling like a fitness freak when I could’ve been as snug as a bug in my heavenly rug? All that maniacal activity made me quiver, tremble, spasm; not in a nice way, for your information, so wipe that disgusting smirk off your face. I can feel the presence of ghost muscles that shouldn’t have been conjured up in the first place. Don’t dare smile! What? No, I’m not smiling. That is a wince, as I try to reach for a sandwich. No, I don’t want to get fit. I am fit enough, you @#$%^$#! No hugs! Be gone, demon! Away! Now, allow me to stuff my face in peace.

[200 words]

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. The photograph is by the wonderful C E Ayr. Thank you!

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Myself, caretaker.

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Who you?

Wait there woenly.

You who?

You wanting admission for your childrens?

Nice boys. Twins woenly, no? What your names?

Tom and Jerry? No?

Ajay and Vijay? Verry nice!

Commeere, don’t hide Mummy’s backside.

I have chocolate for you.

Here, take.

No? Very shy no, Medam?

Office? Sorry, office is close till next week Monday.

Myself? Rawbett. Security.

Thees flaarz? Mys. I looks after thees flaarz.

I waters them everyday morning and everyday evening.

working full time.

This play moan?

Very good Medam. First class! A-one!

Children getting out of out marks.

Means full marks woenly.

Rimes learning top class- Ajay Veejay- you tell- Baa Baa Black ship avooenyvulll?

Counting numbers – wontoootreefoe…

You likes? See Childrens laughing off, nicely.

Come see my flaarz.

You want picture Medam?

Wait I getting chair.

No problem Medam, small childrens chair

For big mans also fits.

I sitting.

Wokay  me ready.

What? say ‘cheese’ Wokay! Chisss!

Good bye Medam. Bye, Bye Ajay Veejay! Ok Tata! Bye!

Best of Good Luck!

Ave a nice day!

God Bless YOUUUU!

[174 Words]

Thank you PJ for hosting the wonderful FFfAW challenge. Thank you Shivamt25 for the photo prompt.

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Pettifoggers Anonymous

Let’s face it. We are a critical lot.

I happened to appreciate an acquaintance in the presence of a few well-wishers. After a few minutes, in the lull of the conversation a well-meaning do-gooder sidled up to me and tried to set the record straight.

Actually, he…

The conversation grew intensely uncomfortable. I cast a pleading look at a friend who was oblivious to my hints.

But, we see, he should’ve…

Err, I need a refill.

And he could’ve…

Oh look, there’s…

And I would’ve…

I gave up. I zoned out and left for fresh air on the overcrowded balcony.

As I was saying, we are a critical lot. We don’t keep our opinions to ourselves. We’d be considered fools if we didn’t take the subtle and not so subtle hints. Don’t know what I mean? Just try ignoring the ‘truth’ slammed your way. See what I mean?

So, let’s wince, duck and try to change the subject because we’ve been brought up the right way, and a sudden unsheathing of claws always unnerved us. We have too much integrity to agree, leave alone add to the damned conversation. Let’s hem and haw and try to change the subject. It never works, till we get a brainwave and walk away to answer that urgent call, of the telephone or nature, depending on the proximity.

We truly are a critical lot. Ever ready to judge, condemn and dispense justice as if it were used tissues cast into the bin.

In no uncertain terms I state that I would love to be mistaken. Please prove me wrong. In the meantime I’m avoiding all my well-wishers. And slipping into a zen-like state. I suggest you do so too.

It’s Critical.

Potent Potions

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Believe me, you don’t really want to know me before I’ve downed these three cups in the morning. It takes three different concoctions to make me this fabulously effervescent, fascinating and gorgeous creature from the grumpy, sullen and dour monster that I really am.

I fumble around the kitchen, in the ungodly hour before dawn, put the kettle on, and have my first cup, warm water with a twist of freshly cut lemon. No, nothing stimulating is added to that, it is after all dawn, not dusk. So that goes down with a shudder and grimace and then the kettle is back on, the water boiling merrily, while yoga challenges every muscle in my being, new degrees of soreness enhanced with every painful stretch.

Where’s my tea?

Finally!

None of that fragrant lavender, chamomile, exotic versions please. I want my chai, thank you very much.

An agonizing hour later, while I’m glowing with newfound health and vigour, I reach for coffee. I like it strong, do you mind? Yes, caffeinated. Yes, I know. Blah! Blah! And Blah! Take a flying leap, it’s my blood pressure, my life and eventually my doom.

Sip, guzzle, and gulp.

I’m ready for the day.

[200 Words]

Thank you Dawn Miller for the very intriguing photograph, would love to know what the original context was.

A million thanks, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. A joy to participate in, as always.spf

L’amour toujours

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Madame Sophie collected the finest things in life first. Waterford crystal. Flora Danica. And then she set her sights on people, for people were attracted to things, mais oui!

She was known for her exquisite soirees. The lustrous rope of pearls felt cool against her fevered skin. She took her place by the piano, accompanied by her dear doting husband.

Alas! La Belle Madame could not sustain the high note. She would reach it but didn’t have the confidence or the passion to stay there. She would break off…Such a pity. Oh, Mon Dieu!

She never gave up though.

Madame began trilling. She scaled higher and higher.

‘Wait for it, here it comes!’

‘Now.’

As if on cue, little Gregory, Madame Sophie’s youngest, held up the bowl of Waterford crystal and put it on his head.

Madame was well into her range when she espied little Gregory and her precious bowl. The notes escaped her glorious throat, soaring higher and higher, as she let herself go completely.

Resounding applause brought her back.

A beaming Monsieur slipped an extra pastry to Gregory.

You see, Monsieur had decided that Madame had had enough disappointment.

[193 words]

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you PJ, for the awesome opportunity! Thank you Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode for the photograph!

 

 

Maisie’s Muse

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Sunday morning. Finally. A glorious day. A getaway. All week in the cramped flat. Hardly any action. It was once a week, but enough for a girl.

He was always there before dawn to grab a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese. His steaming mug of coffee slid across the counter and he caught it in time, before it became poetry in motion, scalding her if she wasn’t careful. Helping her to scramble into the little boat, he tossed the ropes aside and set sail, bobbing all day. They left before the others and he returned with her, spent, sunburnt and sweaty, just the way she liked him.

Gosh! He smelt so good!

Maisie felt the breeze ruffle her to distraction and turned, smiling into the wind. Her perfect profile, gorgeous brown eyes, oh, a man could drown in those limpid pools of honey. She had eyes only for him, and looked at him like no woman ever looked at a man.

The quay was deserted at this time. She could be herself, with an extra spring in her step and a joyous whimper, she found herself in his arms again.

It was only he.

And she.

Woof!

[200 words]

Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Al Forbes. Thank you Al, I enjoy this challenge immensely! Thank you, Jules Paige, for the photograph. I love it!

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A Game of Hornes

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Presenting-“The Cowntess Moasty-Toasty of the House Cocoamuff, First of Her Name, the Unburnt Toast Almost, Queen of all Ambling Bovines and the First Moos, Cowleesi of the Great Grassland Stretch, Breaker of Great Wind and prospective mother of Prize Heifers…”

A secret tryst in the barn, induced by unlimited Cocoa and muffins, Pat-a-cake being the predominant theme, Moasty-Toasty was christened after her gleaming brown coat reminded the others the toast was almost burnt before her first Moo.

The First of Her Name, and probably the Last. It won’t catch on, really now, would it?

The Queen of all Ambling Bovines, for Moasty Toasty has been known to emulate her mother, the Cowager, who was known errr, for  mooching. The Cowager has long since been forgotten, the public having such short moomory.

Thus, the addition First Moos.

Cowleesi,  note the eyes, the tuft of hair, the distinct resemblance. The sun never sets on the Prairies, Pampas,  Veld,  Rangelands, Steppes, and Savannah, Great Grassland stretches all.

The ABC diet, rich in asparagus, beans, broccoli, brussels sprouts, and cabbage contribute to the penultimate title.

Throw in handsome Angus, and you’ll have little Bullah, and Cownnie gamboling in no time at all.

Charmed.

[200 words] Sorry, went overboard!  😀

Thank you majesticgoldenrose for the photograph. A million thanks, PJ, for hosting Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge! I had loads of fun with this!  ❤

 

Mountain Belles

Hey there Dolkar! Long time no see!

Hello Pasang! You look great! I love what you’ve done to your hair. Left it loose, hanging down your shoulders.

Yes, Dolkar, I don’t have your patience. You take such good care of your silver tresses, combing them every morning and evening and tying them back into this adorable little knot at the back of your head.

Wow Pasang, all your teeth have gone! How beautiful! I can see your gums!

Don’t worry Dolkar, you’ll lose that lone tooth soon. And then your look will be complete!

Pasang! Thank you! This tooth is rather annoying. It is a sore spot, comes in the way of my gums when I’m chewing. Carmah says I should get new teeth. How uncomfortable! You were saying something about my hair. Yes! You know how tiresome my now thinning tresses were four decades ago. I’m so glad I lost most of my hair and I can now wash my hair at will. It dries up so quickly. No sinusitis, coughs or colds.

You look fabulous. You have at least twenty more wrinkles than you sported the last time we met.

Oh, absolutely. You see, I laugh so much these days. They are crazy, these children. They are so stupid to worry so much. Yesterday, the goat went missing. You should have heard Carmah fuss. I told her the little one would return and it sure did, in the evening. Carmah lost it though! Want more wrinkles? You could do with a few, you know. Sitting out in the sun longer, helps. Next year, I aim for more lines, around the eyes.

Ha! Ha! Any more lines around the eyes and I won’t be able to recognize you, my dear.

Don’t worry. You’ll recognize me by my beautiful jewellery. I look so good, don’t I?

Yes, you do, Love! Look at my necklace. Got a new one just last week.

You were always a great one for jewellery, Pasang. Your fingers look so beautiful with these folds and lines. Do your rings still fit?

Yes, they do. I’m rather vain about my chapped hands. Every crack is testimony to the chores I still do at home.

Yes, you always do a lot. Now, how about some Butter tea at the shop up the mountain?

OK. let’s go. But first let me take a look at the mirror.

You always look good, dear, you don’t need the mirror!

I know my darling, but I do love a little primp.

You never change!

You too!

 Primp

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Image sourced from the internet.

Becoming Mrs. Reddy.

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Amma sat chewing on her customary paan, betel leaf and nut, till her mouth and teeth turned a crimson red and fragments of green nestled in the gaps between her teeth. She grinned and her mouth was a festive Christmas theme all gone wrong. I looked away and cleared the table after dinner. The Lord and Master had had his dinner and retired to his customary spot on the balcony. Contorting himself at an impossible angle, he leaned against the railing of the balcony, talking incessantly on his phone.

The telephone rang. Checking the caller id, I answered, for it was my friend, Rekha. I spoke softly into the receiver and the TV blared in the corner, updating us all on the condition of the Kulkarni family. Mrs. Kulkarni was declaring her daughters-in-law absolutely incompetent, while her sons stood in the background watching helplessly. The camera raced from one impossibly made-up face to a fixed one and then to an apoplectic one, when the Lord and Master walked in, folding the hem of his lungi, tying the ends in a tight knot.

‘Sarla!’ He snarled. I hastily put the receiver down.

‘You are just like Mrs. Reddy.’

Ah, the reference to Mrs. Reddy. Again. Irksome

I knew Mrs. Reddy. Anybody who was somebody knew her. She was this delightful woman who was everything a regular woman could never aspire to be. In a sea of illiterate and barely literate women, Mrs. Reddy had a Bachelor’s degree in Home Science. Oh! The exotic creature! In a world where women teamed up their silks with one faded black blouse, Mrs. Reddy had matching accessories. And her home! A study in elegance. From the store-bought curtains to the polished brassware, she was elegant, cultured, sophisticated and savvy. Such a far cry from the women who bunched their sarees around their flabby waistlines, hair tied up into awkward knots, a bunch of wilting flowers sitting awkwardly atop oiled heads, Mrs. Reddy was unique. She dressed like a dream, a movie star, and was the cynosure of all eyes.

So, it puzzled me no end. Why would the Lord and Master snarl at me while comparing me to this gorgeous creature?

It certainly was a compliment.

I sat at the table chopping vegetables for the next day. I worked in a bank and had to balance both work at home and outside. But, I don’t want to talk about that now.

Amma got up to get herself a cushion and as she walked back into the hall, scratching her head and inspecting the residue under her nails, I said, ‘Do you remember the dinner we had at Mrs. Reddy’s? I wonder what the recipe of her salad dressing is. Do you think she adds honey?’

Amma snorted. ‘Aiyyo. Malini can neverr stop yexperrimenting woenly. She and her barrr-coli, that green cauliflower and mushrooms.’ She spat out of the window and said, ‘Chee, mushrooms are fungusss, you know. Unclean. Aiyyo, thoo.’

I seized the opportunity. Someone had told me that if you want to get the dirt on someone, praise him or her to any random acquaintance.

I was not disappointed.

‘I believe Malini Reddy is so beautiful. What a lovely home she has! Mr. Reddy is so lucky.’

Amma launched off. I sat, mesmerized. When Amma gets her claws into someone, she can be merciless.

Meeow!

‘Maaaaalini is good and alllll. Wokay. Aaaal very nice woenly. Bootifool, you say, Yess. If you go to the booty parlarrr regularly, spending aaaal his moneyyyyy…

Cooking-aa? Yesss. She cooks. No orrrdinaree fud for her. All vegetabulls and frootsu. All Home Science naansensss.

Yesssss. And she has no shame woenly. Gossoooooooooooooooooout with her fraands and allllll. Sometimesss Mr. Reddy comes here woenly to have meals. He tells for mee.. aiyyo vaini, he calls me sister-in-law, you allwaysss make the bestu saammbbaaar and rice. Your vegetabulls are saaaft and I can swamp it in one go woenly…Malini never cooks the vegatabulls prraaperlee woenly. Yand she knows-aa that I am home for dinnerrrr, but she goes aaff with her best fraands to movies and restauranttts, she don’t care woenly.’

Amma paused.

I held my breath.

Why was I like her?

Look at me. My drab existence.

Amma lowered her tone significantly.

‘Akchooly, Malini talks to all mens. She sits with them at the clubb, and talks sooooo much woenly. All we ladies we sitttt with each other woenly, but-aaa, this Maaleeneee, she crazy. She likes to talk to mens. She drinks wine alsooo. I sawd. With mice wone eyes woenly. Mr. Reddy lookeddd so hurrt, I feel sooooo bad for him. I made him special coffeeee that day…’

Amma droned on.

Oh. Now it made sense.

The Lord and Master didn’t like me speaking on the phone to Rekha.

He didn’t want me to have a life.

I worked because it suited him.

The money.

There. Now the reference to Mrs. Reddy made sense.

Well, I always liked Mrs. Reddy.

Now, I positively loved her.

The next evening I came home, changed and walked out calling out to Amma, ‘I’m going out to catch a movie with Rekha. And then dinner. Don’t wait up. Tell him to heat up the dal in the microwave.’

I ran into the Lord and Master who turned his scooter into the compound. I waved at a cosmonaut whose eyes almost popped. His blood pressure, I didn’t care to know!

Oh, boy! He now had Mrs. Reddy to reckon with. Wasn’t his wildest fantasy coming alive!

Irksome