It was to be an early Autumn wedding. The timing was so that Olga could prepare her substantial grounds and garden for the occasion. In fact, Olga had spent the entire Spring and Summer preparing for the occasion. The colours of the garden blooms would match the bridesmaid’s dresses. The pagoda was painted a garden green. The bridge over the huge frog pond was fixed. The work had been tireless. The wedding guests were invited to dress casual. Perhaps a straw hat might do the trick.
Of course, Olga could afford the time to prepare. She had retired early, if forty-seven could be considered early. The divorce had thrust a substantial income her way. She was now a woman of means; a creature of leisure. Except her preparations in the garden could hardly be called leisure; she was there morning, noon and night in rain, hail or shine. What a perfect wedding it was going to be for daughter Naomi!
A stunning mix of red and white dahlias lined the bridal path. The only unpretty point in the arrangement was that it would be ruined by her ex-husband stomping down the garden aisle. It would be a brief but ugly sight. Hopefully the radiance of the bride reflected in the dahlias would distract from her ugly ex.
Honestly, if an alien craft accidentally landed in Olga’s wedding garden they would undoubtedly have construed Earth to be the loveliest planet in the Cosmos.
All was ready. Olga’s daughter was to stay the night. Tomorrow was the day! At last! At last!
That night saw the biggest storm in over a century.
To be honest, what could else could we have expected?
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She could’ve gone into lockdown.
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So many possibilities in a Bruce story.
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My lovely (and I am not allowed to say d*r*nged anymore) Canadian niece suggests impalement on the garden rake.
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I presume the garden rake is the gardener himself?
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Silly Bruce.
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Fortunately an alien spaceship didn’t land. It’s bad enough that you ruined the wedding dear omnipotent narrator. I don’t think I’d like legless citizens too.
On a serious note, you should combine your last few stories into a single Bruce Goodman classic. What say?
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I far too tired! The electricity was off here for a day (two days ago) and I wrote 25 stories by hand because there was nothing else to do! And now I’m had it.
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I bet the aliens planned the whole thing.
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Are you allowed to bet on certainties?
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It depends on which bookie you use.
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Your stories are now breaking all frontiers of tragic denouements. They are also multilayered now and frequently leave the readers in a quandary as to which is the worse turn of fortunes. I am sill enjoying the details and dooms at my masochist best.
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I don’t really mean to “develop” in the story-telling scenario – but I guess things shift of their own accord.
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There are beautiful weddings all the time. It’s the ruined, muddy ones people remember. They’ll be talking about the big day long after Naomi is divorced.
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Well it’s good that you take a positive approach.
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On the bright side, her ex probably laughed so hard that he choked and died.
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As long as he didn’t choke in the muddy aisle.
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