3000. Shredded

Bruce looked at the pile of paper. The equivalent of six reams of paper lay in a heap, each sheet with a story. Three thousand stories! Goodness me! What a waste of paper!

Many of the characters in the stories had been callously murdered. Some had survived. There was little reason for any to survive. Bruce fed Story Number 1 into the shredder. Then Story Number 2. One by one the stories were shredded. There goes Dorothy! No one knows how she survived in the first place.

There goes Story Number 1743!  And Freddie! Goodness! Shred! Shred! And Lizzie!

Finally there was only one story left: Story Number 3000. It was about a fellow called Bruce.

With a smile the final story was fed into the shredder.

THE END

No Number Posting

This posting doesn’t have a number. Tomorrow it will be the 3000^th and final story. I don’t want to clutter the last tale with statistics so I’m doing the statistical thing now, and won’t let the congratulatory wine and lamingtons muddle the final posting.

Statistics:

There were three thousand stories over ten years – roughly. About a hundred poems. And about 500 music compositions.

I’m not going to mention names because it would go on forever; for example I won’t mention that Andrea Stephenson of Harvesting Hecate, followed a close second by Author Sarah Angleton and Marina of Letters from Athens and Chris Nelson, is the longest faithful follower. And that Uma of One Grain Amongst the Storm has made the most comments, followed by Noelle of Sayling Away, etc. etc. and already I can hear you cry “But what about me?” (I told you so).

I am most grateful for the 10 years of lovely people I have met and become friends with, for example Max of PowerPop… An Eclectic Collection of Pop Culture who spent hours trying to fix a computer fault on our machine – and he lives on the other side of the world! And there’s Yvonne from Australia who during hard covid times cheered our doldrums with a surprise box of wines! And already I can hear you cry “But what about me?” (I told you so).

There are two people who are no longer with us that I would like to mention. There’s probably more but they forgot to tell us. There was Pauline King of Dunedin, New Zealand, who never missed an occasion to comment – and who happened to live on the same street as once did my great great grandparents in the 1880s. The other was the lovely Cynthia Jobin from Rumford, Maine, whose poems delighted many and her considered comments delighted people even more. And already I can hear you cry “But what about me?” (I told you so).

Then there are favorite people who have disappeared off the radar, such as Prospero’s Island and araneus1 and Oscar Alejandro Plascensia.

I will still be reading blogs and commenting here and there. And if something of interest crops up I could well do a posting! But it won’t be regular. I want a change of scene after a decade – although I’m not sure what yet. It could be a novel or a symphony or just a bothersome terminal illness! This blog started when I broke my leg – let’s hope history doesn’t repeat.

So thanks one and all for reading, for commenting, and for posting interesting blogs yourselves, such as Dumbest Blog Ever and The Haps with Herb and Ordinary Person and Cindy Knoke and Iseult Murphy and Observation Blogger and Chel Owens and GP and Sylvie Ge and rachelmankowitz and itchingforhitching and Obbverse and Poetry from John Looker and Town & Country Gardening and Alex Raphael and Pacific Paratrooper and Talkalittledo – For Life Is Funny and arlingwoman and Inese and Keith Kreates and .. oh goodness I warned you. Already I can hear you cry “But what about me?”

As you reach the peak of your life and go over the hill, may your downward slide be as graceful as possible.

2999. Traditions of magic

I come from a long line of magicians. I don’t mean genetically; I mean that the magician’s tricks are passed on from one generation to another. The fledgling magician must promise never to reveal the secrets of each trick.

I learnt my magic from an old man who was frightened he might die before the secret skills had passed to a new generation. I became very good  at tricks. I was almost famous! But the time came when I too must pass the magician’s secrets on to another generation.

Toby was the perfect pupil. He was a quick learner and he practised the magician’s art to perfection. Then one day out of the blue he announced that he was publishing a book. The book would reveal the secrets of magicians going all the way back to medieval times. It was time, he said, for the world to share in the magician’s skills.

There was one trick however that I had never taught him. Quite frankly, I was genuinely sad when he died.

2998. It makes scents

The neighbours seem forever to be throwing loud parties. In fact it’s only two or three times a month but it feels like every day. I don’t mind them partying, but it’s the THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! of the music that drives me crazy. I asked once if they could turn it down. They looked at me as if I was from Mars and carried on partying.

I even tried going to see a movie at the theatre but it finishes around ten in the evening and I’ve still got three or four hours of the THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Recently during a party the power went off – in the whole street. I thought the party might dissolve but it took only one charged phone to get the THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! going again. I thought working for the power company might be to my advantage. But no.

For the last party I came up with the ultimate solution, but unfortunately I can only use it once without creating suspicion. At the back of my house is an old wattle tree. I remember as a kid if you crush a wattle seed and spit on it, it stinks like you wouldn’t believe. So I crushed a couple of handfuls and spat on them. Then I wandered around the neighbour’s house dropping the stink bombs. It didn’t take long to have an effect. The party folded up within half an hour. Everyone left.

I myself am going to the movies. The pong wafts over the fence from the party house. It’s horrible to the point of making me sick. Hopefully by the time I get back the wattle seeds will have run out of stench.

2997. An affair

I knew Hubert was having an affair. His wife, Barbara, was my best friend. I was certain of one thing: I was not going to be the one to tell her.

Every Thursday Hubert works late. Of course he doesn’t. He waits at the office and then goes off to some fancy restaurant. Goodness knows how much this affair is costing him money-wise.

Barbara told me recently that she suspected Hubert was having an affair. I asked her how she knew, and she said that she simply felt it in her bones. I said not to be silly, but now she’s paranoid about it. I had no idea she had hired a detective to pursue Hubert’s infidelity. I think it’s going too far.

Anyway, there was hell to play when the detective caught Hubert red-handed. Barbara wants a divorce. The sooner this ugly divorce-mess is finalized the sooner Hubert and I can start living our relationship out in the open.

2996. He lived alone

Old Mr Stevenson lived alone. He kept pretty much to himself, but was pleasant enough if someone bumped into him at the Saturday Market or somewhere.

No one had seen him for a while, but that wasn’t unusual. The funny thing was, it was mid-February and his Christmas lights were still on.

2995. Kissing frogs

I grew up reading fairy stories about how an ordinary girl could marry a prince and become a princess. My friend Mandy and I used to joke about it. We were inseparable as kids. Once Mandy even caught a frog and kissed it. “You never know,” said Mandy, “when one of these frogs might turn into a handsome prince.” Yuk! I couldn’t even touch a frog, let alone kiss it.

When we were in our late teens we attended the same art school and although our circle of friends had widened we still spent some time doing things together. And that was when Mandy got invited out on a date by another student who just happened to be the Royal Prince of Consorbania. I hardly ever saw Mandy after that. She was too busy kissing Prince Leonard her frog.

They got engaged. They got married (apparently it was televised). Mandy did lower herself to send me a text: “Whoever would have dreamt that I’d become a princess?” Ha! Ha! The King of Consorbania made a great announcement on their wedding day. Prince Leonard’s new wife would be known as the Duchess of Plonkton. A duchess! A duchess! Not a princess? That’s because Prince Leonard wasn’t directly in line to become the King of Consorbania. Prince Leonard was just a “spare” so his wife was a mere duchess. So much for kissing frogs. That was a couple of years ago.  They’re divorced now.

As for myself. Yes! I married a handsome prince. He calls me “My Princess!” Mind you he calls our four daughters Princesses as well. We’re happy. I wouldn’t trade places with the Duchess of Plonkton for all the tea in China.

2994. Things happen

A cat has nine lives; which is eight more than Owen got.

I have a cat. I have had Shelby for years. We almost grew up together. I got given her for my seventeenth birthday and I’m now thirty-five. I’m not sure how many of her nine lives Shelby has already spent. Cats are independent creatures. They’ll come home looking innocent after being chased by a puma and demand dinner as if nothing had happened.

But it was my neighbour, Owen, who gave me the greatest concern. He was one of those modern teenagers with no regard or respect for anyone else. He told me that only effeminate, spineless creeps would have a cat. He said if he saw Shelby on the road he’d run over it, or if he saw it outside my property he’d shoot it like he would a common squirrel.

I was really glad when his brakes failed and he went over a cliff. How did that happen I wonder?

2993. Proposal

It was very clear at the trial. It all came out. Robert had every intention of killing his fiancée. It had been planned, even before he had proposed. In fact, the proposal was part of his complex strategy. He would murder his fiancée – oh, they were just engaged so it can’t have been him who did the murder.

Robert’s plan was pretty clever. Very clever indeed. The only drawback in the execution of the plot was that he murdered the wrong person. It’s for the murder of Stacey-Lee, and not his fiancée, that he is on trial.

Whew! That was close. I should never had said yes when he proposed.

2992. Wizardry

When Jacinda was fourteen years old she was trying to eat everything on her plate so as not to disappoint her mother. Her mother worked hard, would come home tired, and prepare dinner for herself and her daughter.

Jacinda detested kale, but she ate it because her mother grew some in a small plot at the back door. The rest of the meal was usually plain but nice enough. But kale! Yuk!

It was while Jacinda was doing her best one evening to stomach the kale when she said five words (which can’t be repeated here because everyone might start trying to use them). Her meal turned into the most delicious hamburger. Jacinda was shocked.

“Mother! Mother!” she said. “Look what happened! I simply said five words and my meal turned into a delicious hamburger.”

“I’ve been waiting to see if that should happen,” said Jacinda’s mother. “Your grandmother had that gift. Unfortunately I missed out on getting it. We come from a long line of wizards. You must be careful how and when you use such power.”

From that day on Jacinda and her mother ate nothing but beautiful meals – devoid of kale. Jacinda learned to use her wizardry wisely.

You don’t believe me? Just look into any classroom. If the teacher is not crabby, ugly, mean, nasty, and wizened-up (literally) there can be no doubt that there’s a Jacinda relative smiling among the students.