Tag Archives: prose

1715. Belinda solves a problem

Belinda had left school early; for reasons that will possibly become apparent as the story progresses.

Quite frankly, she needed the money. She had seen the women “working the street corners” and it struck Belinda as something that suited both her inclination and her experience. She applied for the job when a vacancy became available, and she got it. “The only thing you have to improve upon,” said the man doing the interviewing, “is the suntan. Try and get a decent suntan all over. You look quite pasty and not as vibrantly healthy as the other employees.”

Belinda faced a problem. How was she to get a suntan “all over” when she lived slap-bang in the middle of a densely populated sector of the city? There must be a way. And then she saw it! It was a book, and would undoubtedly be the first book she had read in a long long time. The book was purchased.

It was called – perhaps you know it? – Five Secrets to Baking like a Pro.

Repeat of Story 209: Angora rabbit

(This is the fifth story in a week or so of repeats. “Angora rabbit” first appeared on this blog on 7 May 2014.)

Anton had a cat. The neighbour had a beautiful white angora rabbit. The rabbit was in its hutch. The cat was free.

One day the neighbour was at work, and Anton’s cat turned up on Anton’s doorstep with the rabbit. It was dead. The rabbit was larger than the cat. The cat had dragged the rabbit through the mud.

Anton panicked. He washed the dead rabbit’s angora fur thoroughly; hair shampoo and all. He dried it with a hair dryer. The rabbit looked as good as new, but dead. Anton crept over to the neighbour’s place, and put the dead rabbit back in its hutch.

Several days later, Anton chattered to the neighbour over the fence. This was the dreaded moment.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said the neighbour. “My rabbit died.”

“Did it?” said Anton, feigning surprise.

“I buried it in the garden,” said the neighbour.

“Poor thing,” said Anton. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That’s not all,” said the neighbour. “After I buried it, I came home from work and it was lying dead back in its hutch.”

1697. The unbald prima donna

(There is a tradition in folk tales, oft overlooked or frowned upon, of telling the occasional story that is complete nonsense, utter silliness, foolish to the nth degree. For the next three days, today included, the stories will attempt to be in that genre. I’ve always been rather partial to the style.)

Matilda had the most beautiful singing voice, but she was so shy that no one ever heard her sing. Every day she would sneak outside to behind the farm barn and sing arias from famous operas.

One freezing winter’s day it was so cold behind the barn that the music Matilda sang hung in the air. There were literally frozen notes unflinchingly dangling in the sky. Matilda scurried back inside to get warm next to the coal range.

A country yokel happened to be passing and he saw the hanging frozen notes and gathered them up into his haversack. He took them to the local opera house where the notes quickly defrosted.

“Is that you singing?” asked the maestro in charge.

“It is indeed,” said the yokel.

He was given the role of Friedrich in Wagner’s Das Liebesverbot. It was a disaster because the character of Friedrich was a bass and Matilda was a coloratura soprano.

In the meantime, Matilda continued to sing secretly behind the barn. Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?

1693. Huberta and Hubert

As if having the name of Huberta wasn’t bad enough… She’d gone and fallen in love with a man whose name was Hubert. “Huberta and Hubert” sounded doubly bad. “You are cordially invited to the wedding of Huberta and Hubert”. And so on.

Huberta practiced writing out the combination in all sorts of situations. Mind you, she simply scribbled it in the back of a notebook. “Huberta and Hubert announce the birth of their first child”; “Huberta and Hubert are booked on a Mediterranean cruise”; “Huberta and Hubert celebrate their golden wedding anniversary.”

Huberta suddenly snapped out of her reverie when the bell rang. That was the end of Mathematics class.

Oh if only Hubert would notice her and ask her out!

1685. A wonderful Christmas gift

You’ve no idea the trouble Ivy went to, to get twelve lovely photographs of the wonderful family who lived next door. There were five in the Winchcombe Family: Mum, Dad, and their three beautiful daughters. The Winchcombes were about as ideal next door neighbours as one could hope for. And every Christmas they would bring Ivy a basket of the tastiest homemade shortbread possible. Glorious!

The trouble was that Ivy always had trouble knowing what best to give them in return. She’d done chocolates at least five times. And then she got this idea. Wonderful!

She would get a calendar printed with a different family photograph each month of the year. Ivy started early gathering the photographs together. It was a difficult task because she didn’t want to let her secret out. The photos were perfect. There was a beautiful one of the family gathering mushrooms in a green field. Another shot was of the family at a fair ground. The loveliest photograph of all was an official portrait taken of the family sitting on a rug in front of a lake. With swans. And trees. And flowers. And… oh lovely! Just lovely!

Ivy was so pleased with the calendar when it was finished that she couldn’t wait to give it to the family. But she must be patient. She mustn’t jump the gun. Only a week to go!

And then the three girls called in with a basket of Christmas shortbread and said that their parents were getting a divorce.

1678. Fatty next door

Fatty Brown, who happens to live next door to me, is a know-all. I showed him one of my stories and he said I was wasting my time. As if he knows. He thinks he knows everything. You’d think he’d try to be more positive.

Anyway he’s so fat that when he gets into his swimming pool there’s no water left. I don’t know what he eats but he’s not only fat, he’s gross. He obviously doesn’t clean his teeth properly. And his dress sense is disgusting. If he’d dress like they did in the nineteen seventies he’d be more fashionable. Mind you, flares on a fat man is asking for trouble.

Fatty said my story needed more punch, but I didn’t want it to have punch. As I said when he criticized it, if you don’t like my story why don’t you write one yourself. I only showed it to him because he once had a poem published in some magazine so I thought he might know what I could do with my story. That’s the last time I’m going to show Fatty anything.

God, I hate some of my teachers.