2484. A two-storey house

Desmond lived in a two storey house. His bedroom was on the first floor.

Of course one needs to offer an explanation here. These tales have a wide and culturally diverse readership. “First floor” can mean a number of things. In some countries “First Floor” means “Ground Floor” and in other countries “First Floor” is the floor above “Ground Floor”.

Clarity is usually at the root of all writing (except poetry) so an explanation here is maybe necessary to give a clear picture of exactly where Desmond’s bedroom was situated. Who knows? Maybe one day you might want to go there.

Desmond’s house was situated amidst sprawling lawns and expansive views. Why would he have his bedroom upstairs when before retiring he would draw the curtains so that the stars wouldn’t interrupt a good night’s sleep. Surely it was better to have the living room and kitchen and dining room on the higher level so that dwellers and visitors alike could enjoy the view? Many two level houses have the sleeping quarters upstairs and goodness knows why.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Desmond’s bedroom was on the higher floor. His bedroom window looked over the expansive view previously mentioned. It was time for bed.

Desmond pulled the curtains closed and moved away. That was when a gunshot was heard and a bullet smashed his window to smithereens. If he had been still standing at the window he would have been killed. If the curtains were wide open the fractured glass would have punctured the entire room.

Now just supposing that Desmond’s bedroom was on the bottom floor and the living room was on the higher level. Desmond may have been standing at the upstairs window gazing at the night sky. He would have been shot dead like a duck. It would have been a different story altogether.

And that is the tale of a two-story house.

2415. Same old story

Christabel wanted to write a story for her blog but she couldn’t think of anything to write about so she watched a video instead and it didn’t have much of a story either.

A friend asked Christabel, “What’s the story about you not writing a story today?” and she said it was a long story.

“I’m not into tall stories for no reason,” said Christabel. “To make a long story short, some bloggers resort to a shaggy-dog story when they’re hard put to post a story. I’m not going to tell some cock-and-bull story just because some readers want a breaking story.  End of story.”

“A likely story. Sounds like a hard-luck story to me,” said Christabel’s friend. 

“That’s another story,” said Christabel. “It’s always the same old story. It’s the story of my life. A sob story here, a fishy story there.”

“Yes,” said Christabel’s friend. “There are always two sides to a story. I like the way that today’s accompanying picture is simply a white blank. What’s the story there?”

“Every picture tells a story,” said Christabel.

2194. Life in the swamp

Ever since Janet had been a tadpole she had greatly admired the head frog, Queen Japonica. Queen Japonica’s greatest feature was that she didn’t let fear rule her life. If it was a sunny day she would bask in the shallow waters with the water barely covering her back.

“It is idyllic lying in both water and sunshine. Only a fool would fear the wading birds messing around in the swamp. Fear of wading oystercatchers is an unnecessary fear. I need to rest after laying so many eggs. Besides, as their name suggests, oystercatchers aren’t interested in frogs.”

And now Janet herself had grown into a stunningly beautiful frog. She still admired Queen Japonica greatly.

“That frog is almost a goddess,” said Janet. “She fears nothing, and rightly so.”

It therefore came as a great surprise when Charlie, the Head Sycophant in the Frog Court, approached Janet, bowed low and said, “Your Majesty – you are now queen.”

“Goodness gracious,” declared Janet. “What on earth happened to that magnificent queen we had?”

“Sadly, she passed away last Friday.”

“I first shall mourn for the late Queen Japonica,” said Janet.

“Japonica?” declared a surprised Head Sycophant. “Japonica was queen forty frogs ago. Queen Frogs keep getting eating by oystercatchers while basking in the sun. However I can understand your misunderstanding; we frogs all look the same.”

2126. Story writing

Arnie’s teacher set the class a creative writing assignment: Write a four page story about writing a story. Here is Arnie’s effort:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

Jack wrote a story about writing a story. It started like this:

(This went on for four pages. The teacher was unimpressed. In the long run it didn’t matter because Arnie was expelled from school for not having his main character wear a mask).

2050. Take a seat for Valentine’s

(Once in a while, like every thousand stories or so, I repeat a story. To honour St Valentine’s Day, here is a story (of true love) that I’ve told before!)

Come on, baby. Get over into the back seat.

Nah, I don’t want to.

(Smooch. Smooch). Come on, baby. Get over into the back seat.

Nah. I don’t want to.

(Smooch. Smooch). Come on, baby. Get over into the back seat.

Nah. I don’t want to.

Why not?

‘Cos I want to be with you.

2026. A place to retire

What an exciting thing to happen! Charmaine and Tristram had spent a lifetime raising three children and slogging their guts out. Now that the children had flown the nest, and Charmaine and Tristram had both retired, they made a decision to sell their house and move to a smaller house in a less busy environment where peace could reign in their sunset years.

But the exciting thing was this: a television company had issued an invitation for their house-searching to be filmed! The television compere would show them houses and hopefully before long a suitable house would rear its head. And rear its head it did; so fast and so suddenly!

It was the perfect house; with the right number of bedrooms and bathrooms and everything else. The kitchen was wonderful. The view was spectacular. The garden was big and challenging enough to keep their joint gardening interest alive. Charmaine and Tristram put in an offer.

The offer was accepted! They could move in two weeks. How exciting is that?

A week passed and Charmaine and Tristram packed lots and lots of stuff into boxes. Then on the eighth day, Tristram suddenly died. In his sleep. His unexpected death was a great stimulus to the success of the TV program.

(Footnote: Once again I’m calling for suggestions for an opening sentence. Please leave one sentence in the comments which I shall delete after jotting it down (so as not to mess up the comments on this story). Only one suggestion per person – if at all! The only reward will be a link back to your own blog, and if you don’t have a blog than like marrying Prince Harry it will be for the prestige and glory (but without the money) There have been 9 contributions so far. Thank you. More welcome!).

Herb: It sure wasn’t everyday that you see one, that’s for sure.

Yvonne: “I’ll really have to think about your offer,” said Alida.

Max: Sam and Molly bought a 1966 Mustang from Molly’s dad but when driving away they heard something rattling in the door panel.

Noelle: The sky outside the open window was dark with the portent of a storm.

Uma: Every time the one-legged raven returned to the village and filled the night with its grating caws, someone died the next afternoon and the skies wept till the funerals.

Inese: Trudy knew better than to be alone with Mr Hughes.

Doug Jacquier: If he had his time again, Clarence wouldn’t have bought the giraffe.

Nitin: A trumpet, a crumpet and a horse walked into a bar.

Dumbestbloggerever: I married Prince Harry for prestige and money.

2023. The tank

Heather and Peter had been married for eleven years or so. Heather had learned to put up with Peter’s eccentricities. In fact, she went further and knew that if she whole-heartedly and enthusiastically entered into the spirit of his latest eccentric enthusiasm he’d quickly drop it and move on, hopefully, to something less crazy.

Peter’s latest eccentric enthusiasm was to build a tank that could be lowered into the nearby river. The tank had a glass side and enabled a lover of the environment to sit in the tank and view the fish and all the goings on deep down in the beautiful clear waters. Of course, one wore swimming attire because the tank wasn’t water proof so one breathed through a tube that went up above the surface of the water. (Peter’s inventions were rarely perfect).

Heather feigned her usual enthusiasm. After giving careful instructions, Peter lowered the tank deep into the river with Heather inside breathing through the tube.

To be honest, once the sand on the bottom of the river had settled there wasn’t much to see. In fact, Heather didn’t see a single fish. She pulled the rope which was the sign for the tank to be raised. Once Peter opened the tank and Heather stepped out she explained as nicely as she could (so as not to dampen his enthusiasm) that she hadn’t seen a single fish and maybe the invention wasn’t the best thing he had done.

“Oh but you simply must have been lowered at the wrong time. Try it again!” declared Peter. “I promise you you’ll see a fish or two.”

Heather was once again lowered. Once again there were no fish. Heather pulled the rope to signal to Peter that she wished the tank raised. She should have waited longer. Peter blocked the breathing tube.

2022. The bottle

Dale was a keen gardener. Actually, that’s not particularly accurate. He had a love of gladioli and that’s all he had growing in a small patch in his back yard.  At least during the relatively short flowering season it got him out of the house for a couple of minutes a couple of times a day, much to the relief of his wife of fifty-two years, Eunice.

“I never knew that retirement would bring such stress,” declared Eunice not infrequently. “He’s always under my feet.”

“Retirement is such a stressful stage of life,” declared Dale. “It’s why I find solace in my gladioli. It pays to have some sort of hobby.”

Anyway, a strong wind came one early morning and snapped the stem of Dale’s prize gladioli. It was the only one he hadn’t staked. Eunice suggested they put it in a vase and display it inside. Dale agreed, although usually Eunice wasn’t permitted to touch a single stem.

“That’s what every second woman does with a man’s hobby,” said Dale. “No sooner does it flower than they want to cut it off and kill it.”

The problem with a gladioli stem is that it needs a tall vase. It was something, despite fifty-two years of marriage, which Eunice and Dale didn’t possess. Using an empty wine or beer bottle was crass. Something was needed with a touch of style. Eunice said she would get something suitable from the local junk shop. She popped off to the shops, and it didn’t take long before she returned with a deep blue bottle with a cork. It wasn’t too fancy, and it wasn’t too plain.

“The first thing we’ve got to do,” suggested Dale, “is to pull out the cork and rinse the bottle. You never know what that bottle’s had in it.”

He pulled the cork off and out popped a genie. (If you think, dear Reader, that this is a sudden and stupid turn in the narrative, know that it’s exactly where the plot has been heading the whole time).

“You have one wish!” pronounced the genie. “It rests within my power to bring back to life one dead person you name.”

What excitement! Who shall it be? Eunice and Dale began to argue whether it should be Aunt May or Uncle Vince.

Meanwhile, much has happened. The gladioli has withered, Dale and Eunice have divorced, and the genie (tired of waiting) scampered off in search of a brandy bottle in need of emptying.

2020. The camel was designed by a committee

(Today is story Number 2020 and will be my last posting for a while. (For those a little slow, 2020 is also the year!) Today too marks my 71st birthday, so what a splendid time to debloggerate for a bit! 2020 stories, 100 poems, nearly four hundred pieces of music – and thanks to you my readers, just under 40,000 comments! (Clearly, some of you can’t shut up!) I shall be back at some stage but possibly to do different things. After all, if a person hasn’t found a single story they liked out of 2020 then… whatever. I thought (inspired by a suggestion once made by Uma) that I might write some monologues. Or (as Iseult suggested) I might write Part II of an “autobiography”. Or (as I have suggested to myself many times) I might write another novel. Who knows?! Anyway, here is today’s story, the final, entitled “The camel was designed by a committee”.)

The Nobel Prize for Literature Committee called a very important meeting. They had invited a group of people to advise whether or not, for the first time in Nobel history, a blogger should receive the award. No one knows a blogger like a blogger. Apologies if your presence and what you said at the meeting was not recorded; the story would get too long – but whole-hearted thanks to ALL who read this blog.

Below is a rough transcription of the meeting. Andrea set the ball rolling.

Andrea: I really don’t think we should award Bruce the Nobel Prize for Literature. He would probably show his thanks by killing us all off in a story.

Uma: I agree with Andrea. Our world is dark enough without our adding to it. Mind you, it’s a Catch 22 situation; he’ll kill us off in the stories whether we say yes or no.

Nitin: What Bruce getting the Nobel Prize for Literature has got to do with Bozo the Clown is quite beyond me.

Yvonne: I’m not in favour of the Nobel Prize for Literature being given to Bruce. Imagine the interminable shopping lists he’d make once he got all that money.

GP Cox: He needs a bomb put under him.

Lisa: I agree with Yvonne on this one. I have tried to play his music on the violin and I think we should concentrate on his stories.

Keith: As a poet and story writer who has lived in France I really think there are cases more worthy, such as…

João-Maria (interrupting): I agree with Keith. I can think of lots of Portuguese poets who…

Ian (interrupting): Since no one knows who I am I can speak the truth without any negative repercussions. All I can say about his getting the Nobel Prize is – balderdash. Bunkum. Hokum. (And (although he might hate me saying) possibly the one who writes enough stupid stuff to be appreciated).

Max: He doesn’t know much about popular music from the 60s and 70s, so personally I’m more in favour of awarding it to Bob Dylan. Someone like that.

Matthew: Bob Dylan’s already got it once. I agree with João-Marie; but not Portuguese poets. Colombian poets would be more suitable.

Noelle: The Pilgrim Fathers (and Mothers) didn’t get off the Mayflower to award the Nobel Prize for Literature to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. I cry Murder! Murder! It’s a “No!” from me because I usually found his methods of killing people under researched.

Sylvie: I suspect he hasn’t written any haikus, so it’s “Non” from me (which according to Google Translate is French for “No”).

Herb: I’ve looked back over my own blog over the years, and if length of service is anything to go on I shall have to recommend the same as Sylvie, only in English.

Chelsea: As a mother of five boys I simply haven’t got any spare time to voice an opinion, although it’s pretty amazing how much I get done in a day.

Terry: From my point of view, all I can say is I’m an Australian, and my excellent stories are…

Sarah  (interrupting): As a published author I cannot recommend the prize going to someone who has never been published. In fact, in researching the history of the Nobel Prizes I can’t think of a single unpublished author who has had a book published. Nor for that matter can I think of a published author who has not had a book published.

Alex: They certainly haven’t made any films using his stories. For that matter, they haven’t made even a sitcom. It’s pathetic. What a pathetic loser! What an insignificant personage! It’s going to be a big fat “No” from me.

Chris: And “No” from me. His poems don’t rhyme. Nor do most of mine but that’s not what we’re on about here.

Cindy: If it’s photographable I’m in favour of it, although he’s not particularly photogenic. Then again, not every bird I photograph is pretty. Some are downright ugly. On second thoughts, I’m voting “No”. Sometimes one has to take into account the feelings of the camera.

Marina: Hello from Greece. I’m standing at my easel wondering whether to write or paint my “No”.

John: It looks like it’s going to be a unanimous “NO”. I should know because I write excellent poetry and have two daughters who live in New Zealand. In fact, Bruce and I have just had a series of poems published in a new poetry anthology called “No More Can Fit Into the Evening”. Published by Four Windows Press in Wisconsin. More of that anon.

Inese: Bruce is as cunning as a fox, although he’s never seen one. I went for a long and very picturesque walk along a river bank in Ireland to think about this award, and I got so distracted by the beauty of the environment that I quite forgot to think. Mind you, I have played all 160 of his piano pieces. Unfortunately there’s no Nobel Prize for Piano Music.

Lindsey: Speaking of walking… who’s this walking up the garden path this very minute?

Gulsum: Why! It’s Bruce himself!

Bruce: Hands up! Hands up! This is a hold up! Stick ‘em up!

Tom: We can’t say we weren’t warned. (And Tom’s publishing company – Four Windows Press – is the publisher of the poetry anthology mentioned by John above. And Tom is also one of the editors).

Paul: Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!

Iseult: Where is a murderous machete when I need it? Help! A machete! A machete! My latest novel for a machete!

Bruce: Ok. Just this once I relent. In today’s story, you’re all going to survive. Well, maybe not all… YOU – over there in the corner in the silly hat – I see you’ve already nibbled surreptitiously on some of the poisonous salami I put out for refreshments later on.

Simon: I haven’t eaten any of the poisonous salami. I eat only what I cook myself – unless someone else cooks it. Why don’t you get on your bike and pedal off?

Bruce got onto his bicycle and pedaled off into the sunset. Of course, he’s so unfit that it’s not impossible he won’t get far.

THE END

2019. A gaggle of gossipers

(Today’s story is the penultimate. Tomorrow’s story (Number 2020) will be the last – at least for a while. I am writing this in September so who knows! Tomorrow’s story has LOTS of links so it’s not impossible that it will automatically end up in your email trash. Just a warning!)

Monique and Marcel had known each other for years. They were good friends since university days. Now both were widowed. They usually met once or twice a month for coffee and a chat. Each found support from the other in their loss.

After some time they started to hear rumours: they were a couple, they were dating, they were inevitably going to get married… None of this was true, but rumours stick.

“Apparently they haven’t as yet moved into the same house,” said Nora Cudworthy to Mabel Johnstoneville. “You’d think they would. After all, they do everything else. They should stop pretending we don’t know and move in.”

“I heard,” said Sandy Monteverdi to Joe Devon, “that they were having an affair long before their spouses died. I’m not surprised, judging from the way they carry on these days.”

“It’s unbelievable! Unbelievable!” said Carmel Cranford to Tessa London. “They have their grandchildren come to stay and I heard that Marcel and Monique spend all their time otherwise engaged. Unbelievable!”

“Enough is enough!” declared Monique to Marcel. “Let’s add fuel to the fire. Let’s go away together in the same car to some fancy resort somewhere and leave them to chatter.”

And they did! Off they trundled ostentatiously in the car.

While they were away the nearby volcano erupted and utterly decimated the village. It was like a modern Pompeii. The whole gaggle of gossipers was gone. Of course, Monique and Marcel were safe. But there was no one left to announce their engagement to.