Tag Archives: tale

1544. Keeping a diary

Since he was eight, David had kept a diary. Every day, throughout the school year, he would write “Fine day. Full day’s classes”. Unless, of course, it was raining. Then he would write, “Raining. Full day’s classes.”

Only occasionally, if something really exciting or different happened, would he deviate from the norm. “Fine day. Full day’s classes. My birthday. Got a Swiss army knife.”

Now that he was all grown up, the words had changed but the pattern stayed the same. “Fine day. Full day’s work.” He grew bored with it. He started adding fiction. “Fine day. Full day’s work. Murdered a prostitute on Crown Street.” “Fine day. Full day’s work. Murdered a woman waiting at the corner of Adelaide Street and Beaconsfield Road.”

It was silly, but no one read his diaries of course, so it didn’t matter. His entries become more creative: “Fine day. Full day’s work. Set fire to the shoe factory on Herbert Street. Four people dead.” “Raining. Full day’s work. Left a bomb under the seat of a bus. Eleven dead.”

When a homemade bomb exploded in the back shed and David was killed, his mother found the diaries in his bedroom. She threw them into the incinerator at her work. She never told a soul.

1543. Southern winter solstice

Jakob was cold. It had been a frigid winter. Jakob didn’t have much money and was out of firewood. The fireplace lay dead. The freezing outside wind seeped through the cracks in his window frames. He had covered the cracks with tape, but the wind still found a way. He was wrapped in clothes and blankets. He simply could not get warm.

Jakob had stayed up all night. Not even the bed had warmed. Jakob turned on his oven to high and opened the oven door. At least the oven heat should warm things a little. And it did. At least it did until the electric bill arrived and he couldn’t pay it. Then the electric company turned the power off.

It had been a freezing night. Utterly freezing. Jakob knew he would die. He sat in a chair and waited.

The new day dawned sunny and warm.

1542. Things are not what they seem

From the outside it looked just like an ordinary egg. It had been laid by an ordinary chicken in an ordinary farmyard. The mother hen (apparently) was an ordinary Rhode Island Red. The father (apparently) was a rather handsome silver-laced Wyandotte.

Twelve year old Gilbert knew his breeds of chickens. He’d looked after the chickens for his mother and father almost since he was a toddler. These days he kept just the right balance between it being a hobby and it supplying the house with not too many and not too few eggs. Gilbert liked to have different breeds of chickens, and he’d cross one breed with another to see what sort of combination emerged from the egg. But… such an interesting genetic mix-up was exactly what the aliens were looking for. They had been watching the farmhouse for a month or so. They knew the way young Gilbert managed his chickens.

One night, when the next day they knew Gilbert was going to put a clutch of eggs under a broody hen, the aliens injected one of the eggs with very specific genetic material. This would change the history of the world. In fact, this would end the history of the world.

Before school the next morning, Gilbert took the eggs he had been saving that were laid by the Rhode Island Red hen in liaison with the silver-laced Wyandotte rooster. He selected twelve eggs. Of the fourteen eggs that Gilbert had collected only two remained. Fourteen eggs were too many for the broody hen to keep warm. Twelve was just right. Of the two unchosen eggs, one contained the alien genetic material. The watching aliens were distraught.

Then Gilbert did something he always did: at the last minute he swapped the eggs. “This,” he thought, as he replaced one of the dozen eggs with the rejected alien egg, “will produce a different chicken from the one I first selected!”

Gilbert always did that. It was if he was playing God. Except, in this case he was.

1541. Things happen in threes

What an extraordinary day it had been! First, Nola’s husband had checked the lottery ticket numbers and Nola and her husband, Cresswell, had won thirty-three million three hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars. While they were dancing around the living room, whooping and hollering, Cresswell suffered a heart attack and died.

That took the edge off the excitement. Nola had to organize and go through the funeral. After twenty-two years of marriage, she was sad. Of course she was sad. But it was also a relief. Their relationship had been strained over the last few years, and Nola had frequently dreamed of freedom. Now with the sudden death of her husband and the winning of the lottery, that freedom could become a reality. Of course his death was a shock. It was devastating. It always is. But at least she had security for the future. She genuinely sobbed as the undertaker carted Cresswell’s body from the house to the funeral parlour.

At last the funeral was over. Things began to settle. Nola, who hadn’t wanted to appear too excited at winning thirty-three million, knew that the time had come to claim the money! But where was the ticket? Oh! It was in Cresswell’s back pocket when she had him cremated.

1538: Lancelot Grope’s calling

(The opening sentence for this story was suggested by Nitin at Fighting the Dying Light. If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future opening sentence for these stories, click here for a peek as to what’s what.)

When he looked at the clown in his greens and reds, his raging coulrophilia kicked in. Lancelot Grope couldn’t help it. He was only too pleased that he himself was wearing baggy clown’s trousers.

Lancelot’s coulrophilia had made his teenage years almost unbearable. The trouble had been that his mother had been obsessed with a relatively muscular trapeze artist named Standish Nikolayevich, and Lancelot was dragged from one circus performance to another. It was okay for his sister to admit that she was obsessed with circus horses (and for his mother to be obsessed with Standish Nikolayevich) but to admit to coulrophilia was another thing altogether. Things came to a head when Cocoa Craven Hook, one of Lancelot’s favourite clowns, took Lancelot out the back.

Cocoa Craven Hook was wearing his greens and reds and looked amazing.

“Judging from looking at your trousers,” said Cocoa, “you seem to be pretty enthusiastic about clowning. Can I show you a thing or two? Let me pull a surprise out of my pocket.”

Suddenly a bunch of flowers appeared from nowhere. One of the flowers squirted water in Lancelot’s face. Lancelot laughed.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” said Cocoa kindly. “First let me put these flowers in your pocket.”

Lancelot was hooked. He’d never experienced anything quite so exciting. There was no going back. He would be a coulrophiliac for life. Coulrophilia would be his life’s calling. He would use it to cure those who suffered from coulrophobia. And indeed he did.

Today, especially in Hollywood, there’s many a former coulrophobiac who is now a practising coulrophiliac. They’re in the News, and some of them even made it to the circus.

1537: The trials of Andrea

(The opening sentence for this story was suggested by Lindsey at Itching for Hitching. If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future opening sentence for these stories, click here for a peek as to what’s what.)

She sighed deeply and wondered if this would ever stop. This was the third time this afternoon that Andrea’s husband, Thomas, had phoned the Waste Management Company and let them have it.

“Why was my trash taken away late last Wednesday? You call yourself a garbologist?”

“Do you think you can take the trash away when you like? Wednesday morning is the time stipulated that the trash will be picked up at the gate. I don’t care if it was Christmas Day – it was Wednesday.”

“The guy driving the trash truck needs a bomb under him. I wished him good morning and he grunted at me like I was a.. a pig… Where’s the customer service?”

“Don’t you think, dear,” suggested Andrea to Thomas once he had put the phone down, “don’t you think you could just let these people get on with their job? They seem to do it reliably enough.”

“Rubbish,” said Thomas. “I want better service than that.”

When Thomas dialled the number a fourth time, Andrea had had enough.

“I’m going into town,” she said, “to the library. I shall return once all this nonsense is over.”

“You don’t understand,” said Thomas.

Andrea drove into town. What a trial the trash collection company saga had become. She sighed deeply and wondered if this would ever stop. It had been going on ever since her husband had bought the Waste Management Company almost a month ago.

1534: Ballroom dancing

(The opening sentence for this story was suggested by nananoyz of Praying for Eyebrowz.  If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future opening sentence for these stories, click here for a peek as to what’s what.)

Jane’s biggest regret in life was that she’d never danced. To be honest, she wasn’t exactly Swan Lake material.

No that’s not what I meant, said Jane. I was not thinking of ballet. I was thinking more of ballroom dancing.

In fact, Jane wasn’t thinking exactly of ballroom dancing either. She was thinking more of how lovely it would be to be in the arms of one of those male dance partners one sees on television. One of them could fling her all over the place, and then they would dance on and on and on. In fact they would dance into the sunset. They would fall in love and get married and have a pile of kids. And the handsome ballroom dancer would come home from a day of working to support his wife and children, and before the wonderful dinner she had prepared they would dance a quick foxtrot in the living room. Yes, that’s really what Jane wanted. Not simply a dance, but a dancer.

And then she went to the parish ball, and it was very bright and lovely with coloured lights and a wonderful band. And Jane sat against a wall on a long form next to another person who was also a wallflower. And then Jane saw a man approach. He was very handsome indeed. Jane’s heart kind of fluttered, but he asked the girl next to her for the dance. And Jane smiled like she was really enjoying the occasion but in truth she wanted to cry.

Then quite suddenly there was a man’s voice next to her. She never saw him approach.

“Would you like to dance?” he said. “I know people might think it silly but I’d love it if you would dance with me.”

Jane said “Yes!” and she and Mervyn (for that was his name) danced the whole night away. The things Mervyn could do in his wheel chair! Backwards, forwards, spins and slides. You wouldn’t believe what a show-off he was! Quite frankly, Jane lost all respectability and danced like there was no tomorrow. They were named the “couple of the ball” and stole the show with their celebration jive.

That was over forty-five years ago. Mervyn is long dead. But Jane delights in teaching her grandchildren how to dance. No! No! Not ballet. Ballroom dancing.