The Statement

Shit… I mean, this is not like my usual route or anything. Usually I take the highway. But today Eddy’s with me, and he’s so slow, I mean, had I known I never would have brought him along. First he’s late getting out of his house, then he like takes double the time to cycle uphill. So I think, bloody hell, at this rate we are going to be late. So I decide lets cut through the reserve. Ya, there is a fence and all that, be it’s pretty easy to just duck under and pull the cycle through. I’m telling Eddy we need to speed up. That’s when the fool hits smack into a rock and goes flying across, landing down there. Shit, I’m scared he’s dead or something. Then he gets up laughing, actually laughing. All cool man, he says, the leaves cushioned my fall. I’m so damn relieved. Then suddenly I see the bone sticking out of his arm and I’m screaming, Eddy man, your bones sticking out. At first he’s shit scared, and then he realises it’s not his fucking bone. That’s when he saw the damn skeleton…

In response to The Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of 24th September 2017.
Photo credited to A Mixed Bag 2013

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Peas Porridge


SOME LIKE IT HOT, SOME LIKE IT COLD
SOME LIKE IT IN THE POT NINE DAYS OLD

Forgive me, but because of interacting with kids on a regular basis, this rhyme is the first thing that came to mind.

Which raises the question, why do we even have such ridiculous nursery rhymes?

Most of them are illogical, and when you read some interpretations about them, they are downright scary or sad. Did I spend so many days of mirth running around in circles with my friends singing about the plague? How did I not realise that the old woman living in a shoe was assaulting her children. And having to eat nine days old peas porridge is so sad and unfortunate.
Yet rhymes were sung to make the harsh times sound less harsh. To build up apathy from an early age.

Then we had all these sexist fairy tales, where a major portion of them involved a damsel waiting for her prince to come and give her her happily ever after. Endure all the crap that is thrown at you with a smile on your face without protest, and then and only then will magic come your way.

O I know your probably nodding your head and giving thanks that times have changed. Today we have better stories, better fables. We are making a conscious effort at integration.

Really? Do you really think we have changed?

We don’t have rhymes to desensitise our kids; instead we have graphic TV news and even more gory games. Despite inclusion, objectification of the female form has hardly changed. Look at the women in a video game, and chances are she will have breasts that could put Pamela Anderson to shame and a butt that could give Kim Kardashian a run for her money!
I’m not saying women shouldn’t look a particular way, but every woman need not look like that.

Anybody in marketing and advertising will tell you, sex and violence sells. Shock and scandal sells. The absurd still attracts attention. And as long as these facts stand true, we have not really changed for the better. Something is still very wrong.

This porridge needs to be fixed.

In response to Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – Hot/Cold

What matters

Tringgg…

Visibly irritated, I answer the door. My show starts in fifteen minutes. I’ve been itching to know who killed Littlefinger.

A beaming young man thrusts a box of sweets at me. No sooner do I take them than he’s attempting to touch my feet. Stop! No!

“Thank you, aunty. All your blessings.”

Whose aunty? What blessings?…

And suddenly the cobwebs clear.

My maid Kamala frantically arriving last night. (Yes, right before primetime!) “Madam, my son has interview in big company. College says he must wear shoes. Please madam.” The frantic hunt through my son’s old shoes…

“You got the job?” I squeal.

“Yes.”

“Come, come,” I call him in. Littlefinger can wait.

In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 22 September, based on the photo by Sarah Potter.

Art Attack

“Enter.”

In her 23 years teaching art, Matilda doubted she had ever faced such an intimidating group. Principal Bee, the State Superintendent of Public Instruction and the District Counsellor, looked ready to announce a death sentence.

Pushing her shoulders back, she walked in and tabled the strange old painting.

“What’s this,” the councilman sniggered.

“It’s proof that art matters. It’s why you should not cut the school’s art budget.”

“This masterpiece is supposed to convince us?”

“No,” came the gentle but firm voice of Police Chief Brandon from the doorway.
“I am. Me, the artist who painted that. Anger therapy was what Miss Matilda used to call it. That is the reason why I uphold the law instead of breaking it.”

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 37 challenge.

My unique stones

When, for his week 75 Tuesday Photo Challenge, Frank asked us for pictures of stones, my mind immediately went to the collection in my yard.

They may not be extraordinarily pretty, but they hold extraordinary memories, and much like The Little Prince and his Rose, my stones are beautiful to me.

When my son was little, he used to bring these stones home. Every day when I would empty out his school uniform pockets, sure enough there would be a stone. “Why?” I would ask him, and with utmost seriousness he would reply, “I need them to build my big strong house.”
When a man is collecting one stone at a time to build his home, you don’t just throw it away. Nope, you pile it up in the backyard.

There was this one time he got really angry and threatened to “go far away from this house.” I asked him where he proposed to go. After a brief moment of thought he replied, “I can build my house with all my stones and stay there.”

He’s away at college now, and as I went behind to click a picture I thought to myself – Your stones are still waiting for you my little man. Come home soon.

IMG_9105

“There might be millions of roses in the world, but you’re my only one, unique rose.”

“It’s the time that you spend on your rose that makes your rose so important.”

– The Little Prince
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Dropped

Inspector Justin’s eyes automatically go to the gorgeous blond stepping out of the hotel. Tall, slim, with legs that seemed to go on for ever under that little black dress. Suddenly she trips, dropping her clutch. In a flash two young men rush to assist. Tossing her hair, she pats down her dress, giggling at the men admiring her perfect derrière.
O to be young and single again.

Something catches his eye. “Lady. Stop.” he shouts out.

She looks back at him. Takes in his uniform. Hazel eyes dilate. Before he can say anything, she turns and bolts across the road into the darkness, oblivious of the traffic screeching, swerving and honking around her. Amidst that melee he hears the distinct sound of impact, of a body flying through air and landing with a thud, of bones being crunched. Everything freezes except for the piercing wail of a jammed horn.

Justin breaks out of his shock, radioing in for an ambulance.

Her lipstick, still in his hand, is long forgotten.


In response to 133rd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writer’s challenge based on a photo by Pamela S Canepa.

The Valedictorian

She doubled over as her stomach cramped again. No. No. She was late. It was graduation. She was Valedictorian. She had to be there. If she could just get across that bridge.
But it hurt…

Years of hard work, dreams, hers, her parents’, they were finally coming to fruition. Everyone was happy. She was happy. She had to be happy.

Just one blip, one moment, she should simply forget it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was over reacting. One moment shouldn’t overshadow a million other.

She should keep her focus on the path, on moving one foot in front of the other. Why wouldn’t they move? It was like someone had filled her insides with lead…

As she cast her eyes upwards, her breaths became gasps, her heart thumping, like seeing a traitorous foe who had once been a lover, and she crumpled down. A used rag. A broken doll. All she could recall was that one moment, that one moment playing in loop, blanking out all other.

A party. Her short dress. Too short. So loud, the music was so loud. Everyone was drinking. She was drinking. Why did she wear a thong. Laughter. Jeers. It hurts. He was her boyfriend. They were her friends. O God, it hurts…
It hurts…


In response to Sunday Photo Fiction of September 17th, based on a photo by John Robinson

To catch a falling star

They said it was wise to catch a falling star and keep it in my pocket for a rainy day,
in case I ever need its brightness to guide me on some dark dreary way.

But she sparkled so brilliant, beautiful and hot, that I could not bear to put her away.

Today I laugh with mirt and joy, and revel in life’s fragrant bouquet,
knowing that if that dark day were to come, today’s memories would disperse the grey.


In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 85 challenge based on a photo by Matt Palmer via Unsplash

On Guard


Photo by Izaak Standridge

I’m looking at my team. Sloppy, just sloppy. We are trained to be alert, ever watchful, but most of them are chatting, and even worse, chatting with the pesky media guys. Those guys, I simply do not trust. No respect for barricades or instructions, always trying to force their way in, and if you snap at them even a little, just as a deterrent, they start accusing us of excessive police brutality.

Got to watch out for them, but inconspicuously.

Then this crowd. Some dudes have really questionable personal hygiene, and very objectionable eating habits. Messes with my focus. But…
East. 50 yards. Young male. Grease… meat… oil… and… Bingo. Gotcha.

I signal John. He’s skeptical. I persist. We move.
Quietly. Almost there. O no, he’s going to run. I leap… people scream… chaos… but I latch on.

John cuffs him… searches… Two guns! Told ya.

Never doubt the K-9 unit.


This is my second submission in response to the 100 Word Wednesday: Week 36 challenge.
The style was in response to The Scrivener’s Forge 9 – Reveals exercise, where one of the suggestions was to end the story on a completely different terrain, e.g. the protagonist is not a person at all.

Apologies for exceeding the word limit.

The K-9 are police dogs specifically trained to assist police and other law-enforcement personnel search for drugs, explosives, etc.