"Oh, Cynthia," he said, his voice soft and crooning, as he drew her to his side. "You are the source of all my hope, my joy. You are my inspiration!"
She pushed her hand hard against his chest. "Gerald," she said. "You are a fool."
"Just a fool for you, my love."
"No Gerald," she said. "You are a fool in your own right. Go to your wife now, or else I shall."
This little scene was inspired by Sunday Scribblings number 224. The word was source.
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Mantra
"Do you have a mantra, Alf?" asked Jim.
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Brave Little Girl
This story is a response to Sunday Scribblings writing prompt number 193: brave. It's just a little idea; I hope you like it.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Cheese
Sunday Scribblings writing prompt #182 is "cheese", which is the title of this little story.
She was a very beautiful woman, from a very upper middle class family. She was way out of his league, but he wanted her anyway. She agreed to go with him to a restaurant for dinner. The place was her favourite, though he'd never heard of it. She took the lead with the ordering, which was fine by him.
"How about some cheese for dessert?" she asked him.
"Sure," he said. That sounded safe; he liked cheese. The date had gone pretty good so far, he thought.
What arrived at the table didn't look like cheese. It didn't smell like cheese, either.
"It's a Tasmanian blue vein," she said, before popping some into her mouth. "It's just heavenly."
If it was heavenly for her, it was going to be heavenly for him. He cut of a bit of the cheese, put it on a cracker, and put the lot into his mouth. He chewed. It was as though something dead had exploded inside his head. In an instant, his nose and sinuses were on fire. His eyes were streaming tears as he stumbled into tables and other patrons, searching for the exit. He didn't make it in time.
She was gone by the time he recovered, and he never saw her again. Later, he married a girl who was a year below him in high school. They are happy together. For them, cheese comes in thin squares, wrapped in plastic.
She was a very beautiful woman, from a very upper middle class family. She was way out of his league, but he wanted her anyway. She agreed to go with him to a restaurant for dinner. The place was her favourite, though he'd never heard of it. She took the lead with the ordering, which was fine by him.
"How about some cheese for dessert?" she asked him.
"Sure," he said. That sounded safe; he liked cheese. The date had gone pretty good so far, he thought.
What arrived at the table didn't look like cheese. It didn't smell like cheese, either.
"It's a Tasmanian blue vein," she said, before popping some into her mouth. "It's just heavenly."
If it was heavenly for her, it was going to be heavenly for him. He cut of a bit of the cheese, put it on a cracker, and put the lot into his mouth. He chewed. It was as though something dead had exploded inside his head. In an instant, his nose and sinuses were on fire. His eyes were streaming tears as he stumbled into tables and other patrons, searching for the exit. He didn't make it in time.
She was gone by the time he recovered, and he never saw her again. Later, he married a girl who was a year below him in high school. They are happy together. For them, cheese comes in thin squares, wrapped in plastic.
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