Teresa, The Haunted Wordsmith – nominated me to participate in the Tell The Story Challenge a week or so ago (this one slipped down the back of my desk temporarily).
This is the photo for the challenge.
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given.
Select 3 nominees.
Give them a new picture.
Georgie’s secret
Georgie is a trusting kind of kid; obedient too. Each Saturday morning he dutifully departs to his piano practice with elderly eccentric Zephaniah Zimmerman, even though the open maw of the grand piano, with its great grinning gnashers, smirks at his inability to transverse their scales.
He’s always very smartly turned out, although his mother’s sartorial choices are not to everybody’s taste. Including Georgie’s. But even at the tender age of six, he rises above the taunts and sniggers.
That’s because Georgie has a secret. He leads a double life. Georgie disappears into other worlds.
You see, Georgie reads books.
Despite the rules to nominate three people, I think this time I’ll just throw it open and see what comes back.
What’s the story behind this old photo? I could tell you…
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given. Select 3 nominees. Give them a new picture.
The Sealed City
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
He nods.
‘You see the city over there. It looks like any other city, doesn’t it?’
He frowns and shakes his head. ‘But it’s not; I heard. That’s why I’m here. I’m a writer.’
They sit down.
‘I heard there’s no way in or out. That, although you can’t see it from here, there’s a cordon, an impenetrable ring of steel around the whole perimeter.’
She nods. ‘Since the virus struck.’
He leans towards her. ‘Is it true about the virus? Everyone who catches it becomes some kind of monster?’
‘That’s what they say. Flesh eating monsters and worse.’
The writer’s eyes widen. ‘But the whole thing’s been contained? I mean, no way in and no way out.’
She leans forward and grabs his wrist. Her hand is very cold and her grip is strong. ‘Don’t be so sure.’ She smiles, pulling his arm closer.
I hope these three guys will up for this challenge:
The year before, and all the years before that, as long as anyone could remember, when the travelling circus came to town, elephants and monkeys marched along the main road all the way through the town to the open field where they set up the tents. Snake handlers, people on stilts, and even the bearded lady followed, handing out fliers as they danced past.
But this year was different. On the appointed day we heard a brass band heralding the parade. The rosy cheeked ringmaster in his full regalia marched proudly at the front. Dainty drum majorettes followed, parading and pirouetting; next came the gaudily dressed clowns with their sad, smiling faces. And acrobats who turned cartwheels and somersaults.
But where were the lions, the tigers and elephants? Where were the dwarfs and the tallest man in the World? No ladies with beards or two-tailed monkeys? No fire-eaters, no sword-swallowers or freak acts at all!
What kind of entertainment was this?
Cruelty-free.
I wrote this back in December in response to a prompt fromTeresa, The Haunted Wordsmith. It’s so long ago I can’t find the link.
Anyway, I never got around to posting it. Somehow it didn’t quite chime with the festive season. But now we have a circus – with animals – coming to our town.
The rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given. Select 3 nominees. Give them a new picture.
Uncle Foss’s Library
Catherine loved books which was just as well as she had very few friends other than the characters in the stories she read. Fortunately she wasn’t short of these, as there were so very many books in her uncle’s library. Uncle Foss had been her guardian ever since she could remember. He had engaged various tutors over the years, as had been stipulated in her wardship agreement, but none had lasted long. Catherine had therefore educated herself, partly under her uncle’s guidance, through the perusal of the wealth of knowledge which was contained between the covers of his extensive library.
No books in Uncle Foss’s library were forbidden or out of bounds, although there were certain high shelves that he’d steered her away from, saying she’d enjoy those books better when she was older. But now, a few days away from her fifteenth birthday, while her uncle had been occupied in Town, she’d climbed the library ladder and removed three interesting-looking volumes which she’d been considering for some weeks now. At almost fifteen she was certain she was ready for the high shelves.
Back in her room after supper and a game of backgammon with her uncle, she chose the smallest book. It was old, bound in finely tooled black leather with silver embossed letters on the front which read: ‘Faerie Folk and Mischievous Creatures – A Guide’. Catherine had loved magic and fantasy stories since she was a little girl. She started to read.
“They are as old as the oldest hills and their presence is clings on even in the most rational minds, deep within our collective memory. Ancient and modern, of both sexes, and neither good nor ill, they live long, long lives, then disappear as ash on the wind.” Catherine started as the window behind her rattled. She looked round, but it was just the oak trees branches brushing against the glass. Storm clouds were gathering, covering the bright face of the new moon.
“Although of the earth, they are otherworldly, living between our world and theirs. Rarely noticed, they appear at the periphery of our vision, hidden in plain sight…”
Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine suddenly noticed a movement behind the nightstand next to her bed; a mouse? But no, it hadn’t moved like a mouse, and she was sure she’d seen a flash of scarlet.
There was a knock at the door. Her uncle entered, smiling. He crossed the room and gently took the little book from her hands. “It’s time, Catherine,” he said. His face lit up with excitement, “time to introduce you to the other members of our household.”
Percy the pigeon was on holiday. It had been a very tiring journey but at last he’d made it; all the way from London to New York City. As he perched on a tree in Central Park, admiring the city skyline, he noticed a group of children playing hopscotch. What were they using as a marker? Percy wondered. It wasn’t the usual stone that bounced and skipped.
A little girl dressed in pink made her throw. Percy flew down for a closer look.
‘Oh, what’s that pigeon doing?’ she cried.
The children gathered around as Percy waddled over to the marker.
Percy put his head on one side, examining the object. ‘Hoppy Taw‘ he read on its face. (He was a very intelligent pigeon who’d spent a year in Oxford.) Well, I never, Percy thought. I’ve never heard of one of those. Whatever will these clever Americans think of next?
Vicklea, ofVickie’s Book Nook and Mediation Corner, nominated me last week to participate inThe Eclectic Contrarian’s challenge. The challenge is to be given a photo and then write a story based on the photo, hence the Tell The Story Challenge. The photo Vicklea gave me is above.
Here are the rules: Write a story about the picture you’re given. Select 3 nominees. Give them a new picture.
So, the story which, although prompted by the photo, is also a homage to my little old rooster who gave his last cock-a-doodle at the weekend.
Bird Life
The little rooster is first to awake, greeting the pre-dawn with his joyful call. Young squirrels start their chatter and mama guinea fowl calls from the fence top like a loud rusty gate.
The little rooster calls again; the hens shift about on their perches. He hops down and struts about, pecking at the floor of the hen-house, waiting for the day to begin.
The side gate opens. The hens hop down and jostle for position, peering through the chicken wire. Food arrives and with it, freedom. Pecking soon done, they all file out across the yard.
The little rooster rounds the corner of the house and sees mama sparrow tugging at the earth. Out pops a fat green caterpillar. She takes off and lands on the edge of her nest, offering it to the first new-born chick to raise its beak.
Then, a flash of yellow as a black-masked bird swoops in. The little rooster watches as he plucks another long strand of bamboo leaf and flies up to the high, high branch which sways over the pond, to weave it deftly into his beautifully-crafted nest.
Then the little rooster sees his favourite little black hen settled in the shade of the myrtle bush. He shuffles in beside her. He’ll take another stroll later; there’s no hurry.
Written in response to the prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith: Hotel, breakfast, caught
Photo courtesy of The Haunted Wordsmith
Breakfast with Boris
Boris always enjoyed his hotelbreakfast when he was working away, even if it was sometimes difficult to obtain proper British grub. Not for him was bacon from Denmark or sausage from Germany. But today was going to be champion; a proper start to his day.
He rubbed his hands together as the waitress laid the groaning plate before him. He turned the pages of his copy of ‘The Times’ to the political section and propped the folded newspaper against the condiment set.
Tucking his linen napkin into his collar, Boris prepared to eat. He pierced a generous forkful of Cumberland sausage, stabbed a piece of Wiltshire bacon and dipped it into the golden yolk of his free-range Gloucestershire egg, before popping it into his mouth.
Then he started to read. The opinion piece was appalling. How dare this jumped up journalist decry his efforts to restore the autonomy of his beloved country! Boris drew a sharp intake of breath. The large piece of north-country sausage caught in his throat. Boris coughed. He tried to breathe in, but the prime piece of spiced ground pork was firmly lodged in his windpipe. He tried to cry out, but only a whisper of a bark came out. He attempted to attract attention by waving his newspaper frantically in the air.
British reserve to the fore, his fellow breakfasters ignored the disturbance. The waiting staff were absent from the room. No-one was coming to his aid. Boris’s face turned a delicate shade of puce. He struggled to his feet, cartwheeling his arms in a caricature of buffoonery.
But his efforts were to no avail. His face turned grey. He slumped back into his seat and keeled forward, his nose burying itself in the runny egg in the centre of the best Worcester plate on which his breakfast had been served.
Hoist on the petard of his Great British Breakfast, Boris breathed no more.
Written in response to the prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith: Dreaming, possible, peace
The little bear remained awake long after Emily had gone to sleep. He stared up at the ceiling wishing he could stay in this moment of perfect peace, wrapped in the arms of a dreaming little girl. “Merry Christmas, Benji,’ he whispered to himself.
Written in response to the prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith: gingerbread, town, catastrophe
Photo courtesy of The Haunted Wordsmith
The county news station is reporting from the town of Gingerbread.
Recent storms have caused extensive damage to a large number of houses in the area. When interviewed the mayor commented: ‘We have run out of the sugar, corn syrup and ginger, and consequently rebuilding efforts have had to be halted. We have declared the situation a catastrophe.’
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