This piece was written for the weekly Unicorn Challenge to come up with 250 words using a photo as the prompt.

‘This is your inheritance? I thought you said your grandfather was a hairdresser. The sign says locksmith.’

‘It was his little pun on smithing locks of hair.’

‘Why aren’t there any windows, like most hairdressers?’

‘His clients demanded complete discretion. They didn’t want to be ogled by passers-by as they had their nascent moustaches blonded or had their down-there hair removed by Waxin’ Wayne, the disowned son of John. Besides, he preferred to soften the lighting for customers of a certain age.’

‘He must had some famous customers.’

‘Indeed, as you would imagine for a man whose forebears included the chap who invented the Pompadour for Louis XV’s chief mistress. One was Sinead O’Connor who, as you know, once indulged herself in the ultimate in hair removal. Although that upset him. Very dis-tressing.’

‘Any film stars?’

‘Naturally. Many would take a discreet day trip from Cannes before gracing the red carpet. He did a fabulous job on Madonna’s hair. Unfortunately, all the press were interested in was her pointy bra.’

‘When he died, was there no-one in the family that wanted to continue the tradition?’

‘No, his only child, my father, a very unprepossessing young man, ran off to become an apprentice wheeltapper for the railways. He died shortly after I was born, after an unfortunate altercation between him and the Paris-Marseilles Express.’

‘So, what do you plan to with this ‘inheritance’?’

‘The French love their game food so, in a nod to my grandfather, I’m going into hare-raising’.

This piece was written for the Unicorn Challenge, a weekly prompt to riff on a photo for up to 250 words.

Waddya reckon, Shazza? Unrestricted water views.

Where are the grandkids gonna play? There’s not even a beach!

Good. They won’t be trackin’ sand all through the house.

And there’s nowhere safe to swim. What are they gonna do all day?

Make things. Play Monopoly.

But they live on their screens.

Got that covered, Shaz. No phone reception, no wifi. They can learn something about the environment.

And what if they fall into the environment, off the edge of that bloody great cliff?

I’ll build a fence.

Well, there goes the ‘unrestricted water views’.

Why do you always have to be so negative? You said you wanted somewhere the grandkids could come and get some fresh air.

Fresh air? There’s a force 10 gale blowin’ out there. God knows what they’ll be like after they’ve been locked in the house with no phones for a few days.

Always the drama queen, Shaz. I’d take them to the shops.

The nearest shopping centre is 100 k’s away, ya Wally.

So I take it you don’t think it’s a good idea?

Got it in one, Sherlock.

Gotta say I’m disappointed, Shazza. Still, now I can go with Davo, Jock and Johnno on that golf trip.

You devious bastard. You set me up, didnya?

You be careful on the edge of that cliff, my love. Wouldn’t want you to have a nasty accident.

This piece was written in response to the weekly photo prompt from the 250-word maximum Unicorn Challenge.

I’d been taken by some friends to an exhibition at the Monte Carlo Opera House. The gallery included a redwood refectory table that seemed to have been adzed by a blind drunk and chunky chairs that would require a backside like a mattress to endure for longer than five minutes. The wine was served in pottery goblets made by a local ‘craftsperson’ who believed that anything that would sit on a flat surface was hopelessly bourgeois.

Designer overalls and wraps competed as statement garments and dreadlocks mingled with severe haircuts for men and women, either celebrating their grey or signaling their cool with streaks of various colours.

The paintings themselves were devoid of any talent for drawing or eye for colour, evoking Alice in Wonderland visiting India. Red stick-on dots adorned each piece, indicating sales. Everyone was riding on the red.

A growing susurration led to a focus on a stairway, from which reluctantly descended a fey young man with Jesus locks and wispy beard. It wasn’t quite the Second Coming but the beatific faces of the assembled multitude would have given you pause for thought. Soon besieged by the moon-faced adoration of the throng, he retreated upstairs (perhaps even to Heaven?).

Once the wine had run out, my friends asked me to gush over the precocious talent on display. I proffered ‘Those images will haunt me until I resolve them more fully.’ They nodded sagely.

I headed for the casino and put all my money on the black.

This piece was written for the weekly photo prompt from the Unicorn Challenge.

When a passing deep-sea fishing boat noticed that the ferry was seemingly adrift, the captain and his first mate boarded. No crew in sight, no-one on the bridge but half-eaten meals scattered around. ‘Like the bloody Marie Celeste’, the captain muttered.

They went down the stairs to the passenger deck. Deserted. No sign of life. Until the first mate noticed in the very rear seat a young curly-top redheaded girl. He ran to her and said kindly ‘You’re safe now. What’s your name?’

Calmly, she said, ‘Annie.’

‘So Annie, are you the only passenger?’

‘Of course not, you silly man. The trip is fully booked.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Over there is Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot. In front of them is that honeymoon couple, always kissing and everything. Disgusting.’

‘So where are your parents?’

‘Dead.’

“Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s OK. It was a long time ago.’

‘Where are the crew?’

Annie sighed ‘That nasty Captain Bligh was being so bossy that we asked that nice Mr. Fletcher in Seat 10B to deal with them. He put them in a long boat and we all waved them goodbye.’

‘That’s dreadful. They could be in grave danger now.’

‘They’ll be uncomfortable for a while but they’ll turn up in Batavia one day.’

Looking around again, the first mate said gently ‘You say the ferry is full of people but the only one I see is you.’

Annie stiffened and said in a very adult voice ‘How are your navigational skills?’

Bonus track: The late great New Zealand-born Max Merritt, who I followed all over his adopted city, Melbourne, Australia, in my yooth. https://youtu.be/vhbJiSLlopA

This vital piece of educational material was produced in response to the weekly photo prompt (which I’ve chosen to interpret as the door of a crypt) from the Unicorn Challenge, run by the Franco-Hibernians, Jenne Gray and C E Ayr.

Crypt – secret underground non-movement headquarters.

Cryptic – Form of gobbledygook designed to make the utterer seem possessed of secret knowledge (when in fact they are simply possessed).

Cryptic crosswords – Arguments between crossword compilers.

Crypt-kicking – Sport invented by adherents to the Monster Mash cult, started by Bobby Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers https://youtu.be/u8uvLHnrqdU

Ecryptology – The study of cryptic posts on the interweb (aka black holes).

Desecryptation – Graffiti scrawled on tombs e.g. ‘My mother made me a ghost’, followed by ‘If I send her the sheet will she make me one?’

Manucrypt – Sacred burial ground of Manchester United, often the site of massed choirs from Liverpool singing ‘You’ll Always Walk Alone’.

Nondescrypts – Ordinary gravesites for complete nonentities.

Typescrypt – List of various forms of crypt, with annotated descryptions.

Cryptomaniac – Person addicted to stealing from tombs e.g. archaeologist Howard Carter, who was cursed up and down and across in hieroglyphics by Pharaoh’s Mummy and Daddy.

Cryptocurrency – form of exchange used by crypt dwellers and gullible nerds

Cryptromancy – love stories set in crypts e.g. Romeo and Juliet – The Sequel

Cryptozoologist – researcher into mythical creatures that survive in crypts and vaults, including the Och Yer Big Jessie Monster, Tinyfoot, The Spaghetti Squash, and the Bunyippy-i-ay Australopithicus.

Crypto-fascists – Men given to wearing brown shirts and standing on fruit boxes at railway stations giving four-hour speeches in Italian about the need for the trains to run on time. (Not to be confused with crypto-Nazis, who plan to wear black shirts when they invade Poland. Again.)

This piece was adapted in response to the weekly photo prompt from the Unicorn Challenge.

Last Exit From Tenby

I’m an Australian, ‘doing Wales’. Next stop Portmeirion, to re-live ‘The Prisoner’ (‘I am, not a number! I am a free man!’).

At the Buccaneer Pub, inside the walls of the old town in Tenby, I’m drinking with ancients like me, pretending to be interested in rugby, while they pretend to be interested in cricket. Neither of us fakes our distrust of the Royals (though it must be said that the man in the top hat and overalls, feeding his bar stool-perched water spaniel some crisps and Guinness, is a little less harsh than his mates. He would allow them to take their own lives come the Revolution).

Drifting from a woman seated at a table behind me comes ‘I already told you what I want but you didn’t want to buy me that!’ before she storms off to the Ladies.

I turn to see her man, red of face and bloodshot-eyed, togged up for ‘a nice night down at the pub, to get out of the house, like’, staring at her receding back.

Before the next pint, I offer side bets to my new companions about how long it will take before he realises that she really didn’t want a gin and lime and that she’s been in the Ladies an awfully long time. And that the pub has a back door.

‘My round, convict lad,’ smiles Top Hat, ‘because the dog thinks your funny.’