Muzza meets the Lord

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

You can also hear my dulcet tones reading this piece.

Murray (known as Muzza to all) remained suspicious. Who gets around in that sort of clobber these days? Flash as a rat with a gold tooth. Still, better humour him just in case he starts waving that bloody sword around.

‘So, Lord Chol-mon-deley, this is where the secret treasure was buried by your great-great-great- great uncle, twice removed?

Cholmondeley bristled. ‘It’s pronounced Chumley, you colonial yobbo. Yes, right where I’m pointing. I have researched this matter and recorded all the facts in this voluminous tome.’

Muzza scratched his head. ‘So what sort of treasure is it? Gold? Jewels? Next week’s Lotto numbers?’

Cholmondeley sighed and said ‘Just dig. That’s what I’m paying you for and handsomely if I might say so.’

‘Not that bloody handsomely’ grunted Muzza but picked up his shovel and turned the first sod.

Ten minutes later, he put the shovel down. ‘You’ve barely started’ roared Cholmondeley.

‘No more diggin’ till I know what’s down there’.

Cholmondeley was suddenly sheepish. ‘I don’t actually know. My research couldn’t establish that.’

Muzza shrugged. ‘Well, as long as I get paid.’

Five minutes later, Muzza’s shovel hit a wooden box and Cholmondeley shivered in expectation. When he opened it, he saw a note written in a child’s hand. It read ‘Father says I’m too old for you now, Teddy, so I’ll bury you in this secret plot and come back for you later.’

Muzza stepped back with the remains of Teddy in his hand and said ‘Where’s me fifty quid?’

Grumpy Grandpa Guitarist

This piece was written for the weekly photo prompt challenge offered by Jenne Gray and CE Ayr, aka the Unicorn Challenge

Look at her. Who does she think she is? Bloody Taylor Swift or summink? They’ve come to hear my legendary riffs, darlin’, not your caterwauling.

You think Keef Richards came up with all his stuff by himself? Nah! Off his face arf the time. But he was recording our old band on the sly and when he left he stole everyfink he learned from me.

And that keyboard ‘genius’ over there. All computers these days. Not like when I wrote ‘A Salad Full of Kale’ and those thievin’ bastards, Procol Harum, ripped it off and flogged it as ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’. Only had that one hit and I never saw a penny.

You name it, it’s been flogged from me. Sergeant Pepper? Colonel Leather when I wrote it. Bohemian Rhapsody? That was my masterpiece ‘Go get some chips and peas’.

But, between you and me, I’ve got a killer album under wraps and all the big labels are knockin’ on my door. Or at least they will when they hear it. Without givin’ too much away, it’s gonna be called ‘The Moon Side Of The Dark’.

Some of me best work on this one. ‘I knew it was love when me willy caught fire.’  ‘Goin’ up Penny Lane with Eleanor Rigby and Elvis.’ ‘The Day I ate the Monkees’. All of ‘em have got hit single written in neon lights.

Sorry, got to go now for the phony ending before the encore. Bit like my life really.

The trolls under the bridge have always tolled, or so I’m told.

This piece was written for the weekly Unicorn Challenge to respond to a photo prompt.

They’re there, I swear, with their hare

and it’s moth-eaten hair

and it’s more than I can bear,

so bare-faced, it’s not really fair

to charge a fare, a troll toll.

I must complain to the Mayor

next time he rides by on his mare

paring the first of his pair of pears.

I’ve a mind to tear up their demands

to be paid by tare weight

but I know it will end in tears.

I have to pass to vend my wares,

because where’s the alternative?

It’s enough to make man ail

and to take a pint of ale

(but if I have two, I’ll pass out in the aisle)

especially now the price of sealing wax

has gone through the ceiling.

It’s enough to make me desert this idyll

and live in the desert instead;

Take a plane

and live on the plain.

Oh, had I the courage

to recruit some guerrillas

to stand up to these gorillas

and barbecue them on the griller.

Yea, is it not a Gordian knot,

not to mince words

sweetened with mints?

You may roll your eyes

but it is not my role

as a sole soul

to wring the necks

of this ring

and leave my family mourning

come the morning

and have my fair maid made a widow.

I must succumb to these blackguards

ere I become thin air,

for this band will ne’er be banned.

So I have to choose

and I chews my tongue

and pay the toll.

It’s in his DNA

Yuri’s work on his historical DNA database project was progressing every day as his secret source gained more access to items worn by historically significant Russian people and samples from their known descendants. His latest triumph was a sample from Vladimir Putin and he excitedly ran it through his system.

After several hours he had a match. His mouth gaped.  Joseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili, born in Georgia in 1879, later adopting the name Joseph Stalin. Unaware his system had been hacked, he answered the door to the men from the Russian Ministry for State Security, the reincarnation of the KGB.

Now and Zen

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

  • So this is your contribution to the street art exhibition?
  • Yes.
  • What have you called it?
  • ‘The emptiness of the sound of one hand clapping when you don’t have a motorcycle to maintain’ or ‘Zen’ for short.
  • So where does the feather come in?
  • It symbolises the unbearable lightness of being one empty glove. They mate for life, you know.
  • I don’t really get Zen.
  • OK. Let me give you 10 meditations to get you started.

1.  If all the world’s a stage, be the one hand clapping. (That one’s the inspiration for this piece.)

2.  Like baubles across a bassinet the past invites endless play. Grow up.   

3.  Your future is in the distance between this breath and the next.

4.  Every day is your birth-day; give yourself a present.

5.  Never let your right lover be your left lover

6.  Avoid keeping secrets; they breed like lies.

7.  Just because you’re paranoid it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

8.  Collect labels and wear them; they’re medals from the war of independence

9.  The dark is afraid of you; a torch-bearer needs no sword.

10. Death is a hard act to follow; save it until last.

  • This is not really a piece of street art, is it?
  • It is if you want it to be. It’s not if you don’t. Your choice.
  • You realise you’ve ruined my day.
  • It happens every now and zen.

Arfer’s emotional intelligence

This piece was extracted from a longer story of mine to appear in the weekly Unicorn photo prompt Challenge.

Nicholas watched the dark blue BMW pull slowly into his driveway and saw a young man emerge, wearing sunglasses, tailored jeans, and a smart jacket over a white T-shirt.

Nicholas called to his grand-daughter, India, ‘Are you expecting someone?’ India emerged quickly from her room, saying as she rushed past ‘It’s Justin, he’s come to pick me up’.

When they entered, Nicholas’s dog, Arfer, curled his upper lip and a low rumble began in his belly.  Nicholas hushed him with ‘Arfer, that’s no way to treat a guest.’ Arfer retreated to a corner, never once taking his eyes off Justin.

India nervously introduced the young man. Justin kept his sunglasses on and offered a handshake, which proved to be limp and sweaty.

Seated at the kitchen table, Nicholas broke the silence.

‘So, Justin, how do you make your way in the world?’

‘I’m in sales. Software.’

‘Ah, a master of the dark arts that India has been labouring to teach me. I fear I have been less than a perfect pupil.’

Justin stood and said to India ‘I’ll wait in the car’. India grabbed her backpack, rubbed Arfer’s head and said to Nicholas, ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might actually give a shit about what happens to me in the future.’

‘I do, sweetheart, and Arfer and I sincerely hope it’s not that.’

Later, Nicholas sat on the dock, watching the sunset and said quietly, ‘Next time, Arfer. Next time you can rip his throat out.’

Partickly Nasty

This piece was written in response to the weekly photo prompt provided by the Unicorn Challenge , a labour of love for two Scots.

Phyllis Tine, she of the forked tongue and acidic bile, was fond of regaling the world in general (since no-one wanted to lose two hours of their life they’d never get back) with her opinions on what constituted ‘right’.

‘It’s just not right’ she would say as she launched into this week’s diatribe about what new thing had offended her and all ‘right thinking people’.

‘Look at that. There was nothing wrong with the old wall but they (in Phyllis’ world ‘they’ referred to an ever expanding list of persons or entities that would never be on her Christmas card list if she ever got around to having one) but they have let some vandals spray it with graffiti. That’s like finger painting. It’s not art. I mean, look at it. What’s all that rubbish mean, I ask you.’

Not pausing, lest she should be interrupted by someone in her unwilling audience (which was about as likely as The Second Coming), she continued unabated.

‘I blame Picasso meself. It’s all gone down hill since he turned up. Da Vinci must be rolling in his grave. Mind you, ever since Mrs. Gruntfuttock at Number 17 told me he was a nancy boy my estimation of him is not what it was. Why can’t they just live a nice life, like the rest of us.’

Metaphorically girding her loins, Phyllis announced she was going to the Town Hall to lodge a formal complaint. ‘European City of Culture? Not likely.’

Intercept

This piece has just been published in Volume 2: “I Probably Shouldn’t Tell You This” anthology by Bar Bar Publishing. “I Probably Shouldn’t Tell You This” is available on Amazon & Kindle Unlimited

Intercept If only Brian could find some way to intercept the letter from Homeland Security. He had written to them because he no longer trusted that his emails and phone calls weren’t being monitored by Them. As a child of the Sixties he knew that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

He believed that the postal service remained secure, so far, but he cursed himself for not having rented a postbox instead of using his own address. His wife always collected their mail from the converted oil drum on the post at the entrance to their small farm and she would be suspicious of any change to that routine.

Daily he had to suppress the awful thought that she too might be one of Them, so he hadn’t kept a copy of what he wrote in case she discovered it, like she did everything else. However, he knew what he’d written. ‘Dear Sir. I have to report a matter that should be of grave and urgent concern to you and your Department. I believe I have evidence that forces unknown (hereinafter referred to as They or Them) have infiltrated the lottery system as a way of funding Their various nefarious activities.

Having researched the matter thoroughly, I offer the following (admittedly circumstantial) evidence. 1. I suspect, ‘sleepers’ were planted in the gaming authorities many years ago when the winning numbers ceased to be televised live, providing the perfect opportunity to manipulate the results

2. The winners of most major prizes are ‘anonymous’, purportedly in order to protect their privacy. What it does do is provide a perfect cover for diverting funds to Them. Through off-shore numbered accounts and shell companies the money can disappear without trace in an instant.

3. I have tracked down those that have disclosed their winnings, only to find that in every case they were no longer at that address. I am willing to hand over my detailed case notes as proof of my diligence in this matter. I referred earlier to Their nefarious activities. While it will take the specialized resources of your Officers to confirm the breadth of such activities and their detailed operations, I suspect some of the funds are being funnelled into infiltrating the labs of vaccine producers.

Through the addition of cleverly disguised viruses to commonly accepted vaccines, They are progressively gaining the ability to manipulate the life choices of our citizens. I need point no further than the plethora of reality TV shows and the screen obsession of teenagers as incontrovertible proof. I await your further instructions.

Your humble servant, Brian Peabody.’

As the time for the postal van’s arrival drew ever nearer, his anxiety began to rise exponentially and his wife kept looking at him more oddly than usual, so he locked himself in the gardening shed he called his ‘study’. Thirty minutes later his wife knocked on his shed door and said “Brian, parcel for you. Marked ‘Private and Confidential’. What have you been up to?” Brian quickly swung the door open, snatched the parcel from her hands, slammed the door shut again, and double locked it. His hands shook as he tore the medium sized box open.

Inside was a letter, sitting on top of a smaller box. He opened the letter and read: ‘Dear Sir (I will not use your actual name for obvious security reasons). We intercepted your letter before it could reach the Secretary’s office because we have reason to believe it has been compromised. Thank you for your alertness in detecting the indeed suspicious activities you referred to in your letter.

We would like to take you up on your offer to co-investigate with our Officers. On Monday, call the number listed under my signature. Making sure your wife is listening, pretend you are 21 calling Emergency and say you are having a heart attack. Shortly, a white van resembling an ambulance will arrive at your home and two of our Officers, disguised as paramedics, will put you in the vehicle. You will be taken to the secret location of our offices in the basement of a medical facility. You will receive further instructions when you arrive.

While waiting for the appointed date, please ensure your ongoing security by wearing the hat in the smaller box at all times when you are outside. Be sure to memorise the phone number and then destroy this letter and the box it arrived in. Yours sincerely, Chief of Security.’

Opening the smaller box, he found a checked peaked cap. He turned it over and noticed that it had a silver lining and he smiled to himself conspiratorially. Titanium, of course, with its unique abilities to block transmissions. Now he was absolutely certain the authorities were taking him seriously. Having memorised the letter, he tore up the boxes and the wrapping paper and fed them into the potbelly stove he kept going in his shed for warmth in winter.

In his haste, he failed to notice there were no stamps or postmarks.

***

“Good evening, this is ABC News. In today’s lead stories, reports of students at a local school behaving very strangely after being vaccinated against whooping cough. And the anonymous winner of last night’s record-breaking lottery jackpot has gone into hiding.”