This piece is in response to the Six Sentence challenge, using the prompt word of ‘center’

As The Lone Ranger and Tonto came over a ridge, from a small ranch-house they heard a woman’s cry, shrill and piercing.

They galloped towards the ranch-house and before they could dismount, a woman ran towards them, clutching a small child and yelling ‘Help, help, my husband’s in town in Dead Center but he’ll be home soon, please save me!’ and ran back into the house.

The Lone Ranger followed and through her sobs she told him how she’d overdone the chilli in the chilli con carne, her husband’s favourite dish and now it was ruined, but he assured her he could fix it and headed for his saddle bags.

While they waited, the part-Appache woman took Tonto aside and asked why his friend wore a mask and Tonto replied, “Like to look good, get old, get crow’s feet.”

The Lone Ranger returned and stirred sour cream into the chilli con carne, tasted it and said “Works every time, you try it’ and relief enveloped her face when she did.

The Lone Ranger said ‘Our work here is done, Tonto’ and Tonto replied  ‘Yes, kemo sabe’ and the woman smiled as she waved them away, wondering how long it would be before somebody told The Lone Ranger that ‘kemo sabe’ was Appache for ‘horse’s backside’.

Thanks to Gary Larson for the ‘loan ‘of the last line.

This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence Challenge, with the prompt word of ‘bowl’,

As many of you know, when I single-handedly won the war with Antarctica (quibblers may suggest that’s because I was the only one who turned up), I donned my dinner suit and danced with the penguins well into the night, only to have the producers of Happy Feet steal my thunder.

These days, I moonlight as creative advisor to a host of entertainers and world figures but confidentiality agreements mean you mustn’t breathe a word of what I tell you, except for the divine and unpretentious Lady Gaga, who’s happy to admit that I came up with the idea of the meat dress.

When President Obama invited me to the White House to thank me for my previously unsung role in designing his first election campaign (yes, I could), I enthralled his other guests with my playing of the Star Spangled Banner on a musical saw and delighted them with my stories of when I used to sit in for Charlie Watts occasionally when the Rolling Stones were on tour.

Few people know I was an old friend of Fred Astaire’s and that I was invited to deliver the eulogy at Fred’s funeral; not only was there not a dry eye in the house, when I bounded onto the coffin and tap-danced to ‘Top Hat, White Tie and Tails’, soon the whole wake had a fascinating rhythm.

And then of course there’s my writing, including my uncredited role as script advisor for Titanic, Star Wars and Saving Private Ryan (the stories I could tell about what really went on in those landing craft between takes will have to wait for another day.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare my acceptance speech for the Oscars, where I’m to be presented with a Lie-Time Achievement Award, otherwise known as the Hyper Bowl.

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘season’.

Barnaby took an elastical approach to the Ecclesiastical wisdom that to everything there is a season; the advent of 24/7/365 sports coverage meant that somewhere north or south of the Equator someone, somewhere, was getting obscenely rich by entertaining the obscenely poor.

He was a great believer in seizin’ the day, irrespective of the carpers seeking D&M moments to achieve their fulfilment, rolling up their peace in their yoga mats and strolling in their leisure wear through the supermarket of life.

This devil-may-care approach to the seasons worked less well in his gardening pursuits, where the green shoots of his sweet corn didn’t take kindly to the first frost and the tomatoes boiled on his unshaded vines in 40C+ week-long heat waves.

Sailing seas ‘n’ oceans was his holiday of choice in the main and he pursued the eligible ladies on board with a passion; he was especially fond of widows who had some grass.

When his progeny came to visit he was only too willing (in fact overwilling) to provide them with the benefit of his accumulated wisdom, especially the males, who dreaded conversations beginning with ‘See, son, ..’

And he delighted them (so he imagined) with his culinary skills, when in fact most of his concoctions were barely edible but his family had learned to cope over thyme (especially Basil and Rosemary) as they lived out the dictum that for every bad meal there is a seasoning.

This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘quarter’.

Every evening I’d see my neighbours out walking their dogs and I decided I should get one as well, so one Saturday I went for a country drive to see if there were any signs out advertising new litters.

I was having no luck but then I spotted a sign reading ‘Unusual Pets For Sale’ and pulled into a farm, finding an old man sitting in his rocking chair on the porch.

After the usual pleasantries, I asked if he had any dogs and he said “No, but how about a three-legged, two-headed chicken” but I declined.

“No? Then what about this feller then” and he whistled up a one-legged pig supported by a contraption with wheels.

Anticipating my question, he said “That pig saved my son from drowning once and we thought it would seem ungrateful to eat him all at once”.

Now my rescue pig, Quarter, and I have become the talk of the neighbourhood as we stroll on our afternoon walks.

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘powerful’.

Morgan’s sententious diatribe, elucidating to the assembled dinner party his unsolicited views on a divisive issue, had lasted through the better part of two bottles of wine, the latter of which was the bottle that Morgan had brought to the dinner party, a wine which resembled a particularly watered-down version of raspberry cordial but elicited the epithet of ‘gloriously cheeky’ from Wallace’s wife, Agnes.

Wallace waited patiently until Morgan’s mouth was filled with a water cracker, topped with an obscene amount of cheddar, before launching his powerful strike against his brother-in-law.

‘Morgan’ he began, ‘I have come to the conclusion that there is no more unintelligent organism on the planet than you, and I include in that list the noble maggot and the much maligned pond scum, who at least have the sense to ignore the Murdoch press and Fox News, from which you derive the excreta that passes for commentary in the goldfish attention span of social media.’

Wallace continued, ‘In fact, I think it is safe to say that your contribution to humanity began and ended when you were a baby and realised that regurgitation was a satisfyingly disruptive intervention into any worthwhile conversation and ensured the focused attention of those upon whom you vomited on a regular basis.’

Agnes rose from her seat, her face glowing a vivid shade of red, and threw her wine glass vehemently but inaccurately in Wallace’s direction and in the process destroyed almost half of her imitation Meissen porcelain figures displayed on the mantelpiece.

Morgan took a gulp of his wine and, inflating himself to peak pomposity, responded condescendingly to the other dinner guests, ‘I rest my case; behold a living example of enslavement by vaccine.’

This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence Challenge with the prompt word of ‘rivalry’.

All of her sons (Jebediah, Jared, Jehosophat, James, Japheth and Jonah) stood at the open grave of Judith Johannson (nee Jericho), where she would finally rest adjacent to her late husband, Joshua.

The rivalry between the sons was legendary and they had already begun arguing about who had travelled further (Junee or Jerilderie), who was going to inherit Jacaranda (the family farm), the JBar in the nearest town, and the Jumping Juniper Jin distillery.

The officiating priest was well aware of the antipathy between the sons and had taken the precaution of providing each of them with their own identical shovel so there wouldn’t be an argument about who got to throw the first sod on to Judith’s coffin.

After the requisite amount of God-bothering from the priest, the sons drew lots to decide the speaking order for the eulogies, with each, of course, wanting to deliver their own.

All went well until Jebediah concluded his heartfelt words with ‘… and you always told me I was your favorite son’, and then all hell broke loose as the sons attacked each with the shovels and, one by one, fell dead or mortally wounded into the grave, on top of their mother.

As the priest wept at the carnage, there was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see a raven-haired beauty in a tight black dress topped with a Grand Canyon-esque cleavage who said, ‘Father, I’m the only daughter, Jezebel.’

This piece was written for the Six Sentence story challenge, with the prompt word of ‘improvise’.

‘Mr. Moneybags, sorry to call you but I’m having difficulty giving instructions to the crew working on your new home, including the carpenters working on the stairs, especially when the architect’s drawings you sent me provide no measurements.’

‘I fell in love with Mr. Escher’s design, knowing that it was eccentric and ground-breaking but, Bob, everyone told me you were the best builder around and there was no problem you couldn’t fix, for a price.’

‘Mr. Moneybags, I can assure you that this is not some sort of shake down for more money; it’s just that we’re having trouble working out, just as an example, how the servant bringing the bottle of wine is going to be able to serve it to you on the terrace.’

‘Yes, I can see the challenge, Bob, but I think you might be holding the drawings the wrong way round and if you orient yourself to the terrace, which clearly must be at ground level, all will become clear.’

‘Sir, we did that and all we could see was you sitting at the table defying gravity and some poor sod sitting on a box doing the same.’

‘Look, Bob, I’m the one providing the money, Max is the architect and you’re the builder, so you’re just going to have to improvise or we’ll get someone else who can actually read a plan!’

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with ‘pawn’ as the prompt word.

Bill droned on with a seemingly interminable tale about his grandfather’s prowess at chess and I had reached the point where my eyes had taken on the appearance of glazed doughnuts, so I interrupted with ‘So he was a pawn star.’

Bill exploded with ‘You never listen, really listen, to a damn word I say because you’re too busy working on some sort of pathetic joke or lame pun that you think will make you sound clever and witty and I am absolutely sick of it!’

To annoy him even further, I sat quietly for a while, pretending to be thinking deeply about what he had said, before I quietly offered ‘I’m writing a story about you and I was trying to make you sound more interesting than you actually are and this is the thanks I get, you ungrateful sod.’

Bill’s tone softened considerably as he said ‘Not that you’re famous or widely-read, but what’s the story about and where am I likely to be able to read it when it’s published, just so I can tell my friends and family that the story is based on me?’

‘Well’ I said, with as much as literary ponderousness as I could muster, ‘it will be about a conversation between a boring, pompous old windbag and a writer at the peak of his literary talents who, while pretending to listen to his companion, is quietly composing scathingly witty ripostes, bon mots and puns with which to enrage said companion, who will be known as E. R. Wig.’

Bill’s face had turned puce and his breath had become gale force and I wondered why he was manically opening and closing his fist, and then it hit me.