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

This is my home station, Limbo. Technically, it’s limbus patrum, the Limbo of the Fathers, but we patriarchs just say ‘Limbo’. We all know what that means (and it’s not breaking your back bending under a stick). And we all believe we’ll be saved from Hades one day.

When our train comes in, we’ll be taken up into the Bosom of Abraham. (Frankly, we’d prefer the Bosom of the Virgin Mary but it is what it is, as the Great Trumpeter says, constantly.)

The Limbo of the Fathers is that place where we men speculate endlessly on whether we should have ever had children. Stepfathers wonder if they should have acquired children (was that really God’s will?).

The next bit of gristle we tackle is whether we were the best father we could have been with what we had available. Too harsh, too soft, too mean, too generous, too unforgiving, too forgiving, better than our own fathers or worse and the list expands with each passing day (to the extent that ‘days’ apply in Limbo).

And in the darkest times, we spread out and hunker down alone, with our personal sackcloth and ashes, and wonder if we were ever truly loved by the children in our orbit. Eventually, we throw off the sackcloth and arise from our meals of ashes, hungry for the next world and what we expect will be its hard beauty.

But we don’t know. That’s the world of Limbo.

Bonus –The greatest love song ever written involving trains. Over to you, Robert Johnson. https://youtu.be/07T3h0b93Rg

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

After the war over how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, the Holy See withdrew in a sulk and the Jesuit shipyard was forced to close. Unfortunately, it happened to occur at the time when the Holy Vessel (aka The Ark of the Convent) was in dry dock for repairs to its ageing cubits. Nobody wanted to buy it (the economy had receded along with the tideline) until the shrewd septuagenarian Michelangelo Escher sensed an opportunity.

He offered to salvage the stranded ship of the Vatican State, in return for a lifetime pass from Confession and the automatic dispensation of any sins committed from that point on, into Eternity (which took care of the Fires of Hell option).

He erected a brick façade around the ship’s shiver-me timbers, divided the interior up into rooms not much bigger than a monk’s cell, and then rented them out to True Believers for a fortune. After all, who wouldn’t want to end their days in one of the rooms in the Lord’s house of many mansions?

In a nod to the building’s heritage, the street at the front (known as the Path of the Righteous) was level. However, if you strayed around the corner into Old Nick Street, you would find the steep climb to the luxury apartments of the Earthly Rewards project, with its sublime central heating emanating from the convenient grid that opened for an express descent to Hades. But, what the Hell, the views were Divine.

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

We didn’t need conspiracy theories in the 60’s; we had sure and certain knowledge spread through reliable networks of people just like us. We didn’t need the internet to know that The Man was behind everything that ailed the planet. And he was out to get us all. Remember, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they’re NOT out to get you.

Using marijuana as an excuse not to grow hemp, which could clothe the world. Damming the rivers so they could sell us the water. Denying patents for razor blades that never dulled and light bulbs that never dimmed.

And the wars to supposedly ‘liberate’ the people of resource-rich countries that just happened to involve the sacrifice of the young unemployed in their thousands, killing several birds with one attempt to bomb the ‘enemy’ back to the Stone Age.

But the one idea they feared the most was that the auto industry would collapse and that oil would no longer be the neon god to whom they prayed. They denied patents for cars that ran on water and pooh-poohed the idea that the sun’s energy could be harnessed to drive the grid (and cars).

Standing before you is a fine example of an idea that sent shivers down their spine. A bicycle that could take you around the world, solely driven by flower power. But The Man took over all the seed companies and ensured flowers no longer gave out free energy. That would be worse than Communism!

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?’

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.

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.

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.’

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.’

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

‘Mr. Dooverlacky, I’m here on behalf of the Amalgamated Conductors, Wheeltappers and Dining Car Operatives Union to demand an explanation as to the new installation in the staff ablutions area.’

‘So, Alf, you want to know about the purpose  of the Accoutrement Bleu in the staff lavatory? Perhaps you imagine it might be a surveillance device to act as a stool pigeon? Or a wee measurement tool to see which employees are making a welter of their relief breaks? No, no, no. It’s there as a management-funded benefit for our employees.’

‘Then you’ll need to explain its purpose, because my members ain’t half got their knickers in a knot about what it is.’

‘Certainly, Alf. It’s what we call The Blue Box Of Happiness. No longer will Charlie’s prostrate have him prostate in frustration. Miss Faversham will be able to enjoy all the movements of Beethoven’s Fifth unrestrained. And all staff will be able to rearrange their undergarments for maximum comfort without the embarrassment of attempting to do so surreptitiously in the course of their duties.’

‘So what’s the purpose of the big red eye in the middle then? Is that some sort of camera?’

‘Perish the thought, Alf. That simply indicates it is functioning.’

‘Why not a green light then?’

‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, we were concerned that it might encourage all sorts of licentiousness. Behind closed doors and that sort of thing, what.’

‘Agreed, sir. Now if you don’t mind, nature calls.’