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

Harry: ‘What’s that in aid of then?’

Beryl: ‘It’s a sculpture. To remind us of the homeless.’

Harry: ‘Jesus. The homeless? What about us pensioners, worked all our lives, and paid our taxes. Don’t talk to me about alcoholic layabouts.’

Beryl: ‘Don’t swear. We’re outside a church. No, that’s what it’s called.’

Harry: ‘What is?’

Beryl: ‘The statue.’

Harry: ‘What, Alcoholic Layabout?’

Beryl: ‘No, Jesus The Homeless.’

Harry: ‘Well, he was never homeless, was he? His Mum looked after him, his Dad taught him a trade and I’m sure he could always get a kip with one of the disciples.’

Beryl: ‘You’re missing the point.’

Harry: ‘What point is that? Cluttering up the park benches with statues so pensioners like us have got nowhere to rest? If that’s their point, they’ve done a damn good job of showing how much the younger generations think of the elderly.’

Beryl: ‘No, no, no. It’s to remind us to look after each other, like Jesus said.’

Harry: ‘Yeah and he also said God helps those who help themselves.’

Beryl: ‘No, he didn’t. People like you just made that up to excuse themselves for going back for a second helping.’

Harry: ‘Hey, where are you going?’

Beryl: ‘Inside the church to get the name of the sculptor. I’m going to use the money Mum left me to commission a statue of you to sit next to Jesus. It’ll have a big whole in its chest and I’ll call it Harry the Heartless.’

This piece was written for the weekly photo prompt, the Unicorn Challenge. Note: O’Chester is a chain of barber shops in France.

Bonjour, Monsieur Barber. I need a ‘aircut.

Certainly, Monsieur, what will it be? Short back and sides?

Non, non, non, existentialist. Something that is, but is nothing, and I will experience angst anyway.

Not familiar with that one, Monsieur.

C’est la vie. Then I will have the Marxist. Your working class clippers will rise up against the bourgeois ‘air, clearing the way for the rising of the proletariat.

No Communists allowed in here, mon ami.

Sacre bleu. The Taoist then. One side of my head will be the reverse of the other but be in perfect harmony.

That’s punk. Not having any of that rubbish seen coming out of my shop. Bad for business that is.

I think I’m experiencing a Cartesian crisis here. I think I’m having a haircut, therefore I am, except you won’t cut my hair the way I ask.

Look, Monsieur. Underneath all that philosophising, the French are, at heart, Catholics. You can’t seem to understand that how much you believe in it, there’s no such thing as free will.

But I need a ‘aircut!

And that you shall have, as long as you become a Stoic. They accept things over which they have no control and understand that the pain will pass and they can move on.

So are you going to give me a ‘aircut or not?

Certainly, Monsieur. Short back and sides coming up. Now, what do you fancy in the third at Longchamp?

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

My own phone was dead and the phone box had been vandalised. So I went to the local office of the  YouUsInfinity Global Phone Corporation (formerly the Post Office) to get a proper answer to my question.

Under the sign, ‘Enquiries’, sat a young man with his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. He ignored my presence until I spoke.

“I have a question” I ventured politely.

The young man didn’t look up. He paused long enough to indicate that what was on his screen was inestimably more important than me before saying “Far queue”.

He was gesturing vaguely to his right, where a long line snaked away from a similar window marked ‘Questions’.

Thirty minutes passed with no sign of the line progressing. An old, stooped man, with hair sprouting wildly from his ears, was in front of me and I asked how long he’d been waiting. He mumbled “Since yesterday. I hear they’re experiencing longer than normal wait times.”

I sighed and walked slowly to the street exit. The trouble is when I ask the Corporation’s virtual assistant, Sirexa, the question, “What is the meaning of my life?” this is her reply. “Based on the data in our systems, after a series of events, your life will end. If it ultimately has a significant purpose, it will be recorded. You’ll have to wait and see.”

But surely that can’t be right. So I went to ask the vicar and all he said was “God knows.’

This piece was adapted for this week’s Unicorn Challenge from a longer story ‘Speaking ill of the dead’ published by Bloom in February this year.

‘One more cup of coffee before I go, to the valley below’ – Bob Dylan

I don’t know why I keep coming to this café. In fact I do, but that’s what I used to say ritualistically when I met friends there occasionally and they complained about the espresso coffee (too much or too little crema), the unsmiling service provided by the grandchildren of the original Italian owners and the mass-produced tasteless cakes.

‘I don’t know why’, I would say and mumble self-deprecating words of mock embarrassment that varied from ‘Force of habit’ to ‘I love the irony of the unchanged tacky 70’s décor’ to ‘Loyalty to the memory of Franco and Nina, who fed me often when I was an impoverished Uni student.’

These days, I only come to the cafe alone. I do not lie to myself about what this café means. I know it is simply a familiar shell into which, like the hermit crab that I have become, I scurry, knowing full well it is a home borrowed from someone else’s past.

That past is mine. One filled with desperation to be as unlike my father as I possibly can, one filled with self-loathing when his genes ambush me unprepared.

In my retirement village, as I slide inexorably into more intrusive levels of care that involve a revolving door of underpaid strangers paid to be patronisingly respectful, I cling to the last of my freedom and capacity to shuffle with my walker to come to this café. I fancy it because it is all of me that is left.

This piece was written for the weekly photo prompt from the Unicorn Challenge. I’m a former postman myself so of course I’m not being serious. But then again, I would say that, wouldn’t I?

‘Well, I see three problems for starters.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You told them it was fragile. Everyone knows the Post Office is a sheltered workshop for sociopaths. Red rag to those bullies.’

‘What else?’

‘You told them there was an enclosure. Everyone knows the Post Office is a sheltered workshop for animal rights activists and you tell them that inside there’s something that could be used to enclose some poor creature and they’re not having any of that, are they?’

‘You said there were three.’

‘You put the return address on it so they could send it back and imagine your face when you saw their handiwork. Everyone knows the Post Office is a sheltered workshop for sadists.’

‘Damn. I didn’t want it to arrive broken. What should I have done?’

‘Simple. You can buy stickers that say ‘JUST ANOTHER PIECE OF UNSOLICITED CRAP WE’RE SENDING TO EVERYONE ON THE MAILING LIST WE BOUGHT ON THE DARK WEB. IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER IF IT NEVER GETS DELIVERED BECAUSE IT’S GOING STRAIGHT INTO THE RECYCLING BIN ANYWAY STRAIGHT AFTER IT’S BEEN RETRIEVED FROM SOMEONE’S LETTER BOX.’ Everyone knows the Post Office is a sheltered workshop for nihilists.’

‘You’re so cynical. I’m sure there are some wonderful people who work at the Post Office and they do their best to deliver …..’

‘Oh, please, spare the me the ‘through rain, hail, sleet or snow’ speech. Anyway, got to be off or I’ll be late for work. New job. Local Post Office.’

This piece was written for the weekly photo prompt from the Unicorn Challenge, hosted by Jenne Gray and CE Ayr.

To describe what Jerry had built as a ‘structure’ strained the definition to breaking point and made Escher’s multi-dimensional fantasies seem like a housing project blueprint in comparison.

The foundations, to the extent that they existed at all, consisted of a tissue of lies laid haphazardly on top of the quicksand of his adolescent fantasies of transcending his mundane suburban origins.

The walls seemed like Japanese-style internal sliders but were made of little more than recycled pizza boxes covered in a decoupage of graduation certificates, attendance records, little athletics participation ribbons and degrees purchased online.

The floors (or, more correctly, flaws) comprised remaindered books rescued from a rubbish skip, including ‘The Wit of L. Ron Hubbard’, ‘1001 Ways With Tripe’ and ‘Brain Surgery For Dummies’.

The doors had been salvaged from building site toilets that had reached their use-by date, complete with graffiti of historical significance on the insides, such as ‘Call Samantha for a good time’, ‘Quinoa causes cancer’ and ‘Gravity sucks’.

The stairway to the upper floor included a bannister, topped with lubricant to aid sliding, and a captain hook for attaching a bungee rope for thrill-seekers facing their fear of losing their ability to reproduce on the newel post at the bottom.

Immediately after its completion, with a roof consisting of knitted strands of titanium barbed wire designed to both deter pigeons and block the mind controllers, Jerry invited architectural prophets to review his edifice and their words are written on the subway walls.

This piece of deep existentialist collage poetry was inspired by this week’s Unicorn Challenge photo prompt.

The bleak midwinter arrived in

the middle of winter

and it was bleak.

Not moor bleak;

more bleak than that.

The wind was keen,

not in that American neat way

nor like mustard,

but sharp

and bleak

because it was midwinter.

I watched it being bleak midwinter

until I saw her

through the glass darkly

of the doors of

the bus to nowhere

and I knew I had to

make her mine, make her mine, make her mine.

I leapt aboard and raced up the aisle,

skirting the vegan haggis eaters,

knocking over old men that looked like Keith Richards

and trampling on the children of the revolution

until I could see her

gazing out the window at Itchycoo Park.

Later, we performed Shakespeare in the park.

She wore a yellow cotton dress

foaming like a wave on the ground around her knees.

I wore a hot fever ironed strip-ed pair of pants

and followed her in the dance

as the park began melting in the dark,

with pea-green rain pouring down and

our passion flowed like pea soup in the sky.

We took a magic carpet ride

and travelled with birds

like tender babies in our hands and

looked down on old men

tossing cabers by the tussocks.

But then the conductor asked me for my ticket

and threw me off

on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

just near Desolation Row

at Loch Step.

Again I watched it being bleak midwinter

but I don’t think God did.

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

Are you comfortable, Mr. Bean?

Yes, thank you.

Before we start, a little housekeeping. Can you please use the coaster provided for your water glass. The rings are difficult to wipe off.

Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.

That’s fine. You’ll remember next time.

Yes.

Then let’s begin. Why have you brought a blunderbuss, a hat and blue glasses with you today?

They’re evidence.

Of what?

My ebaylia.

Sorry, what condition is that?

It’s the term used for Ebay addicts. I read about it on the internet.

Ah, Dr. Google strikes again. So you have a compulsion to buy things on Ebay?

Useless things. That’s the problem.

Can you tell me why?

It’s embarrassing.

Alright, why don’t you tell that imaginary person in the empty chair, so you don’t have to look at me.

Who should I imagine?

Someone with whom you would share an intimate secret.

I don’t have anyone like that. Can it be my teddy?

If that helps.

Alright then. Teddy, I’m an ebayliac. I have this addiction to buying useless things on Ebay. I bought a hat, when I hate hats. I bought some blue glasses, when I already knew they didn’t work. And lastly, a blunderbuss thingy, when I hate guns. I tell people that I don’t know why but I do. They’re symbolic of my own uselessness and lack of worth.

Excellent, Mr. Bean. I’m glad we got to the bottom of your problem so quickly. You can pay the receptionist on the way out.