Fiction, Humour, Writing

Feverish Football Fanatics

Feverish Football Fanatics Image

They loaded into the lounge, laughing laddishly whilst listening to the LCD TV lament the last lapse attempt this team made, labelling it as a lazy, lifeless, losing effort that could have lost them the league.

‘Brutal, Ben. Absolutely, bloody brutal. A beating by which nobody has ever been blown away by.’

‘Bloody right, Bill! A bewildering display brought about by some behind the ball blabbering that has been bubbling beneath the blanket benignly until… Boom!’


Patrick picks up his pint and pours a portion partially down before impulsively spraying other proud patrons in passionate reprisal of the pundit’s patronizing portrayal.

‘What a pile of pony poo!’ he pipes up. ‘This pundit’s misplaced the plot!’

‘Your right!’ Rick responds. ‘Ridiculous refereeing was the rightful reason.’ raucously reminiscing. ‘It’s an unrealistic reflection of the reds’ real readiness to right the wrongs in remaining arrangements.’

‘Flippin fact!’ Fergus figures, ‘They’re forever flavouring the facts by flinging foul fictitious fantasies in football features. It’s friggin’ fanciful!’

……..

Two halves of hastefully hammering goals behind a harmless keeper, has hastened their heroes to humbling their heretics.

Fiction, Humour, Writing

A Rich Blend.

A RLich Blend Image

This is a little piece I wrote in one of my creative writing classes. We were asked to set it in a coffee shop in an airport and experiment with dialogue.


I enjoyed the refuge that Camilo’s place provided. Refuge from the plague of tourists outside. Tourists documenting their lives with images. Images that lie. They’re just passing through.

Camilo welcomes me.

“Eh!!!… Mister Tourist!

Coffee?

Lorena!

Coffee for Mister Tourist!…

How are you this evening Mister Tourist?

How is your woman?

She is happy that you are out of the house.

Heh heh heh!

That reminds me of a good joke…

A woman walked into a joke shop…

She didn’t get anything!

Heh heh heh!

Do you like it?

What time is it?

Three…

You will want to eat too…

Lorena!

His lunch too!…

I apologize Mister Tourist!

She is getting old, slow, deaf and fat…

I will have to get blind to stay with her.

Heh heh heh.

One moment please.

I will get the coffee”

The coffee is good. It always is. Lorena makes it.

“Mister Tourist, tell me, why do you stay in this country?

Why not go home?

There is nothing here.

Do you stay for the women?

I don’t think so…

The women are ugly.

Look at Lorena…

Heh heh heh!

Do you stay for money?

This country has no money…

You can get more money at home.

I think I know why you stay.

You stay here because you run from home…

Is this it?

Are you a criminal at home?

They will put you in jail if you go home…

Heh heh heh.

This must be it.

There is no other reason.

Mister Criminal Tourist…

Heh heh heh!

They should make a movie about you Mister Criminal Tourist.

That will be the name of the movie…

Mister Criminal Tourist…

Heh heh heh!

Do you like it?

We can make it.

I will get my camera.

You can play the part of Mister Criminal Tourist.

Starring Mister Criminal Tourist,

As Mister Criminal Tourist,

In Mister Criminal Tourist…

Heh heh heh!

We will make millions and then we will both get out of this country…

To a country with loads of beautiful women…

Heh heh heh!

Do you like it?

Lorena!!!

Where is this man’s lunch?”

The food is good. It always is. Lorena must have been born in a kitchen.

“Mister Tourist.

Are you finished?

Are you leaving?

I will see you tomorrow if I don’t win the lotto.

Say hello to your beautiful woman for me.”

Now I’m sitting in a cafe in an airport. It’s bright. The coffee is burnt, overpriced and served with a smile. A smile that some man in a suit has scared onto this girls face. “Sandra” her name tag reads. Sandra burns my toasted sandwich and serves it to me with a smile. When I’m finished she overcharges me with a smile. She takes my money with a smile, she thanks me with a smile and she wishes me a nice day with a smile.

I pay for the memories, not the service.

Fiction, Humour, Writing

The Ferry

The Ferry image 3

The sun came out to turn our car into an oven and spoil the small bottle of milk that we had brought for our tea. We rolled down the windows to let the cool air and camper-van fumes in, sweating while we eagerly waited for the long line of traffic to edge forward as each vehicle verified with passport control that passengers were who they said they were and ‘illegal immigrants’ weren’t crammed in as tight as commuters on the tube at rush hour, sweltering as their shirt collars and neck ties strangle them, and their collective body heat and deprivation of ventilation inebriates them.

One look at our one litre, two-door car and a brief glance at our passports was enough to satisfy the uniformed lady with the hard stare; one Caucasian female and one Caucasian male, driving a car so small that a litre bottle of sour milk is considered ‘luggage’. We probably seem like the least threatening of this bunch of ferry-goers, who are mostly pairs of pensioners, eager to whittle away a couple of weeks on foreign soil, in a slightly warmer climate, in the comfort of their air-conditioned vans and a safe distance away from their adult children, who incessantly demand babysitting duties.

We move and we stop and we start and we sweat and we wait for our turn to drive our four-wheeled snack into the gaping mouth of the ferry-beast, within whom we will spend the next sixteen hours; either stretched out across a couple of bar-stools, desperately trying to evade insomnia as the rumble of the giant engines vibrate the pits of our stomachs and the gentle swaying of the sea dizzies us into a state of silent, numb and apparently eternal boredom, while the darkness of the post-closing-time hours ticks past us; or stretched out upon the deck, letting the sun turn our skin a gentle shade of blister, staring into the ocean with the hope of spotting dolphins or sharks or sea monsters, eventually seeing nothing but a seagull, nipping at the surface of the water and signifying our journey’s end.

Fiction, Humour, Writing

Open Mic

Open mic image

They stare up with their naked faces and observe the long-haired, round-faced young woman, her hands shaking with nerves, shuffling through pages, squinting through the bright stage lights and sweating under their heat. The expressionless faces waiting to be encouraged this way or that, a frown, a smile, a gasp, a giggle, a tear; just one will do; it will make the multitude that the young woman has poured over her paragraphs seem a little less useless. All they want is content. Coherent content that they can soak up and process, through those brains, between those ears, behind those eyes; that glare up with so much focus; gazing through the young woman’s naked soul.

A pair of lungs get cleared and the sound echoes and rumbles through the room, deafening for the young woman, inaudible to the audience.

She lowers her focus to the pages that she shuffles through her hands and she tries to think. She knows what she must do. She must deliver herself from this moment of stomach wrenching pause. She must transport the audience away from reality. She must bring them on the journey that she once traveled in a dream life. She must show them the butterfly effect that caused these organised smudges to form letters, that formed words, that now crawl from her mouth, and grow wings, and flutter through the air, and perch on each of the ears in the room.

For a moment, they smile; a momentary indication of delight at the sight of words that metamorphose. But this pretty exhibition of pixie magic is not enough to satisfy their demonic appetites as they grab the butterflies from above their ears shove them between their teeth and munch on them like dragons on horse bones, preferring to feed on the girl’s pain and labour than to gaze upon her creations with awe.

She returns from her pages to the polite applause of the audience, their facial expressions still unstirred, no smiles, no frowns, no tears; not one. She descends from the stage and returns to her seat amongst her demons.

It was the content. It was too sweet. She shouldn’t have sugar coated the butterflies. It’s a lesson learnt and another dagger through her heart. That doesn’t matter now. It’s her turn to throw the daggers.

Fiction, Humour, Writing

To Do

To Do Image

1. Wake Up

-ongoing

2. Get out of bed

-check

3. Get dressed

-check

4. Eat breakfast

-check

5. Solve the mysteries of life

-ongoing

6. Achieve eternal happiness

-ongoing

7. Write easier ‘to do’ list

8. Fail to complete new ‘easier to do’ list

9. Write another new list

Fiction, Humour, Writing

Dinner

Dinner Image

The bus nudged it’s passengers from side to side as it rapidly navigated through the sharp, narrow roads of the town. A curious old lady sat in one of the reserved front seats. She leaned her head to a side to better observe the contents of the pink plastic shopping bag that dangled in front of her. At first she thought it was some sort of white cuddly toy. But when she took her spectacles from around her neck and perched them on her nose the image came into focus and she saw it move. The bag was slung over a boy’s shoulder, the handles of the bag in one of his hands, a bus pole in the other. A head protruded from the top of the bag and returned the old lady’s curious glances with bright eyes, twitching whiskers and it’s long ears standing to attention. She looked and smiled at the boy and leaned forward in her seat to touch and feel the soft, white ears.

‘Is this your rabbit?’ she asks the boy, ‘he’s very pretty!’

‘Yeah. This is Dinner.’ the boy replies.

The old lady sits back in her seat, her expression of charmed admiration, slipped into confusion, to disgust, and back to confusion. The boy pushed the button on the pole and hopped off the bus.

He skipped along the footpath with Dinner swaying from side to side over his shoulder until he got to Lucy and Ciara‘s house. He knocked on the door and Lucy came out and lead him through the house to the tiny back garden where a box, smashed together with bits of old, white-painted, skirting boards and chicken wire, housed another black and white bunny. Ciara, the younger of the two girls stands over it, dropping pellets of rabbit food through the wire.

‘Is that her?’ the boy asks.

‘That’s her.’ Ciara says as she throws herself to her knees and removes the stone that keeps the door closed. She stretches an arm in and rummages after the bunny, trying to avoid getting her wool jumper caught in the stray, rusty nails that protrude within. She grabs her by a hind leg and lifts her from the box as she squirms to free herself from her grasp. She drops her on the grass and she scurries a couple of steps into space.

‘Isn’t she the coolest rabbit you ever saw?’ Ciara asks.

‘Dinner is cool too!’ the boy reacts. ‘What did you name it?’

‘Brittany. After Brittany Spears’ Lucy replies with pride.

‘Brittany the bunny… I like it.’ the boy says.

‘We can call one of the babies Brinner.’ Ciara shouts as she chases Brittany around the lawn, trying to gather the evasive bunny up into her arms so she can hold it and give it love.

‘Or Brunch.’ the boy adds.

‘Why would you call it Brunch? That doesn’t make any sense.’ Ciara reprimands, tired now from her futile attempt to catch the rabbit.

The boy shrugs his shoulders and lowers the plastic bag to the ground and releases Dinner.

Dinner immediately mounts Brittany and begins trusting quickly.

‘Should we give them some privacy?’ Lucy asks.


‘Maybe they escaped!’ Ciara says when the boy returned a month later. He was confused. Lucy had told him at school that day that Brittany was after having little bunny babies that morning. The three of them stood over the box, bewildered by the absence of the bunny babies.

‘They might have squeezed through the tiny holes in the wire and ran away.’

They turned the little back garden upside down searching for them, checking every bush, shrub, flower and blade of grass but to no avail.

The next day they found little bones in Brittany’s poo.