Latitudes of a Day on Tale Weaver – #268 – Medical –… Michael on Tale Weaver – #268 – Medical –… Violet Lentz on Tale Weaver – #268 – Medical –… crispina kemp on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #… Michael on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #…
- March 2020
- February 2020
- January 2020
- December 2019
- November 2019
- October 2019
- September 2019
- August 2019
- July 2019
- June 2019
- May 2019
- April 2019
- March 2019
- February 2019
- January 2019
- December 2018
- November 2018
- October 2018
- September 2018
- August 2018
- July 2018
- June 2018
- May 2018
- April 2018
- March 2018
- February 2018
- January 2018
- December 2017
- November 2017
- October 2017
- September 2017
- August 2017
- July 2017
- June 2017
- May 2017
- April 2017
- March 2017
- February 2017
- January 2017
- December 2016
- November 2016
- October 2016
- September 2016
- August 2016
- July 2016
- June 2016
- May 2016
- April 2016
- March 2016
- February 2016
- January 2016
- December 2015
- November 2015
- October 2015
- September 2015
- August 2015
- July 2015
- June 2015
- May 2015
- April 2015
- March 2015
- February 2015
- January 2015
- December 2014
- November 2014
- October 2014
- September 2014
- August 2014
- July 2014
- June 2014
- May 2014
- April 2014
- March 2014
- February 2014
- January 2014
- December 2013
- November 2013
- October 2013
- September 2013
- August 2013
- July 2013
- June 2013
- Carpe Diem
- Faery Tale
- fairy tale.
- Friday Fiction
- Friday Fictioneers
- Haibon haiku
- Haibun Haiku
- Love is In Da Blog
- MLM. Life stories
- music prompt
- old age
- Photo Fiction
- Photo prompt
- Poetry 101
- Poetry Challenges
- Pooky's Prompts
- quote inspired
- soap opera
- Sunday Photo Fiction
- tale weaver
- Tale Weavers
- Vis dare
- word of the week
- writing challenge
- Writing prompt
It was their first date, and although it was basically a takeaway coffee and a sit in the park, one point five metres apart, he was nervous as could be and never really understood when asked in all innocence, what he’d been doing lately he blurted out he’d just had a colonoscopy.
It was hardly the subject to endear himself to her, and most likely the least favourite subject to begin a potential relationship.
“Oh,” she said, not sure what to say.
“I returned a positive result on my poo test,” he replied. His brain by now had gone into ‘it’s too late to back out of this one, forge on, you never know where it might lead’.
“Oh,” she said again. His revelation about the state of his stomach and bowel had left her speechless.
“It’s all okay though, no cancers or anything to worry about.”
“Oh! I’ve never had one. Does it hurt?”
“No, they knock you out and then stick a camera up your bottom and have a look around in your large intestine.”
“Oh! I don’t think I’d like that.”
“Piece of cake really,” he said, “it’s the preparation that’s hard work. You have to drink this stuff that cleans out your bowel so they can get a good look up there. It a liquid diet for about twenty-four hours and a sore as can be bum.”
It was at this point that he realised he had probably revealed more than he should. But nerves will do that to you. Your mouth goes into overdrive and leaves your brain protesting loudly, but its concerns don’t stop your mouth blathering on ignoring all the good advice to shut up coming it’s way.
He noticed that by now the one point five distance had increased to a good two-point-five and she had that look as if deciding when might be the ideal moment to make a dash to safety.
It happened when he opened his mouth to announce the next phase, a pill test, where he told her about having to swallow a tiny camera which would take photos of his small intestine, about sixty thousand he said as if that was something to be impressed by.
“I’m going to have to go,” she told him, “I remembered I promised my mother I’d stop by and wash her hair. It’s been lovely meeting you, thanks for the coffee and I’ll phone you.”
With that, she was up and walking off.
What a shame he thought and I was just getting to the part where I explain how I get rid of the camera.
The house at No. 18 always gave me a weird feeling whenever I walked past.
It was a dark and foreboding place. A high fence sheltered it from the outside world, and the house itself appeared to be sunk into the hill.
If I happened to pause as I went by I could feel a familiarity.
I had never been inside the front gate as far as I knew. My mother had told me to keep away, to not venture inside the gate as bad things had happened there.
When pressed, she would say it was best not spoken about.
The inhabitants of No.18 were a collection of aged sisters. They dressed in black, they shuffled in old age, one was a gardener and was often seen weeding or pruning, another could be seen each Wednesday, on pension day, pulling her shopping cart to the supermarket, head down, ignoring all that surrounded her.
On a bright Sunday morning, I found one of the sisters, Miss Florence, out in the street. She looked troubled, disorientated, she signalled for me to help, I ran to tell my mother, it turned out one of the sisters was ill.
I met my mother as she came out, the ambulance had been called, and the ill sister taken away. Mum looked at me and said: “I’m glad you didn’t go in there, it’s not a pleasant place. I’m glad you don’t remember what happened.”
My mother years later told me what had happened. How I had been caught in the house, the sister’s brother was an unpleasant man, he frightened me, wouldn’t let me go home, I must have been terrified as when I was let go, mum called the doctor and dad went and spoke to the brother who protested he was only being friendly.
It explained the feelings I had walking past.
Clert had been head gardener at the Fairyton Garden for as long as anyone could remember. His family had been gardeners for several generations since great grandfather Dlert had been caught pilfering secret herbs from Madam Floss’ garden and his punishment was to look after the fledgling town garden. To everyone’s surprise, he found he liked gardening, and so it became a skill passed on to future generations.
Now it was Clert’s responsibility, and he took it all very seriously.
He had enacted no-fly zones to preserve the flora, had designated other areas as picnic space and in one far-flung corner of the garden had made a lover’s section, with quiet and solitude much to the thanks of some and the ire of others.
Fairyton was, for the most part, a bit of a back water, it was off the major fly paths, the fairy highway that linked the major cities, but it possessed a bustling community, it had everything you needed in a town, every shop imaginable and on Sunday’s a thriving market selling everything a fairy might need to live more than comfortably.
It was Fairyton who built the first Retirement Home for Aging Fairies. Clert’s mother was a resident there, and he had therefore spent time working on the Home’s gardens with his mum who despite her advanced years still loved to get her hands in the dirt though nowadays she didn’t know the difference between a dandelion and a ruby rose. However, Clert didn’t mind as his mum was out in the sunshine and she still knew who he was, well somedays at least.
As the day drew to a close Clert took his mother’s arm and guided her back into Retirement Home, she thanked him for the gardening and said she was expecting his father at any minute. Clert rolled his eyes and told himself to humour her and said he was looking forward to seeing his father too. “You look a lot like him,” said his mum as he headed out the door.
He returned to the garden in the centre of Fairyton and spent a good hour admiring the colours he had propagated, he flitted from one to the other, his heart full of pride.
(I was unable to load this week’s image.)
Crisp, my aged companion had very definite opinions as to what constituted art.
She was especially biased against graffiti. She saw it as a desecration.
“They should be made to clean it off,” she said her tone laced with distain.
“I’m sure the artist thought it was his best,” I remarked.
I could sense she was getting hot under the collar.
“My uncle Harvey liked to draw on the walls of the barn back home. He claimed it was artistic license, my Aunt called it obscenity and was forever wandering the farm with a bucket of paint and a brush covering over the images he drew. Uncle Harvey had a fixation on the penis. My Aunt explained her husband had never gotten over his arrival at puberty.”
That memory seemed to return Crisp to a time she’d rather forget as she’d been confronted more than once as a young girl by her Uncle’s art work.
When it came eternity, there was only one eatery worth talking about, Hell’s Kitchen.
Located inside the gates of Hell and run by a very large soul called Bruno, the Kitchen served the most delicious food. In particular, it was famous for being the only place in eternity you could get decent sushi.
Bruno had lived an interesting life as a florist. It seemed unlikely that a man such as Bruno would possess culinary skills like he did but as he said on more than one occasion: “It’s amazing what you pick up dealing flowers and stuff.” By ‘stuff’ it was known he learned his trade growing a variety of plants and fungi that resulted in many a lost evening in one way or another.
Today the Kitchen was humming as it always did. For many of Hell’s inhabitants, the kitchen provided a short break from the endless repetition that was all things Hell. Admittedly Bruno was tarred with the same brush, for his menu was the same, day in and out but that never bothered his customers as everything tasted more delicious than anyone imaged and after the day most of them had the Kitchen was respite like no other.
The unique aspect of Hell’s Kitchen was that it attracted both dark angels from Hell and a few white feathery angels from upstairs, so to speak.
It took a bit of convincing for a heavenly angel to gain admittance, but as it was well known, where there was a will, there was a way, even if angelic deities didn’t really have wills as such.
For most heavenly entities, there was a sure-fire way to gain entry, (no pun intended). Heaven was the only place you could get a decent ham sandwich, and no matter how hard Bruno tried, and as simple as the whole process appeared to be, he was unable to make a sandwich like they did in Heaven. So, any angel wanting to eat in the Kitchen, and usually Bruno’s sushi, they would arrive at Hell’s Kitchen with a ham sandwich wrapped in a brown paper bag, present it to the doorman and gain entry.
The angels when eating in the Kitchen were usually placed in a back corner as they had a nasty habit of emitting a light so bring it took all the fun away from the locals enjoying their chosen repast.
Bruno was busy preparing his fiftieth sushi for the day, Dolores, his waitress, was waiting tables, floating from one to another, leaving a trail of ash where ever she went. Ralph his drinks man was concentrating on his drinks counter, getting it wrong more often than not but such was his reputation the worse it tasted, the more challenging, and his customers, after another rough day looked forward to any sort of challenge.
Bruno was on his third ham sandwich when there was a commotion among the cess-pit cleaners. They were often at each other throats, never happy and always smelling foul. As there was no waste in eternity, Bruno wondered how and where their work place was, but somethings he figured weren’t the trouble of asking about. They were an obnoxious bunch of riff-raff, for obvious reasons.
All and any disputes were settled quickly by Bruno, you could easily be banned from the Kitchen, or made to eat what you didn’t order.
With order restored, Bruno went back to what he did best, munch on a ham sandwich and roll some more sushi.
I live in a rural part of the country where isolation is easy to come by and one that is readily chosen over the crowded city.
I do go to the city, it’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Where I live, my house sits on the edge of a flood plain, I have what I consider an ‘ocean view’ as I look out across fields rich in crops at this time of the year.
In this present time of rampant virus’, there’s an advantage in living where I do. I can shun society if I need to, though I do still need to go to the shops, which I did early this morning to stock up on all things necessary, bar toilet paper of course.
I like my own company a lot of the time, though I do find like company very rewarding, especially when it’s as enjoyable as I find it these days.
Having children ensures you can never live an isolated lifestyle, yesterday a sick grandson came for the day, and it’s good to know my kids can call on me when the time comes, and they need my help.
Years ago, I read that, ‘no man is an island’, and John Donne’s words are true today. We need other people from time to time, but occasionally being alone is ok too.