Sunday Writing Prompt “Uncontrollable Nonsense”

It all came as such a surprise when he was notified that he had won. What was remarkable was he couldn’t remember entering the contest. He looked it up.

“Write your thoughts on the notion that most creative thought is really dressed up nonsense.”

He knew the topic was one close to his heart, after all most of his life he lived in a bubble as far from reality as he could manage and he’d been told on more than one occasion that his writing was little more than creative nonsense.

After all who in their right mind mind would write an entire novel, five hundred pages, centred around a man and a bath towel. But he had, he found his mind going there day in and day out. The towel took on a life of its own and he become obsessed with it giving it characterisations he knew it clearly didn’t deserve.

But here it was, a prize winner and wondered what that meant.

Another letter arrived congratulating him and offering to buy the rights to his novel in order to turn it into a movie. He initially thought it was the silliest of ideas, how could you sustain a film about a man and a towel and retain any sort of credility?

A week later and three days out from the presentation ceremony at the Opera House he received another letter from the film company with ideas and plans for a range of merchandise. This of course included a range of towels with smily faces similar to the one mentioned in the novel.

He had planned to ignore the film idea, he knew what he had written, and yes he began to agree his novel was well written but that didn’t elevate it to anything note worthy in his eyes, as far as he was concerned nonsense was nonsense and he’d passed off his novel as something more than nonsense and in his opinion that made the whole notion of an award even more ludicrous.

He received a call from the presentation people outlining the presentation and suggesting what he might wear, black tie was apparently the way to go, as the presentation, in the Opera House was considered a big deal and according to the caller there was a huge expectation from the committee for him to attend and say something pithy during the award ceremony.

He went back over his notes to see if and when he must have submitted the text to the contest. In the back of his mind he thought Mavis his cleaner who was always rooting around on his desk under the guise of cleaning and dusting may have taken matters into her own hands as she had stepped beyond her role on more that one occasion. He liked Mavis, she cleaned his house each Wednesday, she was eccentric and he liked her for that. If it was Mavis who sent in his novel would she expect a part of the reward as it was her initiative that resulted in his being recognised.

But Mavis, duster in hand, denied all knowledge of doing anything other than cleaning his house.

He sat a pondered his situation as the novel had now taken on an air of ‘uncontrollable nonsense’.

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Tale Weaver – #276 – Books -21st May


He was surrounded by books of every type. Waiting patiently for him to finish one then select his next foray into escapism.

That’s the beauty of books, there doesn’t seem to be any end of them, and each one the product of a talent far greater than his own.

He read with great passion, exploring worlds separate from his own, marvelling at the imagination of authors who took him into the minds of criminals, to people living in towns or cities and coping with the everyday turmoil of life.

There didn’t seem to be a topic that wasn’t explored in one way or another. The loneliness of people, the violence of domestic situations which sometimes ended in a pleasing resolution and sometimes the writer allowed him to travel over a cliff and see the utter futility of the actions of one over another.

He was particularly drawn to local authors for no other reason than feeling he wanted to support local writers who were going about the business of providing him with entertainment. Apart from that many were excellent writers and he would have loved to write a book of his own, but he had come to understand he had the attention span of a goldfish meaning he could only concentrate of a topic for a limited amount of time before his mind wandered to something else and he grew tired of the topic he was at that time writing. Five hundred words and he was done though there had been times when he’d explored a subject for longer than he might normally do so.

As he aged, he grew content to read the works of others and let his own writing reflect their writing, after all, playing with words was in his mind such a fun thing to do. He wasn’t into copying the writings he read but rather to see if he could adopt one or two of their methods into his own writing. He’d certainly done it with some characters he repeatedly wrote, and that was fun.

So he looked over at his growing library and wondered which of the growing list of unread volumes he might be drawn to next.


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Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #66 – Arthur Durgs.


Each morning when Arthur Durgs rose from his bed, his first thought was what he might write about that day. He marvelled at the word processor he now possessed thanks to the generosity of his son Paul.

Now that he was confined to the nursing home and the threat of contracting the virus hung over his head he knew his days to write might well be limited as he’d seen so many of his fellow nursing home companions go down to the virus which once it took hold of you seemed to delight in bringing about your demise.

Like so many of his age, he liked his routines, and upon rising and completing his ablutions, he dressed in his suit with his favourite tie and began by going over the previous days writing. He normally had a good fifteen minutes for revision before the nurses would come to take him to breakfast.

He been working on a tale for his grandson, Cyrus, as the boy was a lively fellow and when he came to visit would give his parents merry hell as he raced around Arthur’s room and so Arthur had engaged him in the writing of a tale the boy was contributing to. So far there were apples, dinosaurs and a frog, which Arthur was trying to spin into some sort of tale. But he saw it as a challenge and was determined to finish it for Cyrus, at least leave him with something from his grandfather.

It was when he returned from breakfast that he opened another page on his computer to record the ever-dwindling numbers around him.

Gracie from room 4 was not there today, neither was Bill from room 15. The breakfast room was getting more and more sparse every day. On the wall outside the breakfast room was a growing list of those who had died.

But Arthur, as sobering as he found it all, sat back at his computer and started typing, the sense of urgency getting greater each day.


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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #80 – Crisp’s School Days.

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What do you see # 30 – 18 May 2020 – A Girl’s Space.

It was a lot easier to stay behind the tree. They couldn’t see her there.

She liked nothing better than sitting on the seat, looking out over the fields, taking in the birds who lived there and just on the odd occasion a rabbit would hop across.

But she knew the danger of being seen. It had happened too often, and so now her ears were attuned to the sound of any approaching steps.

She’d stay behind the tree and watch, wait for them to move on, careful to make n sound.

If she was particularly spooked, she would hide up in the tree. She’d become very adept at shimmying up into the tree where amongst the thick foliage she could hide for long as was necessary.

This was her place, and she guarded it closely. If they found her and took her away, what would she have then?

There was always the bush, plenty of places to hide in there, but nothing moved her soul as did the tree and the open field. She felt as one here, and she wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone to take it from her.



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Thursday photo prompt: Dance #writephoto – The School Dance

I was reminded of the days of the old school dance.

They were strictly supervised by Brother Kevin and Sister Mary. The dances brought together the two catholic schools, and for both boys and girls, it was not only a treat but also a novelty like no other.

Brother Kevin and Sister Mary saw it as their responsibility to maintain a sense, at least in their eyes, of some decorum as our teenage hormones raged rampant.

Brother Kevin carried a piece of two-by-one timber about a metre in length, which he used to keep couples at a respectable distance. He was also not backward in hitting any boy he thought needed a swift reminder of his own responsibility even though we didn’t hold to having any such responsibilities on a night like this.

Their problems were exacerbated when the old-time dances were initiated. It was then we got to actually take hold of the girls, and they looked forward to it too.

The arms-length became arbitrary, and I saw Sister Mary particularly agitated as she skirted the dance floor urging couples to maintain a safe distance, which they did until she turned away and they resumed their respective close encounters.

It was clear from the behaviour of both teachers that the 10.30 finish of the dance couldn’t come fast enough. By the end of the night, they were both exhausted, happy to say good night to us all and both praying that in the coming weeks there would be no phone-calls from worried parents about the biological state of their respective daughters.

Us, on the other hand, went home fired up with lust and desire, phone numbers exchanged and secret rendezvous arranged.



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Tale Weaver – #275 – Fairytale – The Frog Prince – 14th May


Stan had lived on the lily pad for as long as he could remember.

As the years passed more and more young frogs, found they were being kissed and turned into handsome princes Stan maintained his belief that one-day he too might transform into the handsome prince he knew lay beneath the warty exterior of his aging self.

He couldn’t quite remember the circumstances that bought him to the pond. Time he found was like that, it took on a form where the present was all that mattered, the yesterdays faded but not the desire for he was sure he had once enjoyed a much more luxurious life, if not dryer than his present one.

Day in and day out he sat in the pond watching the world go by. Beautiful princesses came and went, his neighbourhood princes were selected and disappeared into the realm of the humans, and Stan stayed on, knowing as each day passed his chances of getting away from the pond were less and less likely.

It was a Tuesday, Stan liked Tuesday’s, though he was never sure why there was a certain ring about a Tuesday and he heard the approach of voices. The voices materialised into the form of a young lady, with beautiful dark hair but her body was bent, and she walked with the aid of a stick. Her companion was her nurse and was arguing the futility of being near the pond.

“I’m telling you there are only old crusty frogs here and I wouldn’t be touching any of them for you never know where they might have been,” Stan heard the nurse say.

“The sage told me if I found the right frog I would find my Prince,” replied the young lady in what Stan took to be the sweetest voice he’s ever heard.

Being an old frog on a lily pad didn’t leave Stan with a lot of room for looking his best. But he was taken by the young lady’s voice and did all be could, at least in his head to look his best, should she glance his way.

To his surprise, she came close and reaching down, she scooped him up and held him in her hand.

“Oh look,” she said to her nurse, “ this one looks so cute, and I wonder what might happen when I kiss him.”

Stan wasn’t sure either, he’d seen it happen to others, and the transformations were always spectacular, but he imagined, in his case, there’d be a few cobwebs to clear away and a few wrinkles to be ironed out if any change was to occur.

Her lips when they touched on his own, were enough to melt his heart. There was a flash of light, stars shone; he felt his soul leaving his body as everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes, he was laying on the bank of the pond, dressed in handsome Prince’s clothing. Beside him on the bank was the young lady who as she awoke looked at him in wonder.

Stan found himself standing in front of the young lady; she was no longer bent but was now tall and elegant.

“I was told if I found the right frog he would not only transform himself but me also, “ said the young lady. “Thank you, my Prince.”

Taking Stan’s arm, for he was a tad unsteady after so long crouching on the lily pad, and ignoring all his instincts to stick out his tongue for a fly or two, she led him away towards her castle where her nurse had hurried off to in readiness for the great announcement.


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