Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Posts tagged ‘humor’

Lucky stack


I was very determined to do some fiction today, it seems.  Here’s a short fic which makes it obvious I’ve been working with RSPCA today.  If you’re familiar with Banjo Paterson’s ‘Mulgar Bill’ another influence will be quite clear.  If not I’ve added it as a quote for those non-australians who are interested. It’s not as well known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’ but still an interesting poem.  The photo is provided as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. *Edit Note on my usage of Stack/stacked: a more common aussie meaning means to stack is to crash. (Been back 4 months and I’ve gone native on you.) Okay, going to give up on coherency now.

Lucky Stack

Linda glowered at her Father. Their locked glares became an emotional battle which chipped away at her willpower. Then, with vision blurred by tears, Linda fled the room, grabbed her bike and sped off into the dusk with her Alsatian, Marco. The gentle whir of wheels counterpointed by panting of Marco as he raced joyfully alongside the bike could not calm her tonight. The wrong was too great, and her mind became a maze as she struggled to find a solution. Suburban terrain gave way to rougher bush track but the pair paid no heed; this was their realm, in it they were free. For the briefest of moments Linda forgot her worries. It was then, with a shriek and a yelp, that the pair came to grief on the twilight track. Bike crumpled, and lost in the dark, it was Marco whom found his way from where his mistress stacked. Though he nudged and licked, Linda did not stir. The worried dog let out a sing-song whine as he waited for her. As the temperature dropped he snuggled close to keep her warm, and kept the night life at bay. When Linda was rescued in the light of a new day, her Father uttered not a word of sending Marco away.

MULGA BILL’S BICYCLE by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"

"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

The Sydney Mail, 25 July 1896.


I started to writeszzzz

Pillow days: days in which we ignore the responsibilities clawing at us and go back to bed.

I am slogging through my possessions, now inconvenient, wondering how I still managed to accumulate so much. Some of the clearing is refreshing. There are things that needed to go. Sadly, though, I have to say good bye to my loyal Dyson. I can just feel it giving me an earful from the closet! It’s lucky I still need it for now; the other junk is lucky I’m struggling to function today. 🙂

If you could take only a suitcase with you, What would you put in it?



This one’s for Friday Fictioneers.  Olivia featured earlier in ‘Typo‘.

Olivia ignored the beaten stray trailing along behind her. Some scraps, and she was forever loyal. Olivia had other concerns. Ever since ‘the incident’ local kids had taken to vandalising her property. She came to an abrupt halt as her precious home came into view. Fists trembled as nails bit into palms. Little Bastards! There they were… Egging her door! The stray sprang past, chasing the vandals off with ferocious snarls. Shrieks satisfied her ears. The stray sat down on her door-step with a sense of entitlement. “All right, Willa, you can stay.”



Combo prompt today.  This one combines prompts from Monday’s Finish the Story and Sunday Photo Fiction.

The old typewriter had a mind of its own. The antique was part of Olivia’s inheritance. Originally, the possessed item belonged to a great-uncle. “Andy had talent,” Grandmother claimed, “With this it will seep into you.” Olivia ignored her; she was interested in its occult nature; keys that moved. The messages received – written by spirits. Olivia had to test it out in Casa rosa, whose unsolved homicides were infamous.

Casa Rosa was unoccupied; occupants didn’t last long. Sneaking in was effortless. Years of redecoration and the dwelling smelt of blood and rot. Olivia lit her candles and got to work. For once, the spirits came when called. The flash-light flickered while the temperature dropped in concert to the house Groaning. The keys clacked.

Get. Out.

Past the typewriter, the walls bled. Taking heed, she bolted.

sunsetCollapsed on the front lawn, she looked up a the sky awash with colours and laughed. Talent indeed.

The keys typed out a new message. I. Meant. Get ME Out.

Bottled brumbies


This lovely photo prompt has been borrowed from VisDare. There are so many ways I could have take this prompt but I went with an Australian western.

Short Glossary:

Brumby – A wild horse

Stockmen – hired ranch hands; usually responsible for the driving of cattle.

Jillaroo – Usually an apprentice stock(wo)men; feminine version of Jackaroo

Bob and his jillaroo daughter, Denise, watched as the stockmen drove the brumbies into a makeshift corral. He tilted his hat against the shifting light; even from here he could see the foaming flanks of the panicked animals. Bob began loading darts into his trank-gun as he spoke. “Keeping brumbies corralled is like bottling a storm. You’ll keep ’em contained for a bit, but eventually the storm will break through, and… Well you best not been in their path when they do, understand?” Bob looked at Denise. Denise nodded, but he could tell from her gaze she was already making her pic from the horses. Bob sighed, rested his weapon and kneed his mount into a trot. When they were close he signalled for the stockmen to fire. “Remember, only the healthy looking beasts! Leave the little’uns.” With the explosive sound of tranquillisers hitting the air the tempest broke free. That day Denise learned that even the weediest of critters has a nasty bite. Bob would turn her into a rancher yet.

Blood treaties.


Finally,  wrote my flash fic for Friday Fictioneers.

Hilda was the picture of a pampered royal. Her wine dripped down King Alfred’s face. “I refused to marry him!” Hilda stormed out of the room. Her father, Raymond, stammered an apology before looking beseechingly at his court advisor, Ilvay. Ilvay shrugged, and twirled his goatee. “Hilda’s impetuous nature can be remedied. Her ruby necklace, Alfred’s blood and a simple enchantment; your treaty will be affirmed by nightfall.” The Royals shared a look, then nodded in unison. “Very well, but… There will be Consequences beyond my knowledge.” Raymond drained his goblet; slamming it down.

“Damn the consequences!” Ilvay bowed; victorious grin hidden.

Disputes with zombies


I’ve borrowed this prompt from Red Lettering.  The artwork is by Laura Hollingsworth.  I think it’s pretty clear I’ve been watching ‘The Walking Dead’ entirely too much.

“See! I told you my sword collection was worth it!! And you said it was a waste of money,” Jake yelled, as he slashed through the skull of a zombie. Sam sunk her sword into the brains of another before her testy response. “That was before the bleedin’ ZOMBIE apocalypse. And do you really think this is the time to have a marital disagreement?!” Jake watched her dispatch three more zombies while arguing with him. Better not rile her up further. “No, you’re righ-Crap!” He narrowly avoided gnashing teeth by plunging his secondary weapon, a dagger, through the desiccated chin of a zombie that was entirely too close. Sam flicked him an irritated look as she helped him fend off the rest. “What did I tell you about talking in battle,” she nagged. Jake bite his tongue, and focused on skill-less sword work. “And why the hell did you never sharpen these things,” she continued. Jake channelled his rising tension into beating the crap out of the last of the zombies. He finally responded as they stood panting over the motionless corpses. “It was illegal to keep them sharpened!” Jake cleaned the gore off the blade with cleanest piece of zombie attire he could find. “That never stopped you pirating movies!” Jake bit his tongue. This was going to be a looong apocalypse.

Sailor Spoon – Sunday Photo Fiction

boatToday’s second challenge prompt is borrowed from Sunday Photo Fiction. This piece is actually flash fiction but given I saw the prompt and could not stop thinking about a ‘Sailor Moon’ episode I saw when I was a preteen I’m no longer sure whether to categorize it as fan-fiction or flash fiction with a pop culture reference. Either way I tried to make it funny.

John braced himself as cruise ship rolled with the waves. Sure enough, Tamara pin-wheeled backwards into his arms. The impact drove an unladylike belch from her slight frame. Geh, alcohol breath. “’scuse.” Then she was off again, mojito in hand, making a bee-line for the stage. John hurried after her, cursing, not again.

Too late! Tamara had already snatched the mic from bemused entertainers, filling the room with her off-key, static-filled singing. “FightING EVIL ‘cup Moonlight, FINDing luuv ‘cup ‘aylight, EVER ‘running ‘cup eel fright, she ‘cup Sailor Spooon!” At this point John managed to wrestle the mic her grip, only to have her throw her arms around his neck, dragging him to the floor. “’Uxedooo ‘Ask!!!”

It was then an icy voice breathed in his ear, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to escort the Lady back to her suit.” The chill crept straight to the base of his spine. He threw the drunkard over his shoulder and vowed to never take her drinking again.


Does anyone else feel like this?

Sleep deprived 
Blood-shot eyes
Slave labour ahead
Bed left behind
Working hard 
Societies bind
Endless days for
Thankless pay
Kick in the pants
That’s the way
Still she stands
Coffee in hand
Facing another day

Random poetry aside, who else feels like this?

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