The challenge this week from Rochelle for Friday-Fictioneers is a lovely picture from Na’ama Yehuda. My first impression to this prompt was to think of Thumbelina and where she would do her laundry? Instead, I have gone for piece about an office party.
More stories form the group can be found HERE. Visit Rochelle for an insight to her world.
The Office Laundry
The office secret Santa presents are useless items given to generate moments of tasteful laughter at the party. They gave Mrs Welsh a pair of woollen knickers as she constantly complained about the cold air beneath her skirt.
Occasionally, the joke was incomprehensible and generated both unease and fodder for speculative gossip. Why did Julie spill her drink and blush when George Carson received a pink toy washing machine?
Doris had seen them holding hands, and Angela thought Julie looked radiant. Should they buy new hats?
Tom, the Devil’s advocate, bought a black tie, in case Mrs Carson found out.
By a lakeside there stood An enormous cottonwood where I wooed a pretty lass and we drunk pink bubbly eating bread and cheese a secret inside her panties she said, was mine to please alas, I knew she was a tease I could not find her hidden spots among those tangled hairy knots
Which deflated my amorous mood Beneath this enormous cottonwood.
Thank you Rochelle for the photo-prompt and for reminding me to visit the opticians for my annual eye test.
Readers please click on Rochelle to visit her site. More stories about the writing prompt can be found HERE.
World out of Focus
We have a range of paranormal spectacles.
Yes, our mood range. The rose lens lets you view the world in eternal, euphoric happiness. Our blue ones present a cynical world of bitterness and grievance. Apparently, they are very popular with politicians.
Our nostalgic glasses will let you wallow in a mud pool of missed opportunities and shameful regrets. However, this monocle will swell you with pride as you relive achievements and insurmountable success at the expense of others.
These, in cotton wool to avoid distortion, present a view of your future.
Thank you, David, for your photo prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. I can imagine sitting in the hotel having breakfast watching torrential rain thunder down outside and thinking -it looks like another day at the indoor pool or playing cards. So much for a day on the beach-.
Olivia screamed in laughter as they dashed through the rain and fluttering confetti into the limousine. Everyone cheered from under their umbrellas. Their photographer abandoned the garden and riverside shots instead took indoor pictures around the reception hotel’s flora.
They left promptly, only to be delayed at Gatwick before their flight took off to Antigua for ten days on hot Caribbean sandy beaches.
Constant lashing rain from the tail end of hurricane Fiona kept the newly weds tucked up in the honeymoon suite. ‘I’m sorry about the rain,’ he said. She kissed him. ‘It’s my fault for marrying you, Noah.’
The sun is out and I am looking forward to a relaxing warm weekend. Roger Bultot’s photo-prompt reminds me to seek the shade if the sun becomes too hot. Thanks to our host Rochelle for presenting the challenge to write a story for our Friday-Fictioneers, a hundred words of fun. More contributions are available by clicking HERE.
We were called the city slickers in our faux Louis Vuitton short-sleeved shirts, embroidered ‘Domino Kings’. We played in the afternoon shade, sipping mint tea or black coffee, enjoying retirement in the street bustle. Slowly, our numbers dwindled. Tony went to stay with his daughters in Chicago. Charlie’s eyesight is blurry with too much brandy, and Derek is getting his hips replaced. Rich George is on a Caribbean cruise with Yasmin for two months.
Today, it is just us two playing pontoon. Darren is winning, and he is annoyingly cantankerous about George getting married.
Gifting items to Charity or Second Hand shops gives you a satisfactory feeling that the once treasured piece will find a new home. Better than it going to the rubbish landfill site. Although, buying something else to fill that space, kind of defeats the idea of having a clear out. I have known someone who has regretted giving away an item then spends days looking for a similar replacement!
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to John Nixon for the Photo-prompt.
I called him Grandad since he would come by and ask the same question. ‘Is it here, yet?’
Occasionally, I invited him in for tea and biscuits. He told me his wife brought it into the shop when she was angry with him, because he went fishing on their first anniversary. She passed recently, and he wants it back.
‘Someone will return it.’ He seemed convinced. ‘They always do.’ He would not say what it was. How was I to know?
‘Is it here yet?’ ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
Now, I haven’t seen him for months. Perhaps he found it at home.
Mary went to close the bedroom curtains, and looking through the window, she saw her neighbour wandering around in his garden. She glanced at her clock. It was almost ten o’clock at night, and a bit late for planting or pruning. Perhaps he was looking for slugs, it was the sort of thing he might do. Poor Mike, for the past year, he had struggled on his own as isolation didn’t suit him.
In the moonlight, the garden was a monochromatic scene where detail merged into the shadows. She saw Mike was now on his knees, digging with a trowel. Mary closed the curtains. She would take a hot drink to him and have a neighbourly chat. Everyone likes some company and a gossip, since living on your own isn’t easy.
Outside, a breeze rustled the branches of the sycamore and blew her dressing gown loose. She pushed open the side gate and closed it with a nudge from her bottom. In her bare feet, she tiptoed across the grass and stood behind him.
‘I know you are there,’ he said and continued digging. ‘Hot chocolate.’ He stood up. ‘Mary! you’ll catch a cold.’ ‘It was the wind.’ She passed him both cups and pulled her flimsy gown together and fiddled with the straps. ‘This is lovely,’ he said. ‘Hot chocolate,’ she said, and sipped her drink. ‘Yes, I know.’ ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit late for weeding.’ ‘Oh, I can’t stand digging out the dandelions when they are in full bloom.’ The knot in the straps of her dressing gown slipped loose. She sipped her drink. ‘The flowers close up in the dark, so I dig up the plants when they’re asleep.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘Mike, why don’t you come over for a nightcap when you’re finished?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I still need to close the shed.’ ‘You do that.’ She closed her gown. She took the cups and ambled across the lawn. With a backward glance, saw him watching as she pushed through the side gate with her hip.
In her living room, she slipped a small log onto the fire and then fetched two glasses. She still had plenty in the bottle of her 12-year-old Macallan to encourage him.