Finally, my wife and I have successfully moved ourselves and our dogs from the middle of France to the north of England - well, not exactly the absolute middle or the absolute north, but near enough. We have left a house that was too big for us and sat on an acre of land that needed a lot of maintaining (nearly two hours on a ride-on mower), and moved into a smaller home with a back garden that only takes about twenty minutes to cut with a small electric mower. Finally, six weeks after leaving France and three weeks after moving in here, we have broadband again. So, without further ado, here's the full, complete KK224.
Kreative Kue 223 asked for submissions based on this photograph:
John W Howell is the author of the John Cannon trilogy of My GRL, His Revenge, Our Justice and Circumstances of Childhood, co-author of The Contract, and blogs at Fiction Favorites.
Our Day by John W. Howell © 2019
“So when do you think she’ll be here?”
“I thought she would have been here by now.”
“Could it be we missed her?”
“How is that possible? All these people have been waiting, and they would have seen her.”
“Did you ask anyone.”
“Heavens no. I’m embarrassed enough as it is without making a scene. Besides. Look at them. They are all looking down the driveway.”
“Maybe there is another arrival they are looking to see.”
“Please. This is the only thing going on here today.”
“Well, I think it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Enough. Do I need any more humiliation?”
“Suit yourself. One last question.”
“Please get whatever it is off your chest. Ask away.”
“Do you recognize any of these folks?”
“Now that I look I can say I don’t.”
“Don’t you think that a bit odd?”
“Put that way, I guess I do.”
“Do you have the invitation?”
“Yes, it is right here.”
“What is the name and address of the church?”
“This is silly. I know where the church is. We had a rehearsal here last week.”
“All Saints Church. 39 Pastoral Way.”
“Do you see the name on that sign?”
“Yes. All Saints Chape—Yikes. This is the wrong church. What. . . I put the address in the GPS system.”
“Does the invitation give a time of the service.”
“Y-yes. Two o’clock.”
“Three minutes to go ten miles. Better reprogram the GPS and start moving. You may not live this one down.”
“There’s no one I can call.”
“And admit you went to the wrong church? You might want to hit a tree on the way over there. Maybe it’s your only out.”
“Maybe a little. Let’s go.”
This week, from The Dark Netizen, a very short tale.
“School Reunions Are More Fun, When Your Classmate’s A Don…”
Peer Minza, who blogs at peerzadihome.wordpress.com, said: “I am sending a little poem inspired by the photo”. Here it is:
In a crowd, I wait alone without a clue
Life tinged with sadness, no hope, no hue
Dreaming in the shades of mystique blue
Eyes can’t believe but heart says it’s true
It’s destined our special moment is due
In that moment, even time stops with you
I’m counting on that rendezvous; are you too??
My effort was
I don’t know why I still do this job. It’s certainly not what I signed up for – at least, not what I believed I’d signed up for. Okay, I get the dark suit, white shirt, neat haircut and all that garbage, but that’s not enough, is it?
Have I ever been asked to run beside the car as it goes through the city streets? I have not. Not that I’d want to for a Volvo. Roller, Bentley, Daimler, maybe even a big Jag. But a Volvo?
Another thing. Have I ever been asked whether I’d take a bullet for whoever it is I’m supposed to be looking after? I have not. Mind you, perhaps that’s as well. I’m not sure I could honestly say I would. It’s not as though I’m guarding senior royals or even senior politicians. In fairness, though, which of that lot – the politicians, not the royals, is actually worth risking your life for? It’s not as if any of them would even risk their job for the likes of you and me who put them there and pay them, is it?
No. I’m guarding what is laughingly called a celebrity. Usually, it’s a singer who can hardly get a note out without electronics, or someone who plays a game, like football or even, these days, bloody computer games. Things we all did as kids for fun, now they get stupid money and fame for doing it.
Of course, I’m bitter. I could have done something like that; we all could. It’s just being in the right place at the right time and probably having a big enough sob story to tell. Trouble is, most of us can’t do that, can we? Most of us lead ordinary lives; no major bad stuff and no major good stuff, either. Ordinary. Not that there’s anything wrong with ordinary. Without masses of ordinary people, there’d be no celebrities, would there? Who’d buy their stuff?
And how many of these people get honours and knighthoods, basically for doing tolerably well the job they’re being grossly overpaid to do in the first place.
No, this isn’t the job I expected it to be; nothing like.
And, while we’re at it, how come I don’t get a wiggly wire thing in my ear and a cufflink I can talk to?
On to this week’s challenge: Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org before 6pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries next Monday.