Kreative Kue 393

Kreative Kue 392 asked for submissions based on this photograph:

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John W Howell is a multiple nominated and award-winning author who blogs at Fiction Favorites. Details of John’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

The Watch by John W. Howell © 2022

“I say, Reggie. Any sightings?”

“Fraid not Oliver. Nothing all day.”

“A shame, mate.”

“Well, there is a positive side.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

“The hawk we don’t see today is the surprise for tomorrow.”

“You make that up?”

“Sorta.”

“Well, it’s crap.”

“Oh my. Why’s that?”

“In my mind, the hawk we don’t see today is one less hawk. Period.”

“You know, that’s a very pessimistic way to look at it.”

“I prefer the word realistic.”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

“I see a red tail banking over the lagoon.”

“What a sight that must be.”

“You can say that again.”

“What a sight—”

“Very funny. He’s headed right at me.”

“Does he see you?”

“It almost looks like he does. He has something in his beak.”

“Something like what?”

“Rolled up paper. Whoa, he just swooped over and dropped the paper.”

“Go get it.”

“On my way.”

“You back yet? Hello, Reggie. You back? Reggie?”

“Yeah I’m back. Give me a second to unroll the paper. Okay, it’s a message.”

“What does it say?”

Attention hawk watchers. We are no longer going to be the subject of observation. We are tired of the prying eyes constantly intruding on our daily lives. The hawks of the world are united, and nothing you can offer will bring us out of seclusion.”

“Boy, that is pretty harsh. You think they mean it?”

“Sounds like they do.”

“Can you communicate with them?”

“I have in the past. One on one only, though.”

“Well try again. Tell them we are prepared to offer substantial sums for visual sightings.”

“They probibly will reject money.”

“Offer corn or dead mice. I don’t care. We need to see them again.”

“Hold on. I have the hawk leader on the other line.”

“Okay I’ll stand bye.”

“Hey Oliver.”

“Yes Reggie.”

“The hawk leader says he’ll take a year’s supply of corn and mice.”

“Where we going to get a year’s supply?”

“Maybe he’ll accept installments.”

“You know how we are going to catch the mice?”

“Yeah. The cats will help.”

“Thought they were on strike for a vegan diet demand.”

“Oh dear. Maybe some traps.”

“Remember the cows are on a sabbatical so no cheese.”

“Is it my imagination or have we lost control?”

“Never should have let ’em all enroll in college.”

“We can say that now, but it might be too late.”

“Do we really have to sight hawks?”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Tell him to shove it.”

“Good choice of words, sir.”


My effort was:

The Camp

Okay, Jay, once you’re across the water, I need you to land to the left of the building on the right of what we called the left breast, near the cleavage.

No; to the right of the building, just on the cleavage itself – okay, the valley, if you insist. I just thought the codenames we gave made it a bit more interesting.

I understand that making a single-handed incursion into what may turn out to be hostile territory can, in and of itself, provide as much interest and even excitement as you are likely to want.

And danger, too, if they’re highly territorial.

I’m calling them they because I don’t have a better word for them until we know what we’re dealing with.

Yes, I’m assuming some kind of presence on the left boob.

Not necessarily intelligence, but probably. That’d be my guess.

Based on what? Based on the heat signatures coming from the clearing about a third of the way up.

You can’t see it, Jay, because you aren’t carrying heat imaging kit and if you were, your visibility of the area would be compromised.

By the bloody trees, you moron!

Okay. I’m sorry. That was un-called-for and unnecessarily harsh. Just make your way to the coordinates I’m beaming to you now, will you? And let me know when you arrive.

***

Yes, Jay; still here.

How many of them?

Wow. And they’re camping, you say? You mean they’re behaving in a flamboyant, extravagant and foppish manner?

No? Just sitting around a campfire singing songs. Any songs in particular.

Well, that must be a coded message of some kind. Wait small, I’ll ruin it through the translation software.

Computer says no. Translation failed. No match with any a known language. You sure they’re human?

I appreciate that they look human, but little green men are hardly likely to appear little or green. Haven’t you seen any of the Men in Black movies?

Okay, withdraw to a safe distance and I’ll escalate the problem.

***

HQ from outpost 8, are you receiving me? Over.

Yes, HQ. Agent Jay had encountered a group that appear human but I have my doubts. They are chanting some kind of anthem or incantation. If I send you the words, can you have the boffins see what they make of it? I’m worried that this may be an advance party of some kind.

Okay, here goes: there are a couple of rounds of::
Ging gang gooley, gooley, gooley, gooley, watcha;
Ging gang goo, ging gang goo
then
Hey la, hey la chey la, hey la chey la hey la lo, and
Shally wally, shally wally, shally wally, shally wally followed by
Umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah and finally a repeat of the first part.

What’s a jamboree?


KreativeKue will be taking a break for a few weeks from today, returning on 13th February.

The Camp

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Okay, Jay, once you’re across the water, I need you to land to the left of the building on the right of what we called the left breast, near the cleavage.

No; to the right of the building, just on the cleavage itself – okay, the valley, if you insist. I just thought the codenames we gave made it a bit more interesting.

I understand that making a single-handed incursion into what may turn out to be hostile territory can, in and of itself, provide as much interest and even excitement as you are likely to want.

And danger, too, if they’re highly territorial.

I’m calling them they because I don’t have a better word for them until we know what we’re dealing with.

Yes, I’m assuming some kind of presence on the left boob.

Not necessarily intelligence, but probably. That’d be my guess.

Based on what? Based on the heat signatures coming from the clearing about a third of the way up.

You can’t see it, Jay, because you aren’t carrying heat imaging kit and if you were, your visibility of the area would be compromised.

By the bloody trees, you moron!

Okay. I’m sorry. That was un-called-for and unnecessarily harsh. Just make your way to the coordinates I’m beaming to you now, will you? And let me know when you arrive.

***

Yes, Jay; still here.

How many of them?

Wow. And they’re camping, you say? You mean they’re behaving in a flamboyant, extravagant and foppish manner?

No? Just sitting around a campfire singing songs. Any songs in particular.

Well, that must be a coded message of some kind. Wait small, I’ll ruin it through the translation software.

Computer says no. Translation failed. No match with any a known language. You sure they’re human?

I appreciate that they look human, but little green men are hardly likely to appear little or green. Haven’t you seen any of the Men in Black movies?

Okay, withdraw to a safe distance and I’ll escalate the problem.

***

HQ from outpost 8, are you receiving me? Over.

Yes, HQ. Agent Jay had encountered a group that appear human but I have my doubts. They are chanting some kind of anthem or incantation. If I send you the words, can you have the boffins see what they make of it? I’m worried that this may be an advance party of some kind.

Okay, here goes: there are a couple of rounds of::
Ging gang gooley, gooley, gooley, gooley, watcha;
Ging gang goo, ging gang goo
then
Hey la, hey la chey la, hey la chey la hey la lo, and
Shally wally, shally wally, shally wally, shally wally followed by
Umpah, umpah, umpah, umpah and finally a repeat of the first part.

What’s a jamboree?


This original fiction was written in response to Kreative Kue 392 published on this site earlier this week.

Kreative Kue 392

Kreative Kue 391 asked for submissions based on this photograph:

P1000274a

John W Howell is a multiple nominated and award-winning author who blogs at Fiction Favorites. Details of John’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

The Pickup by John W. Howell © 2022

“Where are you?”

“Standing on the corner by this green pole on Wayfair street.”

“What’s the cross street.”

“All I see is one sign.”

“What does it say?”

“One way.”

“Yeah, that helps. Can you give me anything that would pinpoint your location?”

“I have a red purse.”

“I mean a landmark.”

“The First National Bank, you mean?”

“Okay, is the bank in front of you or behind you?”

“Behind me.”

“Ah, I think I see you.”

“Terrific.”

“But I must go around the block ’cause I can’t get over.”

“Oh, just take your time. No rush at all.”

“You are being sarcastic, right?”

“You sure pick up stuff quickly for an idiot.”

“Now, now. This could happen to anyone.”

“NOT TO SOMEONE WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE GET-A-WAY DRIVER; IT DOESN’T.”

“Okay, be calm. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I sure hope it’s before the cops do.”

“Don’t worry, they’re behind me.”

“Wonderful.”


My effort was:

The brief report

Jeanne Desjardins was beyond excited. This was the first time her editor had allowed her out on her own. Her editor was none other than Jaques Lefebvre (that’s right, the editor most feared in journalistic circles due to his uncanny ability to spot any and every error of spelling, punctuation or grammar – and goodness help any hack who reported anything that couldn’t be independently verified and confirmed) and Jeanne was one of those who had been tasked to cover a presidential address.

Armed with nothing but her mobile phone and her notebook, Jeanne made her way to what she believed was to best place to see the president pass. She took up her position near a pedestrian crossing and waited.

Less than an hour later, a group of motorcycle outriders appeared in her view, followed by three black limousines and tailed by more outriders.

This was it.

Flushed with a mixture of excitement and terror, she carefully counted off the seconds as the motorcade approached and noted the exact length of time it had taken to travel the distance she had already measured (five times to be completely sure) from the junction to the crossing. She switched to her phone’s calculator function and expertly calculated the limo’s rate of progress.

Having noted her calculations in her notebook, Jeanne double-checked her calculations, reverified the distance, called her editor and gave him the information he sought.

“Two problems, Jean,” he replied in a tone that failed utterly to reassure her that she had done a good job, “Firstly, I told you to go to the Hotel du Lac, not the rue du Lac, and secondly, I asked you to report on his speech – NOT HIS SPEED!


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Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put your offering (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keithchanning@gmail.com before Sunday evening UK time. 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. Thank you for taking part.