“Darling; have you got a minute?”

“Not really.”

“I think you might want to come and look at this.”

“What is it? I’m busy with my presentation in here.”

“Come and look. It’s the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen. I know you’ll love it. And bring your camera.”

“It’s nice, I’ll grant you but I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s in the east, so it’s a sunrise.”

“I wish I had your confidence. It looks wrong to me.”

“Well, if it isn’t a sunrise, what do you suggest it is?”

“Remember the film ‘Close encounters of the third kind’?”

“Have I seen it?”

“Of course you have. We watched it together on the flight, the first time we went to Orlando.”

“God, how long ago—”

“Oh five, so fourteen years ago.”

“And you expect me to remember it from that long ago? I don’t even know if I liked it.”

“You did. Think back. You’ll remember it.”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“But you can still quote from Contact, and we saw that well before then.”

“Do you believe in God, Dr Arroway?”

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t remember the other one, though. What was it about?”

“Alien visitors…”

“Hang on – was there a bloke making a mountain out of his mash? Everybody thought he was going crazy?”

“That’s the one.”

“With you. Great film. But what’s that got to do with this sunrise.”

“Remember when the aliens arrived; the light coming over the hill?”

“Maybe.”

“Isn’t this a bit like it?”

“Meh – possible, I suppose.”

“And isn’t this light staying a long time for a sunrise?”

“It is a bit, isn’t it?”

“And that’s not the only thing convinces me it’s something unusual.”

“I’ll buy it. What else makes you think it’s not just an abnormally long-lasting sunrise?”

“It’s two in the afternoon!”

---

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 232 published on this site.


“John, where are you? Over.”

“Aisle one-eighty-seven. Why? What do you need?”

“Just to know where you are. Over.”

“George, when did you get your discharge?”

“That was a couple of weeks ago, John. Medics gave me some cream and it’s cleared up now. But thanks for asking. Over.”

“Not that discharge, you numptie, your discharge from the army.”

“My demob? Over.”

“If you like. When was it?”

“Three years ago. Over.”

“So when are you gonna stop using the intercom as if you’re still in uniform? We don’t bother with Roger Wilko, over, over and out, or any of that stuff here.”

“Have you finished? Over.”

“Give us a chance. I only got this picking list three minutes ago. There’s a good half hour’s work here.”

“Not that. I was asking if you’d finished talking. Over.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t give me any indication. How do I know you haven’t got more to say? Over.”

“I can see what you’re doing, George. You want me to start using all this military rubbish.”

“It would make it clear that you’ve finished and you’re ready for me to talk. The way we do that in the army is to say over. Over.”

“Well, the way we do it here in civvy street is to listen for the squelch when I release the talk button. That means I’ve stopped talking. Okay?”

“Stopped, but not necessarily finished. Over.”

“What?”

“You might release the speak button so you can scratch your nose, or pick something up or any number of things. Not necessarily because you’ve said all you want to. Over.”

“George, do you know the difference between a pendant and a pedant?”

“Course I do. One’s a thing you hang around your neck and the other one’s a really annoying person. Over.”

“Close. A pendant is hung around your neck and a pedant should be hanged by the neck.”

“What are you saying? Over.”

“I’m saying, don’t be so damned annoying.”

“How am I annoying? Over.”

“Forget it. What did you call me for? I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh yeah. I’m doing the crossword and I’m stuck. Over.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Four letters; sequence of six balls bowled by a single bowler. Over.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”

---

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 232 published on this site.


“Sad, isn’t it Belle. Remember what it was like when we lived here in the seventies?”

“Do I ever! The whole place was a hive of activity. The family that lived in the house were always having guests around, and parties – oh, those parties.”

“Belle! We agreed when we left that we’d never talk about those parties. People wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s just us, dearest. No-one else to hear us. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t talk about them between the two of us. Didn’t you enjoy them?”

“You know I did. Every bit as much as you did”

“Haha, yes. I did, didn’t I?”

“And everyone who was at any of them knew how much fun you had – and how much you helped them to have fun. By the way, whatever happened to the couple who lived there, do you suppose?”

“I heard through the grapevine that they both died of old age. They reckon Marie went first and Marc about five years later.”

“Do you still follow that?”

“What?”

“The Grape Vine.”

“I still keep in touch with a few of the girls that are left. I’ve not been active on there for a long time, but it’s good to keep up with old friends. Mind you, they’re dropping off at a rate now. I suppose it’s to be expected, though, isn’t it? I mean, none of us is getting any younger.”

“You can say that again!”

“None of—”

“But don’t. So what’s happening to the house now?”

“Apparently, it’s jointly owned by about twenty descendants of the two families, and it can’t be sold until they all agree on the price.”

“How hard can that be?”

“Not at all, except that one of them is in prison and two are overseas and no one has any idea how to contact them.”

“Surely there’s a way through that?”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But why do you suppose there are so many empty houses just falling to pieces?”

“Oh, well. Not our problem. Pity, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Fancy trying to get in and relive some old memories, Belle?”

“Oh, Av, you’re incorrigible.”

“And encourageable. Come on…”

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This was written in response to Kreative Kue 230 published on this site.