An easy mistake.

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“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I hope so, dearie. I want to go in to measure up for curtains.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“I said, I want to go in to measure up for curtains.”

“I thought that’s what I heard.”

“Then why did you ask me to say it again? I know I have a different accent to you people, but we all speak the same language, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do, ma’am. I had no difficulty understanding your words, but what you said… it just didn’t make sense to me, is all.”

“Tell me which part you didn’t get, dearie. I’ll see if I can make it any clearer for you.”

“You said you wanted to measure up for curtains… I’m not sure what that means in the context of this building, ma’am. Who requested your services? Where is your work order?”

“Now you aren’t making sense. Why would anyone ‘request my services’, as you put it,  to measure up for curtains?”

“Because that work is normally ordered by the department responsible for maintaining the fabric of the building and its fixtures and fittings, its hard and soft furnishings.”

“You do have some funny ideas over here, don’t you? Let me explain: Before I moved into my old house, I went around with my tape measure. I measured up and wrote down the dimensions of all the windows, so I could have the curtains made ready for me to hang when I moved in.”

“I understand what you are saying ma’am—”

“Good. Then all I’m asking now is the right to do the same thing here.”

“Why would you want to do that here, ma’am?”

“Oh, God, How can I put this any more clearly? I am the new owner of this building and I plan to move in, with my family, as soon as I can. I’ve sold the house in England and until I can move in here, I’m effectively homeless.”

“Are you telling me you believe that you own this building?”

“Yes, dearie, I am. Not believe, though. I do own it.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I haven’t received word that the the government of the United States has sold this building, and I certainly can’t grant you entry just on your say-so that you believe yourself to be the new owner.”

“Don’t take my word for it. I have all the paperwork in my bag. Let me see…  I know it’s in here somewhere…”

“What do you have, ma’am – a title deed? a bill of sale? a memorandum of transfer?”

“Heavens no. I have the winning raffle ticket.”

“Say what?”

“The winning ticket. I won this building and a brand new Mercedes motor car – in the big raffle. Yes, here it is. See for yourself.”

“I think you may have misread the ticket, ma’am.”

“No I haven’t. It clearly shows a drawing of this building and says it’s in Washington.”

“If you look closely, ma’am, you’ll see the words ‘not the actual house‘ under the drawing, and after the word Washington, it says County Durham. That’s Washington CD in Great Britain, not Washington DC in the US.”

“Let me see that.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

“Oh, dear. I’d better get my husband back – he’s just gone to make himself known to the neighbours.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, the people next door, in that big white house.”

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 306 published on this site.

Kreative Kue 306

Kreative Kue 305 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

After all by John W. Howell © 2021

“Okay, Trevor. Explain yourself.”

“It has been a hard week.”

“Yes?”

“And most everything I have tried hasn’t worked.”

“Like what?”

“Chased that confounded rabbit, and he left me in the dust.”

“Yeah, So. There are more rabbits.”

“Went after a chipmunk.”

“And?”

“He bared his teeth, and I ran.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Those things could be rabid.”

“The possum just fell over dead when I approached him.”

“I think he was faking.”

“Even worse. He fooled me.”

“I guess he did. What else.”

“Lost my favorite ball.”

“I picked it up and washed it.”

“No wonder that thing didn’t smell right. I can’t find my tuggy toy.”

“It is in the living room. I just stepped on it.”

“I think I have fleas.”

“You don’t have fleas. You are protected. So where is all this going?”

“I’m going to end it all. Got my head in the oven.”

“Hate to tell you, dear boy, but that’s the dishwasher.”

“I’m telling you this has been one of those weeks.”

“You can get out of there now.”

“When’s dinner?”

“As soon as you get out of there.”

“Done.”


My effort was:

No place for old dogs

“Are you sure you don’t need some help?”

“No. I think I can manage.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Our bowls are in there.”

“They’re empty, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what? If they’re empty, there’s nothing in them to eat – that’s what empty means.”

“Have you never gone back to your empty bowl and licked it, just in case there’s something there?”

“Not often. I usually do that to yours, in case you’ve left something.”

“And have I? Ever?”

“Not so far, but you might, one day. And when you do—”

“You’ll be ready?”

“You bet your sweet cheeks I will! But what are you hoping to find in there? The bowls are empty.”

“But there are plates and dishes in there. Haven’t you noticed, the don’t lick them clean like we do.”

“You can’t lick them!”

“Why not?”

“It’s human food; goodness only knows what you’re likely to be licking at.”

“It’s food. What more do you need to know?”

“Is it good?”

“You bet! They ate well yesterday. You have to watch the green plates, though.”

“Why?”

“Hot, hot, hot. Curry or something.”

“Can I come in and try some?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“One: you’re too old, two:  you’re too big and three: I called it first. I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you come in when I’ve finished.”

“But there won’t be anything left!”

“Precisely.”

“Oh, go on. Don’t be a meanie.”

“Okay. Anything to stop your constant whining!”

“Thanks. Now, where are they?”

“At the back. Can’t you see them?”

“It’s dark. Go on, help me find them. You know I can’t see much with these dogaracts.”

“Just sniff them out, then.”

“I lost my sense of smell before my eyes went dark.”

“You’ll be telling me next that your hearing is going, too.”

“Pardon?”


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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 keithchanning@gmail.com 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.

No place for old dogs

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“Are you sure you don’t need some help?”

“No. I think I can manage.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Our bowls are in there.”

“They’re empty, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what? If they’re empty, there’s nothing in them to eat – that’s what empty means.”

“Have you never gone back to your empty bowl and licked it, just in case there’s something there?”

“Not often. I usually do that to yours, in case you’ve left something.”

“And have I? Ever?”

“Not so far, but you might, one day. And when you do—”

“You’ll be ready?”

“You bet your sweet cheeks I will! But what are you hoping to find in there? The bowls are empty.”

“But there are plates and dishes in there. Haven’t you noticed, the don’t lick them clean like we do.”

“You can’t lick them!”

“Why not?”

“It’s human food; goodness only knows what you’re likely to be licking at.”

“It’s food. What more do you need to know?”

“Is it good?”

“You bet! They ate well yesterday. You have to watch the green plates, though.”

“Why?”

“Hot, hot, hot. Curry or something.”

“Can I come in and try some?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“One: you’re too old, two:  you’re too big and three: I called it first. I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you come in when I’ve finished.”

“But there won’t be anything left!”

“Precisely.”

“Oh, go on. Don’t be a meanie.”

“Okay. Anything to stop your constant whining!”

“Thanks. Now, where are they?”

“At the back. Can’t you see them?”

“It’s dark. Go on, help me find them. You know I can’t see much with these dogaracts.”

“Just sniff them out, then.”

“I lost my sense of smell before my eyes went dark.”

“You’ll be telling me next that your hearing is going, too.”

“Pardon?”

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 305 published on this site.