Every Shopkeeper Has Their Day

Another creative writing work project, using a photographic prompt produced by Johan Walter Bantz http://www.flickr.com/photos/johannwalterbantz/

Loosely based on the rhyme pattern and meter of the classic poetry verse from Jack the Giant Killer (Jack and the Beanstalk):

I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

Right there in front
Of the till machine
Laughs out loud
H’gives me a fright
Asks if he caught me “Ain’t that right?”

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Reverse Following

(This was a light, short piece of creative writing I shared with others where I work, prompted by a photograph taken by http://zachrowlandson.com/)

Soho, London: It’s a little after midday, fairly busy, the lunch time attracting customers. It is also my first day as a newly qualified spy for MI6. During the morning, I’d blended effortlessly into the background. Or at least, I’d thought I had. Now I realise, this wasn’t the case.

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Dog, Fish?

Allow me to partially introduce these two good friends x and y. They meet regularly and are often to be seen wandering around the community museum for art and antiquity in their local city. They share deep conversations, mainly caused by invasive thoughts, covering a wide range of different topics.

Look, I can hear them! See! Here they are now, slowly padding along the wooden floor approaching the exit for the gallery of 19th century European Western art. It could be argued by anyone who gives a toss that both look deeply pensive. A springboard for creative chit-chat, possibly?

It’s getting on to lunch time, but they’re three floors up from the basement café. Let’s listen-in on the conversation, I sense that it is about to start now.

x: Grape or grain, but never the twain.

y: Beer before wine, you’ll feel fine. Whereas, wine before beer and you’ll feel rather queer.

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I Need New Glasses, Frying Pan and Kitchen Bin

While at the time of buying the last frying pan, I swore to myself that I would maintain and clean after every use, until pristine… I did not. Now, that sad, browned pan with a wobbly handle, sits on the hob praying for disposal.

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The New, New Normal.

“In case its passed anyone by,” Professor of Psychology Daniel Moccasin said, as he tapped the knuckles of his left hand against the wall-mounted presentation screen-still displayed in front of the small class, “things have changed. And by this, I mean things have changed again. We now face a new, new normal. One that no one could have predicted, not even if they’d had a crystal ball could they have done so, no…” He paused and looked around at the clueless expressions tied to the front of each student’s face. A hand went up, emerging confidently from the back row of the classroom. “Yes, Butterley, isn’t it? Stand up, what have you got to say for yourself?”

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Dead Giveaway

Alright, Oliver I am totally fed-up with this conversation.” Charlotte said, her smouldering eyes staring out one thousand yards across the vast void that was their marbled dining hall. Beyond the red Jarrah hardwood dinner table and chairs, the mirror-panelled wall reflected back her expression into Oliver’s view. He felt a twinge of sorrow for her, which he kept to himself.
“Great! I’m relieved, its felt like an intensive interrogation for over the last twenty minutes.”

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Men Should be Forced to Shave Their Legs

The first man to shave his legs out of habit,
Sits before me in a deckchair on the seafront promenade,
Lifting at the hem of his sky-blue linen trousers,
Aiming an unnecessarily surreptitious wink my way.

Old now, greyed and wrinkled, the stare of a rabbit,
He explains how this came to be.
“It was all a misunderstanding, see,
Entirely on my part, naturally.
For when ‘the shortages’ kicked-in and trousers went to shorts,
I’d thought,
We must all now shave our legs,
Same as the wimmin do.”

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