Lost: One Bench #Throwback Thursday

English: Wooden bench at Marriott's Way, Norfolk
English: Wooden bench at Marriott’s Way, Norfolk (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘How can you forget where you left it?’ Samantha demanded, shooting Michael a withering look before closing her eyes and counting to ten. In a moment she would let out a deep sighing breath and give Michael her best, why do you insist on embarrassing me stare before ordering another drink from the bar and forgetting the subject altogether.

1,2,3,4-

‘I mean really Michael!’

Michael blinked, confused as to where the last 6 seconds had gone and why she hadn’t ordered a large glass of red wine. She wasn’t following the natural order.

‘It’s a bench!’ Samantha spluttered. ‘You cannot misplace a bench! Especially not one of yours! They’re massive and made of wood. WOOD MICHAEL! WOOD!’

Everyone else in the pub had fallen silent now, the hum of conversation dying as all eyes turned to stare at the couple having the argument. Or rather, Samantha yelling at her bemused husband since Michael rarely said two words to anyone about anything.

‘I could understand a nail or two, perhaps even your level metre, but misplacing a bench is on a whole other level.’

Michael fixed his stare on what was left of his pint as Samantha continued to berate him for losing the garden bench he had made on commission, for Miss Appleway’s new patio. He really didn’t understand why she was so concerned; he would remember where it was and then collect it. Forgetting the rest of his pint he stood up from the table and headed for the door, leaving his wife purple faced and furious.

Hailing a cab he climbed in, sat down, and nodded when appropriate to the driver’s chatter. He didn’t notice the manila folder sticking out from beneath the front seats until he was almost home. Ignoring the driver’s comments on the weather Michael ducked down, and yanked the folder out.

There were three sheets of paper inside, all gibberish and slightly crumpled. There was nothing to say who they belonged to, or what they were about, just block text and narrow margins.

Rolling the folder up, Michael stuck it into his jacket pocket. I didn’t fit of course, but it stayed where he’d put it. In the morning he’d ask around the town and see if anyone had lost three sheets of nonsense.

‘Here we are mate!’ The driver said cheerfully, throwing a grin back over his shoulder as Michael clambered out of the taxi. ‘Nice looking place!’

Pulling out his wallet Michael paid him, watching him drive off before diving into his trouser pocket to search for keys. His house was one of row of terrace building, set back in tiny manicured gardens with box-hedges and gravel paths. What set his and Samantha’s apart from the rest was the array of strange wooden carving dotting the lawn and perching in the hedge.

‘Excuse me Sir?’ The voice came from an older gentleman stood beside the garden gate.

Michael acknowledged sadly that his house keys were not in his pocket and turned to face the man approaching him instead.

‘May I ask where you found that document?’ The man pointed at the folder sticking out of Michael’s pocket.

‘Taxi.’ Michael responded, gazing up at the front of his house and wondering how long it would be before Samantha got back. She’d probably be late home, thinking that it would punish him for abandoning her.

‘Did you read the content?’ The man asked, glancing at the folder in a way that would seem to suggest he was about dash in and snatch it.

Michael shrugged.

‘Utter nonsense.’ he told the man.

The man in the suit sighed. ‘I’ll take that as a yes then. I am terrible sorry for this, but you never can be too careful in these situations.’

Michael nodded, assuming that whatever the man had said required his agreement, he had been more occupied with the splintered window ledge on the second floor.

It would take Samantha another three months before she noticed it, and then another five before it was fixed.

~~~~~

Michael Remmet

Aged 29

Died 17th September 2012

Short-Suffered Husband

Has anyone seen his bench?


Written for the writing challenge on http://outwherethebusesdontrun.com/2012/09/14/prompt-this/

My prompt was “The absent-minded carpenter found the top secret document in the taxi to avoid the argument.”

Magic

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.”

The caravan was small, moving down the southern roads from Hareth towards the open planes of the Burnt Desert. I joined them mostly by mistake, a misunderstanding in some backwards tavern far off the road to nowhere and very decidedly unhappy to see me traipsing through their doorway.

What actually happened in that tavern was something of a blur.

Next thing I knew my horse is tied to the back of a cart, my hands are bound to the saddle and a Hedge Witch is trying to poke my eyes out with her glare.

‘Don’t even try it,’ she hissed. ‘I know a warlock when I smell one.’


A friend of mine once said that ‘magic is just science we haven’t quite worked out yet’. I thought it was a fantastic way of looking at the world and I sort of clung onto the idea from there on out. It made sense to me.

As a writer magic can be an important tool.

Don’t know how a character escapes from an almost certain, horrible fate?

Magic.

The world is ending and no one can possibly save it?

Magic.

The dog won’t stop hiccuping and the baboon has learned to plan the harp but doesn’t understand Mozart’s way of composing music?

Magic.

Magic does have its limits however and if you want to write it convincingly then you need to work out some ground rules for it. Magic is after all energy and energy is neither made or destroyed only changed. [Don’t quote me on that in a science exam. I repeat! I am a writer of fiction! Distrust most things I say that don’t pertain specifically to historical events and even then it’s always good to fact check.]

Dragon

Daydream Girl – A Haibun

Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.

Kahlil Gibra


They called her Daydream Girl.

Eyes, tucked away in the letters of books, spine crackled and binding frayed. She was music, tripping up over loose pavement stone in the hopes of digging out stories long ago buried in the sands of time.

Her hands were skeleton keys pushed into every lock on sunken chests pulled up from abandoned rib-cages. Took care not to hurt the crustaceans as she pulled them away mail-link by mail-link until only the under armour remained.

She poured laughter down my throat and burnt out my lungs with song. Left me bellowing misty dragons into the night. Ran my hands across the tempo of her chest and told me to dance with the beat.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

They will not tell me where to find her again.

These words are brittle,

there is nothing of you here

and I am tired.


dverselogohttp://dversepoets.com/2015/10/05/haibun-monday-2/

I wrote this piece and realised that it has a lot of similarities to last night/this morning’s piece Dreamer. It’s sort of interesting how the prompt lined up with that.

Captain’s Log – Planet Zero-Six-Alpha-Nine -Entry One

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Was Here.”

The planet we were meant to land on is three thousand light years to the west, but I suppose that’s what I get for letting Jeremy pilot the ship. In all honesty, he did warn me that he had no sense of direction and that finding his own nose was a challenge most days, but really?

This ship as an automated steering system. I’d already typed in co-ordinates in, we were all set, all Jeremy had to do was press go and woosh! He could sit back and watch the stars burn by one by one. He wasn’t supposed to ignore the system and try flying for himself.

Do you know what he told me? He told me that he had a hunch. A bloody hunch that contradicted the computer with an IQ three hundred times his own. I should have put his bloody head through the control panel, but that would have left us stuck here.

Then again we are stuck here until the next re-fuelling vessel can detour our way and stock up the tanks.

Until then we’re parked up in a bog and I’m pretty sure the ground stabilizer aren’t working all that well. Sammy’s convinced we’re three inches lower today than we were yesterday. She keeps checking the landing struts with that marker of hers. muttering on about something and nothing instead of actually trying to fix the problem.

I tell you, the Guild lumped me with a right set of idiots this time.

Geniuses the lot of them, but idiots all the same. They’ll be lucky if I don’t toss them all to the marshes and be done with it. I could say it was an accident if that re-fuelling vessel ever arrives.

Capitan’s Comments On The Terrain: Even more of a shit-hole that the last forsaken place we landed on, and that’s saying something.

Location Unknown

PHOTO PROMPT – © Marie Gail Stratford
PHOTO PROMPT – © Marie Gail Stratford

‘Tell me something.’ Olivia’s eyebrows furrowed together as she stared at the computer screen. ‘How, am I meant to work on this?’

She flicked the centre of the computer screen, sat back in her chair and scowled at the library.

Ferris didn’t look up from his book but she saw his fingers curl inwards.

‘Just hurry up,’ he hissed.

‘I can’t. This piece of junk won’t move any faster.’ Olivia flicked the screen again and the machine emitted two high pitched bleeps before the screen flashed blue.

Ferris’ head shot up, his face panicked.

‘Now that’s much better,’ Olivia grinned.

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