VOWEL LOVE (a.k.a. Something That Struck Me As Funny the Night Before)

Shall wee saaay goooodniiiiight?
Suuuuuureeeeeeely aaaaaaaa kiiiiiiiiiss wiiiiiiiiiill  dooooooooooo?
Yeeeeeeeeeeees, aaaaaaaaaaaaa beeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuul seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeentiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiips!

WRITING ON WRITERS (a.k.a. Advice to Absurdity)

Writing is like eating spinach whilst doing cartwheels.

Writing is responding to a pillar box.

Writing is wondering why only one half of the chimney is wet.

Writing is like pretending you're a goat herd when really you're a cow herd. Same height.

Writing is the exact same thing as thundering.

Writing is a synonym for helmet hair.

Writing is artfully melting an ice cub between two oven gloves.

Writing can and should be wroting.

Writing should never be Bob Newhart in his best beret.

Writing is just like adapting in a half-chewed shoe box.

Writing is a Glaswegian Penelope.

Writin g is w riting.

Writing is the third vestige of the sarcophagus-eclipsed.

Writing to flick off elves is glib.

Writing at a Tuscan tugboat is surely prescient.

Writing should be in the prescient tense.

Writing with zebra-striped ifs is a crux.

Writing after Thursday 3rd makes your turban horny.

Writing before the Figgy Wives Club is a charitable implosion.

Writing towards talcum powder rations.

Writing away from the interviewer's garden nozzle.

Writing poetic haymakers.

Writing prosaic blue handles.

Writing out of the frog's clammy gulag.

Writing inside the Pollack door frame.

Writing somewhere Fallopian.

Writing somewhere among the woodchip.

Writing somehow to stammer Howarth Howard.

Writing as a a gnitriw.

Writing with an eye gouge.

Writing without a Teresa CD.

Writing because of ample sideburns.

Writing is like form-fitting form-filling.

Writing is just about kebabs at dawn.

Writing is like perishable trapeze glands.

Writing is rockstar huh

MARCH FOOLS (a.k.a. The Truth)

            Happy April Fool's Day! On the 29th March.
            That's right: the day has already passed. On whose authority, you might ask. Who else but the comedians?
            The entire community has banded together to make this joke work. It's been this way for three years now. They had a meeting, conference call mostly. It wouldn't have done to all meet in person.
            In 2014 they moved the date to 31st March. They slapped their knees at that one: a day out and nobody noticed. Still only a day: midnight caused confusion amid their number. What if a joke was committed then? It might as well be 1st April. Too close, no pause between set-up and punch line. They changed it the next year.

            In 2015 the date became the 30th. A few of the more numerically-minded comedians were ecstatic: a clean, round even number. Then again another faction was starting to rise, one claiming that ideal numbers just weren't funny. The dispute had to be settled by a show of hands. The comedians who weren't terribly bothered about numbers still didn't think it was the best date to fall on. It was a Monday; as far as jokes went it was a bit predictable.

            So in 2016 they changed it to 29th March. Still not a perfect day but the comedians finally feel comfortable about springing the prank on the rest of us. The way they see it, it'll keep being fresh until the time they finally agree on one day. Many suspect the 25th but that's still a few years down the line.

            Now they wait on our reaction.  A laugh or a groan please. Awkward silence might just cause them to tear their collective hair out and a backlash they can't control will doubtless kill the humour dead.

MINISTRY OF YOUR SILENT SMILE (a.k.a. A Belated Valentine Day's Token)

            I love the way you look. It's tax deductible. It's a corner, an unexplored niche in an unexposed market.

            I started off proceedings with the initial twitching of your lips. I bought the office space, a small building at first but this enterprise has an implicit potential for growth.

            Currently it is just me but I'm already running interviews for PAs. They all seem to meet the specification. The sparkle in your eye will indicate which one will best suit the role.

            I've kept on the cleaners from the last use of the building, they've been doing an outstanding job at upkeep. They leave the walls and floors as clean and tidy as the crow's feet on your face but, just to be certain, I've shown them the new aim for which they're now expected to reach.

            I've got rid of all the white walls, chosen a cream that approximates the colour of your midday skin. I've reshaped the windows so that they look out on the city below a la your clear gaze. The carpet is, of course, of a similar consistency to your auburn hair immediately after a shower. I even managed to incorporate the coconut extract.

            With the building on its way to being sorted, I've since turned my attention to how we'll regulate numbers. If your smile turns out lopsided we'll be wary but if it's full we'll rest assured. Considering the general lack of middle-class employment in this area, I'm sure we'll see these offices fill up soon enough.

            Yes, I can hear it now. Walking down from my office patterned with your light green iris and desk the salmon of your lips, pre-stick, post gloss; I will hear only the slightest hum of life as if from within a closed mouth: inhalation, exhalation. The front, what the world will observe, will only be silent. They won't see the productivity but they won't be able to take their eyes off the product.

            It'll be complete adoration. It'll be quiet communication of the fact. Your smile keeps me running and now the world.

101 WORD STORIES (a.k.a. Promotion of an Awesome Website via Shameless Self-Promotion)

Hello all,

So I've been published online again recently: two flash fiction stories this time. Most recently:

BIG NEW BUMP - https://www.101words.org/big-news-bump/

and before that:

HOURGLASS - https://www.101words.org/hourglass/

I wish to thank 101 Words: a tremendous website for tiny creative gems; so much variety, many better than my own admittedly meager offerings. Your fantastic promotion of my work keeps me writing. You can surely expect more from me in the future.

In the meantime, why not pay them a visit?

https://www.101words.org/

HAIR BECOMES A SILVERY GHOST (a.k.a. The First Thing I Wrote in 2016 - A First-ish Minute Gimmick)

            Kelly scoops up some of Mrs Eastwood's yellow hair, holding it taut between her fingers. She brings the scissors to it.

            'This is a lovely colour now,' she says before cutting. She turns back to Jackie at the other end of the room. 'Well done, girl.'

            Mrs Eastwood stares at them both through the mirror in front of her. 'Doesn't she usually do dyes then?'

            'Not really for such fair hair.' Kelly lets the trimmed hairs trickle to the lino floor.

            Jackie switches off the taps at the rinsing sink. 'Usually just touch-ups, you know?'

            Mrs Eastwood nods. Kelly loses grip of her hair.

            'Sorry, love,' her customer says. 'It looks lovely.'

            Kelly returns to her original grip and carries on cutting.

            'Ooh,' Mrs Eastwood remarks suddenly. 'You know Leigh?'

            'Yes.'

            'It's her 51st today!'

            'Is it?'

            'You sound shocked.'

            'Sorry. If I'm honest, she always seemed older than that.'

            Mrs Eastwood waves her hand. 'Everyone says it. I think it too from time to time.'

            Jackie wanders past. 'What do you mean?'

            Kelly pauses, sharing a conspiratorial look with her customer. Should we let her in on the tragedy, Kelly's slow blink asks. I prefer to think of it as an in-joke, Mrs Eastwood's raised eyebrow replies.

            She holds Jackie's gaze through the mirror as she rummages around in her trouser pocket. Eventually she pulls out her phone and flicks through some pictures before settling on one.

            'Here,' she says, passing the phone to Kelly who passes it on to Jackie.

            'God,' she mutters, 'I mean, Oh, bless.'

            Mrs Eastwood laughs. 'She's a sweetheart. She just looks tired.'

            'She must have led an exhausting life,' Kelly says.

            'Actually, no,' Mrs Eastwood replies, wagging her finger, 'It's hereditary. Leigh looks much like our aunt did. Unfortunately she didn't get as far as fifty.'

            'Oh dear,' Jackie sighs, passing the phone back.

            'Yes. We Sedgwick girls go grey early.'

            'Not you though.' Kelly holds up some of Mrs Eastwood's hair.

            Her customer shakes it loose.

            Jackie arrives at the front counter. 'It's horrible what ageing does to some people. Can't be just genes, there's got to be some cruelty to it.'

            Mrs Eastwood smiles sweetly. 'Well, all I know is that it happens regardless. So don't you go wasting that bright, soft skin and beautiful red curls!'

            Jackie fingers a strand. She's a natural blonde but Mrs Eastwood wouldn't know that. Jackie checked the roots just this morning.

            'And you,' Mrs Eastwood says to Kelly, 'You have the right idea, love, you found yourself a handsome entrepreneur.'

            'Hank's just setting out on his own.'

            'Still. He's not a brickie.' Mrs Eastwood's husband was a bricklayer. 'You used your supermodel cheekbones well. I wasted mine.'

            Kelly tries to figure out the best way of denying this; to say that Hank was more beautiful without implying that he doesn't quite love her the same way, to state that his job doesn't really come into it without giving away that things aren't really going so well for him at the moment.

            'Can I see that photo again?' she asks instead.

            Mrs Eastwood brings out her phone with the picture on it. Kelly examines it closely.

            'It is unfair but if you let your hair go that poorly-treated you're going to look permanently exhausted.' She resumes her scissor position. 'Hair becomes a silvery ghost of itself if you don't keep it up.'

            Mrs Eastwood puts the phone away. 'I'll be seeing Leigh in a few hours. Of course, I won't pass on any comments.'

            'Thanks.' Kelly smiles. 'Tell her our door is always open.'

            'And our appointment book is currently wide open,' Jackie mutters.

            Kelly glares back at her but then sees the clean, white pages she is flicking through.

            During this distraction, Mrs Eastwood finds herself frowning at her reflection. Underneath her golden tresses she can feel her hair curling up and slowly giving in. It is, of course, gone as soon as Kelly turns back around.

            Kelly cuts in thoughtful silence for a while, pretending to focus on each lock of her customer's replenished hair.

            Jackie closes the appointment book and straightens up. 'I had my first grey hair recently.'

            Both Kelly and Mrs Eastwood look up.

            'I won't say where it is.'

            They all laugh.

            The amusement brings on a rush of truth in Jackie. 'I've also started to wear slippers a lot.'

            'Oh dear,' Mrs Eastwood says.

            'Bless,' Kelly adds.

            Jackie shrugs. Solidarity.

BE RESPECTFUL...NOMINATIONS NOW OPEN! (a.k.a. The Last Thing I Wrote in 2015: A Last-Minute Gimmick)

            You're under consideration. Your manners have been noted.

            The Be Respectful awards are coming up. They're looking for a poster boy and girl, chemistry not essential but please reserve judgement of one another before, during and after allocation.

            You've heard about the ceremony, of course. Smart-casual: no exceptions in either direction. We want a level playing field. It's a big auditorium.

            Categories include: Politeness in Unlikely Awkward Social Situations, Due Course in Outwardly Emotional Matters, Best Moral Exercise of the Golden Rule and Silver Rule (respectively) etc.

            Full silence needn't fall throughout, just maintain a small and considerate murmur. By all means chat among yourselves but please mind what you say.

            Any slight, perceived, intended or otherwise and you'll be asked to leave; not just the proceedings but the ceremony, the venue itself. We will not abide such terseness. 

            Look at the title: Be Respectful. No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. This, of course, has recently been decreed the least tolerant fruit.

            We look forward to seeing you in action. Please look forward to hearing the nominations.

            Above all, reciprocate.