Friday, 31 January 2014

Slightly Less Short Fridays: The Stone That Told A Story

Julie admired the ring on her hand.  She'd dreamt of this all her life.  She'd been led to believe that it would somehow feel magical.

But it didn't.  It made her feel ordinary.  It made her feel that she was marrying beneath her.

"What am I going to do with you?" said Julie to the ring.

"Well, whatever you do," said the ring, "don't throw me back at him like the last one."

"What do you mean," said Julie, as if talking to a talking jewel was the most ordinary thing in the world, "'like the last one'?"

"Oh, have I said the wrong thing?" said the ring.  "I'm so sorry."

"No, " said Julie, "I think you may have said exactly the right thing.  Do go on, please."

"Well," said the ring, "it may interest you to know that you ain't the first little lady he's got engaged to.  In fact, you ain't even the tenth."

"Oh?" said Julie, willing the ring to continue.

"You're the ninth."

"The ninth?"

"Yeah."

"But you said I wasn't the tenth."

"I know, cos you're the ninth."

"Nine's less than ten."

"Well, yeah, that's kinda my point."

Suddenly Julie's husband-to-be seemed a much more interesting prospect.  She resolved to wait a little longer before deciding whether to go through with it.  That, and to give herself some time to figure out a plan that would end with her keeping the talking ring.


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Link of the Day: Dumb Ways To Die

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Monday, 27 January 2014

Very Short Mondays: The House At The Bottom Of The Hill

The House At The Bottom Of The Hill wished that it was at the top of the hill instead.

It wasn't that it was ungrateful.  It was very pleased to have been built at all.  It sat in a beautiful secluded spot, sheltered from the wind by, but not overshadowed by, a large copse of trees.

The owners of The House At The Bottom Of The Hill were warm and welcoming and The House was never short of visitors.  They even advertised outside The House to walkers that they could pick fruit from the garden and come inside for a cup of tea.

Most of the walkers were either about to climb, or had just finished climbing, the hill.  And all of them, even the ones who hadn't climbed the hill yet, would talk at great length about how good a hill it was, and how beautiful the views from the top (on a good day).  And The House heard every word.


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Link of the Day: How To Be Healthy And Happy

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Monday, 20 January 2014

Very Short Mondays: No Room On The Bus For The Rest Of Us

Paula and Steven watched as the dust cloud followed the bus into the distance.

"Our turn to walk then," said Paula, half to Steven, half to no one in particular.

"Yeah," said Steven.

Just then, the man stood behind them started singing to himself again, and began to walk in the direction in which the bus had left moments before.

Steven sighed, and picked up his bag.  "At least we packed for it," he said, and set off in the same direction as the singing man.

"Yeah," said Paula, and in her mind added: but if we hadn't packed for it, would we have been so far back in the queue in the first place?

This was going to be a long week.

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Monday, 13 January 2014

Monday, 6 January 2014

Very Short Mondays: Things You Put On The Internet

"Things you put on the Internet," said Camran sagely, taking another puff on his pipe, "are on the Internet."

No one could say for sure whether it was the wisdom of his words that captivated them, or whether it was because he was smoking a pipe whilst saying them.  But no one present in that room ever again missed out on a job interview because of prospective employers routinely googling applicants' names.


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Link of the Day: Back to the Future (I'm sure I've linked to things like this before, but these ones are particularly well posed)

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Friday, 3 January 2014

Slightly Less Short Fridays: Trayvon Jones And The Damp Dishcloth Of Despair

Trayvon Jones had long blue hair.  This is not particularly relevant to any part of the story that follows.

Trayvon Jones did not like living in a houseshare.  Mostly he was a clean and tidy person but sometimes he wanted to live like a slob.  He knew, however, that this would be rude and inconsiderate.  So he took exception when one of his housemates did live like a slob, all of the time.

One morning Trayvon Jones came upstairs into the kitchen (the kitchen was, unusually, at the top of the house).  He had a towel wrapped around his long blue hair, because it was still wet.  He couldn't remember when he learnt to do this.

On arriving in the kitchen, he found the dishcloth was on the floor, in front of the sink, in a small grey puddle.  Trayvon Jones sighed, picked up the cold wet dishcloth by pinching it disdainfully between his thumb and forefinger, and took it over to the pedal bin.  Then he dropped it inside.  He let the lid fall shut with a satisfying snap, and picked up the mop.

The mop was bone dry.  It was a little too long since it had last been used.  The dry mop soaked up the soapy grey puddle easily.  Trayvon Jones put the mop away, and adjusted the towel on his head, which had begun to work its way loose.

He opened the cupboard, where the packet of new dishcloths was kept.  To his horror, there were none inside.

Trayvon Jones was left with two choices.

The first choice was not to make breakfast today.

The second choice was to have breakfast, and then to fish the dishcloth from inside of the bin, so that he could attempt to clean his dishes after using them.

A third choice would have been to eat his breakfast and then not to clean his dishes.  But this choice did not count as a choice, because Trayvon Jones did not for a moment consider choosing it.

Trayvon Jones took the first choice.  He went back downstairs to find his hairdryer, and hoped that he had enough change to buy something to eat at the station.



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Link of the Day: The 60 Funniest Webcomics Of 2013

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Wednesday, 1 January 2014

12:15 On New Year's Day

The night is still, the sky is clear.  Over the houses and down the hill, the town square fireworks can be seen.

People begin to make their way from friends' and relatives' houses to their own.

Revellers start to drift away from the town centre.  First come the ones who are staggering drunkenly, the ones who peaked too soon and spent the last two hours waiting for midnight before allowing themselves to leave.

Taxis begin to fill the roads.

A car approaches a roundabout, stops and pulls back into reverse.  A woman shouts across the road to the driver.  "Did you just dump me?"

He winds his window down, attempts to reason with her.

"Did you just dump me?!"

"Get in the car," he says, quietly.

"Did you just fucking dump me?!"

I suspect that if he hasn't already, then it is only a matter of time.


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Happy New Year!  Hope you enjoyed this true story, from a certain seaside town in East Devon.  And that you have a marvellous year.

Link Of The Day: How To Name A Baby

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