Sign of the Times

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Photo and Fiction: © Steve Lakey 2014

 

Jean and Hillary always look forward to their regular visits to exclusive contemporary art galleries. They’ve been to fifteen so far this year. Here they go again!

Alain, their uniformed French chauffeur, helped them out of the silver Rolls Royce Corniche, and passed them their respective walking frames and white laced gloves. He stood back as they ‘raced’ for the entrance. Everything between these two appeared to be a competition. Alain followed behind them at a safe distance, discreetly carrying the bags. There was never a dull moment with the ‘Spinster Sisters’.

Naturally, they walked around the gallery in opposite directions. Alain tactfully sat down midway between them and opened his sandwiches. He wouldn’t be needed just yet.

At the far end of the room, the sisters met, coming from opposite directions. Alain noticed them both staring at the same exhibit. After they’d studied it for twenty minutes, he knew he would soon be required. He smiled to himself, wondering how anybody would pay good money for contemporary art. Much of it looked like junk!

Jean slowly shook her head and spoke at the nearest person, who happened to be the security guard. “Caution – Wet paint! The inherent message is a sad indictment of today’s authoritarian style of government. The Nanny state in action. A crude attempt to modify behaviour using subliminal messaging.”

Hillary typically saw life differently to her older sibling. “Oh, no. Clearly, it’s representative of the caring society, designed to protect the welfare of the most vulnerable. A throwback, to a gentler, kinder age.”

The guard tried to hide a smirk, and said nothing.

The one thing the sisters both agreed on, was that this exhibit wasn’t worth two million of their English pounds. How could they ever afford it? At this point, both ladies burst into tears, and attempted to console each other.

Alain quickly appeared and presented the ladies with their handbags. They both dabbed each others eyes with tissues. But the sobbing turned to wails, as Jean dropped her bag, scattering the contents far and wide.

The nearby security guard was only happy to help, and had all the contents back inside within a minute. Unfortunately, this was more than enough time (52 seconds would have been enough) for Alain (actually Alan, from Manchester) to un-attach the exhibit, slide it into a large holdall, and leg-it out of the entrance.

Jean and Hillary weren’t far behind him, ditching their gloves and stolen walking frames at the door.

The Spinster Sisters had struck again!

 

The photo and story were prompted by Pixel Prose Challenge, September 27th 2014, hosted by Amanda Lakey at UniqueArtChic.com.

For more details, click the logo.

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To view the other entries in this challenge, click the blue frog.

Good Bye-ee

Station Platform Photo: © Al Forbes 2014

As the train slowly gathered speed from the platform, our friends and families disappeared from view. It was then we finally realised that our journey to the British front line trenches in Belgium had begun. Like many of us, I was carrying a photo of a family member close to my heart. To remind me what this expedition was all about.

The excited babble before we pulled away quickly fell into silence, each one of us lost in our own private thoughts. A small group started singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”, but it soon fizzled out. This was more a time for reflection. None of us really knew what to expect. Even though we’d all seen photos and some jerky movie footage from the front. We knew that brave lads giving the thumbs up, before going over-the-top, wasn’t the whole story. Not even close.

As we pulled into other stations, more groups joined the train. The noise level rose as we greeted our new comrades. But as the platforms disappeared from view, the mood always dipped. It was as if we were all playing some great game, for the benefit of those we were leaving behind. Some of them would never understand what we were doing. Some said we should stay well out of it, that it wasn’t our war.

But if not for us, then who did those men die for? Many never got the send-off they deserved. I take out the the small photo of my Granddad, taken just weeks before he was killed in Mons, a hundred years ago. Doesn’t he deserve a few days of my time to take a Battlefield Tour in 2014, and place flowers on his grave? I look at the diverse group of people on this train, and I’m proud that they feel the same way I do.

For the first time, I’m using one story to enter two challenges. The first challenge is inspired by a specific photo, while the other has a completely open theme. Feel free to visit both!

1) Sunday Photo Fiction, September 14th 2014, hosted by Al Forbes.

Click the logo for more details.

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 To view other entries in this challenge, click this blue frog!

 2) Pixel Prose Challenge, September 14th 2014, hosted by Amanda Lakey at www.UniqueArt Chic.com.

Click the logo for more details.

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To view other entries in this challenge, click this blue frog.

Curry Favour: Pixel Prose Challenge

IMG_1093Photo and Fiction © Steve Lakey 2014

John “Jack” Daniels opened the door to the Taj Mahal restaurant and peered into the gloom. A bell tinkled, and a smartly dressed man appeared. Daniels quickly tried to straighten his own rumpled jacket before speaking.
“Morning Sir. Mister Kapoor?” The man seemed surprised by the question, but nodded.
“I’m Detective Inspector Daniels.”
“Thanks for coming so soon, Jack. I didn’t think this would be a job for C.I.D!”
“Er, we take this kind of thing very seriously, you know. And the office is just around the corner. You say a group of guys had a huge curry meal, drank gallons of beer, had bottles of wine, and then left without paying?”
“That’s right. The bill came to nearly £300.”
“£300? That sounds reasonable for all they had.”
“We’re good value for money! I can fetch the bill, if you need it for evidence?”
“No, there’s no need for that. Are you sure these men deliberately left without paying? It could have been that they’d had a bit too much to drink and each of them thought someone else had already paid. It happens you know!”
“All I know is, we’re £300 down!”

Daniels tried to give the impression that he was surveying the empty, dark restaurant with trained professional eyes. As well as he could, behind very, very dark shades.
“Did anyone recognise these men?”
“One of the waiters thought he’d seen them a few times before. Thought they might be local.”
“And what was their behaviour like? We’re they a bit too rowdy?”
“Oh, a little high-spirited, perhaps, but nothing we’re not used to.”
“So, if they were able to straighten this thing out, they’d be welcome back?”
“If it was a genuine mistake, of course!”

“Well, the lads at the station were talking about this. We felt bad that a respected member of the local community should be treated so shabbily. And we’ve done a quick collection for you. The boys are very generous you know.” Daniels produced a bulging brown envelope from inside his jacket and sheepishly handed it over.
“Funnily enough, we raised £300. A bit of a coincidence really!”
“Very kind, Inspector. I’m overwhelmed. It’s nice to know that our local Police take such a positive interest in us.”
“Well, it’s nice meeting you Mr Kapoor.”
“Shall we see you again, Jack?”
“I would imagine so. Next Friday? Table for four at nine o’clock, please.”

 

Photo and Fiction prompted by Pixel Prose Challenge, 7th September 2014, hosted by Amanda Lakey at www.UniqueArtChic.com.

Click the logo for more details.

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To view the other entries in the challenge, click the blue frog.

Night Work: Pixel Prose Challenge

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DSC03203 Photos and Fiction © Steve Lakey 2014

I’ve never been a morning person – waking up has always been a struggle. So I thought it made sense to go for interviews for Night shift jobs. It didn’t really matter what, as long as there were no early starts.
And that’s how I found myself walking down a driveway in rural South Yorkshire, towards the entrance of Roy’s Exotic Animal Park.

Deidre, a disinterested bleached blonde at the ticket booth, stared at me for a while before removing her gum and sticking it on the desk. I showed her my letter. She didn’t bother to make further eye contact.
“Oh, you’re one of those here about the Night Work. You’re the third one we’ve had here this week. They never seem to last long. Roy, the Boss, said I made a mistake when I typed the letter. He said ‘night’ should have a ‘k’ at the start. Must be old English or something. Anyway, the suit of armour is over there. You can start straight away.”
I wasn’t expecting that! “No interview? I thought I’d be working with the animals on the night shift. Now you’re saying I’ve got to put armour on! I don’t think so!”
“Roy says he’ll pay you double-time if you’re still here at the end of the week!”
“Where do I get changed?” It seemed an offer to good to miss.

Twenty minutes later, I shuffled up to the ticket booth, in full knight gear, proudly holding my battle axe and shield. I’d already had my photo taken with several visitors. Double pay, eh? Not bad.

Deidre tapped on the window and pointed me down the path. “Follow it ’til you see the dragon. Even you can’t miss it!”
I slowly clanked away down the gravel track, waving at kids as I went.

I saw a semi-circle of families standing around in the wood. Everyone with cameras and phones at the ready. They cleared a path for me. The dragon, sitting on a wooden perch, had already started turning its head back and forth, with smoke coming out its nostrils. A pretty cool animatronic, I had to admit. I crashed the axe against my shield, and got a few half-hearted cheers. The Beastie’s eyes turned from yellow to red!

Then I started playing it up for the crowd. Beckoning the dragon on, doing a fair attempt – under the circumstances – at a moonwalk, and trash-talking to that cowardly creature. The cameras clicked merrily away.

But I ignored the golden rule. Never turn your back on a dragon, especially a live one! I was bowing to the crowd, when I heard a gasp, followed by a look of horror, before they all began to flee. I felt, rather than heard, the wings flapping behind me. Instinctively, I sank to my knees and put the shield above my head. The dragon landed on it with a thump. I could feel myself getting crushed under its weight.

It was then that the dragon whispered (yes, whispered) to me.
“Hi, my name’s Nigel. The Job Centre sent me yesterday. Apparently, if we last to the end of the week, we’re on double pay!”
“We’d better make it look good then!”

And we did. First he attacked, then I countered. The crowd slowly drifted back as we ‘fought’ around the wood until we could fight no more. I borrowed a camera and took a selfie of us both. Our audience went wild.

Me and Nigel kept our jobs all summer. As long as we pulled in the punters, Roy was happy. We stayed on double money.

Well, you know what they say, ‘It’s knight work if you can get it’!

 

The photos and fiction were prompted by the Pixel Prose Challenge, 31st August 2014, hosted by Amanda Lakey at www.UniqueArtChic.com. For more information, click the logo.

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 To view other posts in this challenge, click the blue frog.

Pixel Prose Challenge: Operation ‘Match that Garden’

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DSC03080Photos: © Walktheselftalk.com 2014.

 

Coningshall Parish Council Leader George Sterling turned on the projector and showed the images to a stunned council chamber.

“These images were obtained a few days ago, at great expense, by an undercover operative in Scarsbury.” He was of course referring to himself having taken the pictures in their neighbouring rival town.

“Shocking images, I think you’ll agree. This decorative garden looks the bees knees! They’re just about to unveil it at the height of the tourist-rich summer season, giving us no chance to respond in kind. They’ve even built it right on our border, rubbing our noses in it! So, Ladies and Gentlemen, what do we do?”

After a long silence, a few suggestions filtered in.
“Create our own!” (What, overnight?)
“Ask Scarsbury to go halves with us!” (As if they’d ever agree!)
“Let’s have a Coningshall Air Show!” (We like the sound of this!)

A few heads were nodding at the last suggestion until George pointed out that the lack of an airfield and/or air museum could be a major stumbling block.

Just then then the old-school ring of the Red Phone cut through the chamber. This was not usually a good sign. The phone was the Hot Line from Recently Deceased Solicitor, and Former Council Leader, Peter Kipper.

“My clients, all former Coningshallinans, are not happy. Scarsbury have got one over on us again. George, you’ve got to up your game! I’m working on something from this end, but you’ve got to come up with a response, and sharpish!” The line went very dead.

The meeting broke up and all ten of the councillors adjourned to the Red Lion pub for consolation drinks. The landlord, Reg Lyons (He always answered the phone, “Reg Lyons at the Red Lion!”) was a annoyingly cheerful fellow. But he was a little tight when it came to money matters. He passed round the complimentary drinks to his fellow councillors (one small bottle of out-of-date lemonade or cola per person, maximum.)

Reg spoke up. “I’d be prepared to host a ‘Mice Bucket Challenge’. We could get some mice from the local pet shop. Mind you, we might get some hassle from Animal Rights activists. Still, what’s the worse that could happen?” Not surprisingly, there were no takers.

George was getting a little desperate. “ I’ve got an actor friend, Paddy, who could make the occasional public appearance in town. He once auditioned to be a Dalek in Doctor Who. He didn’t get it though, they said his face didn’t fit.”

Jim Stamp the owner of the Coningshall Gazette spoke for the first time today. “What we need is a bit of controversy to pull the punters in. You know how they found the remains of King Richard lll in a car park? What if we buried a body in the pub car park? Then someone digs it up. It’d make a great headline!” The ideas were beginning to get even more outrageous, when fortunately, a familiar old-school ringtone cut through the conversation.

George pulled out his Red mobile phone and turned on the loudspeaker.

“Hold the front page!” Peter Kipper sounded almost cheerful. Almost. “George, I’ve been doing some digging through title deeds here. It seems that Scarsbury have bungled. Almost all the land they’ve used for the gardens is actually owned by Coningshall. Check your old maps! By rights, Scarsbury will have to give you three quarters of the profits, or sell you the whole thing at a knockdown price. Am I good, or am I good! You owe me one. Good day, George.”

There were cheers all round, apart from Jim Stamp, who still liked the ‘Body in the Car Park’ idea.

Coningshall was to have it’s own Public Garden Paradise! Maybe George’s actor friend, Paddy, could do the official opening?

 

The photos and story were prompted by the Pixel Post Challenge, hosted by Amanda Lakey at www.UniqueArtChic.com.

Click the logo for more details.

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To view the other entries in the challenge, click the Blue Frog.