The story behind the advert

One of our writing prompts last week at writing group was to write the fictional story behind a real life advert spotted in the local supermarket. My story made everyone giggle and I hope it makes you smile too…

Nearly new car tyre - £35

The car was a write off, all that was left intact was the pink furry dice and one nearly new front tyre.

Well I’m keeping the dice – obviously – they were a gift from my Nan when I passed my test. She was so proud of me for passing on the fourteenth attempt, said it showed really determination.

She’s finally given up her own dreams of driving after failing at the unlucky thirteenth time. If God had wanted me to go faster he’s have given me wheels instead of legs she always said. She was seventy-two at the time and with her failing eyesight and dodgy hip it was probably for the best Dad said, although he said it a bit sharper than that!

My car itself was never exactly what you would call a luxury model but it was mine. A black Corsa with a distinctive green drivers’ door. I suppose you could say that I am a little accident prone really as the original matching door was knocked off in a car park.

I had to open the door to see out of my blind spot so it’s not that I’m a careless driver who doesn’t look or anything stupid like that.

The car was full of balloons for my Nan’s surprise seventy-fifth birthday and I’d lost my wing mirror the week before so I had to reverse with my head hanging out of the door to see where I was going. I quickly moved my head back in when I saw the pillar but forgot to close the door and it was sort of ripped off.

Attack of the multi storey car park pillar, they should make a film says my friend Shazz, who was with me at the time laughing her head off and recording my reactions for Facebook.

They are lethal those things, I reply and all over the place!

They are kinda necessary to hold the roof up or it wouldn’t be a multi storey – duh!

Oh she’s a bright one, I’d really never thought of that before.

Shazz also has a brother who works at a scrap yard so it was him that fixed up my green door. He found it dead funny and went around singing this old rock and roll song every time he saw me.

Even more annoyingly he kept asking me out, but I have my standards and he has dirty finger nails. Must be from his job I suppose so I might forgive him that but he also has a missing front tooth from a fight.

Otherwise he has a heart of gold and it was him that suggested I sell the tyre to make a bit of money and I need it because who knew you have to pay to have a car scrapped?

Ridiculous state of affairs if you ask me.

But I thank my lucky dice that I escaped from the accident relatively unscathed, just a chipped nail. Mandy at the nail bar fixed it for me good as new for free, she could see I was distraught and in shock so she added three spoons of sugar to my tea for good measure.

The Shadow Child

How many stories begin with the words, last night I had a dream?

Recently I’ve been having dreams that are so real I wake already tired as I start the day.  But most fade into a distant haze as I get up. A vague memory you can’t quite grasp.

Last night I had a dream that has made me want to write it down, an all too rare occurrence these days, a desire to write strong enough to get me out of bed at 5 a.m. to find my laptop.

I was driving, along a road I know reasonably well and it was getting dark.

Suddenly I was aware of shadows in front of me, flitting silently in the dusk.

Kids on bikes, out too late with no lights on, I slowed down as they wove a dangerous path. I stopped as I reached a junction, a bus swung round the corner. Most bikes sped on their way but the driver of the bus hadn’t seen them all in the dark, he clipped the final one, the bike ended on its side, a child tumbled to the ground in front of me.

Our eyes met, although he was a shadow child with no whites to his eyes. He picked up a helmet that I have no memory of him wearing before, he placed it on his head and there were no straps to secure it. He was aware he needed it, remembered some warning he was told long ago but he arose unscathed and rode off to join his friends as if nothing had happened.

There are lights at that junction and they must have turned green because it was my turn to go. The bus had disappeared ahead of me but I soon caught up to the bikes again, weaving as carelessly as before, accident forgotten.

I slowed but the car behind me wasn’t so patient, he never caused an accident but I was aware how dangerously close he followed. I was almost as if he’d not seen me.

Did the shadow child turn round and glare?

The dream shifted gear, I woke up and maybe I would have turned over and gone back to sleep, 4:44 is far too early! But inevitably I needed a wee.

As I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers around me it struck me what was really bothering me about the dream.

There were no lights, I’m guessing there was moonlight or something to create the shadows, but there was no red or green glow from the traffic lights, no glare of headlights from the other vehicles on the road.

The car behind me failed to see me in the dark, in the same way I struggled to see the shadows in front of me.

I was driving a dangerous path with no lights on. And I was not the only one.

Was this really just a dream?

Or a warning from the shadow child?

Table Manners

It was the word “madam” that particularly irked her.

“It is with regret, madam, that we are unable to allow you and your companion into our restaurant for lunch today.”

“But we’ve booked and you hardly seem busy.”

She stretched up tall to see over the man’s crisp shoulder and could see plenty of empty tables. The maitre’d looked back at her sternly. Unquestioning, unmoveable.

Actually it he didn’t look at her - madam - his eyes shifted sideways to glance at her companion from the ruffled hair with its kitchen scissors cut to the down at heel scuffed lace up boots poking out from the unruly hem of the long velvet gown.

Otis had a style all of her own, out of time and out of place.

The maitre’d implied it wasn’t a style appreciated in such an establishment as this.

Melanie’s own style was of course impeccable, coiffured hair, cashmere pashmina, skirt fashionably just above the knee and freshly polished court shoes.

Otis nibbled the side of her thumb nail, a nervous habit. She pulled a bit of skin off between her teeth and spat it with precision at the maitre’d.

It landed on the lapel of his jacket. A slice of moonlight on the darkest night.

He flicked it off with a manicured fingernail.

“Please, madam, it would be advisable for you and your companion to leave, without fuss.”  He added.

Melanie wanted to stand her ground in her sturdy, sensible shoes, speak up for the little people, the persecuted, the unloved and unlovable.

The pashmina of convention was beginning to strangle her and she felt the heat rise up from her chest and cause her face to flush.

They had a reservation!

Melanie became more indignant and flustered almost missing the swift movement beside her as Otis reached under her skirts to pull out a sharp dagger from her boot.

It was like no dagger ever seen on earth before; it was translucent and shone brightly like the moon.

Otis plunged it into the man’s heart, removed it with the same dispassionate ease, wiped the blade on her skirt and replaced it safe in its hiding place.

The maitre’d stood for a second, and then tilted his head to one side, quizzically.

After what seemed like an age he slumped to the ground, eyes staring up at them. Melanie couldn’t bear to look and so unwound her restrictive scarf and threw it over his prone body.

“We’d better get out of here,” she said looking around furtively. “We can’t go in now.”

It was Otis’s turn to look puzzled, “but there are tables free and we have a reservation.”

There was logic to her statement and she defiantly stepped over the hurdle she had just obliterated.

Melanie took a last look down, it seemed as though a scarlet rose was blooming on the discarded pashmina. Something new had been born.

Lifting her head, all fears and propriety swept aside, she entered the restaurant to eat.

A story inspired by this song

A January Garden

Squirrels scamper

 bare branches

   Pheasants frolic

       silent snowdrops

Hedgehogs hibernate

 layered leaves

Chaffinches chatter

sombre skies

Buds begin

             awakened adventures

Hope holds             

     expectant

Write yourself happy!

Today is Blue Monday - apparently the most depressing day of the year.

This year it is compounded by the fast approaching BIG birthday I have next month.

I have always known that writing has a positive affect on my mood so with that in mind I turned my attention to writing a poem, inspired by something completely off the wall a friend said over coffee earlier today.

I hope it brightens your day...

My Granny’s Cat

My granny has a cat

It lives under the stairs

At least that’s what she tells me

But I’ve never seen it there.

She says it’s cute and cuddly

A little ball of fluff

But when I peer into the cupboard

It’s just filled with other stuff.

A wind up torch, a clothes brush

An odd shoe, a cricket bat

No evidence that I can see

To suggest she has a cat.

I think my granny’s got it wrong

I think she’s telling lies

Which is naughty, but I let her off

She’s quite old, she’s 55.

I think she’s just forgetful

And living in the past

When dinosaurs walked down the street

And time didn’t fly so fast.

She says a lot of funny things

And so do mum and dad

It’s crazy being in a family

Where everyone’s quite mad.

My granny says she has a cat

It lives under the stairs

It hides behind the hoover

And comes out when I’m not there.