a flash playlet

Scene:

Mo and Joe standing outside a pub watching the rugby crowd surge passed after a humiliating defeat for the home side. Each is holding a pint from which they take generous gulps. They are dressed in track pants, for comfort; the size of their bellies giving evidence of the fact that both are strangers to exercise.

Mo:        Ah ‘tis a terrible year for ticks.

Joe:        Yer right there.

Mo:        I’m not a fan, like.

Joe:        I hear you.

Mo:        I mean what good do they do?

Joe:        Ah well, I suppose they’ll come around eventually.

Mo:        How can they come round? They are what they are.

Joe:        They could improve.

Mo:        Ah they’ll never improve. They’ve got it made as they are.

Joe:        How do ya mean?

Mo:        Well look at them. They’ve evolved to the point where they can suck the blood   out of us and spread disease at the same time.

Joe:        What are you on about? They don’t get paid enough for that.

Mo:        Paid? Jaysus, are they paying ticks now?

Joe:        They are, I think. Sure there aren’t amatours anny more.

Mo:        Do you mean to tell me there are professional ticks out there.

Joe:        Well yeah. Just look at the field there today. O’Mahony and Pearse in the front row. Every inch of them paid for. Not on the scale of them footie players beyond, mind. Sure for the money and the combined thickness of that pair, you’d expect them to be higher up the standings. They are pretty thick, though, yer right there. Not too many brains to rub together, I’d say.

Mo:        What are you on about?

Joe:        The thickness of the team, like. Sure they’re all a bit thick. Might account for them never winning.

Mo:        Ah yer daft. I’m talking about ticks. The only field that I’d ever be assessing for tickness would be the one full of sheep. The blood-sucking kind, spreading that lime disease.

Joe:        Oh yer right. I wish they’d spread lemons instead. I’m partial to a lemon.

Mo:        Lemons? Jaysus, now who’s the thick? Mind you, when it comes to sucking blood, this lot has it down. Look at all these feckers (nods towards the crowd) forked over their paycheques to watch ‘em lose.

Joe:        Yer right there, ‘specially the ones in the grandstand.

Mo:        Yeah, think of them. Now that’s thickness for ye!

Joe:        It is right enough.

Mo:        Cheers!

Joe:        Sláinte!

Glasses clink

Fade to black

Cape Breton Post

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge 2020 one word prompt: thickness

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #flashplay #playlet #thickness #ticks #wordplay

#write28days Feb19

Monday was a bad, bad day. I got supplementary homework because of my misbehavior. It wasn’t that I misbehaved so badly. I don’t think it’s so bad to let off a stink bomb in the washroom. Josh does that every time he goes in there, after all, only he doesn’t even need a stink bomb. Mr. Thomas said it was aggreggrious behavior whatever that is. He spent a long time thinking up what my supplementary homework would be.  He said because I was a repeat offender it should be really bad. Then he told me that I should Google Ireland and make up sentences for every single one of the counties there.  I said what’s a county and he said it’s like a province only smaller and I would find out when I Googled it.

Now, I’m okay at Googling but you have to understand that Social is one of my bad subjects. Most subjects are my bad subjects but Social is the worst. I’m thinking, how can I get out of this supplementary homework at the same time that I’m trying to think what Ireland is. Then I remember it’s an island somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. And I think it’s really small because Mr. Thomas told us you could drop it into Lake Ontario and it would never be seen again even if it was a hundred times bigger or something like that. I thought, if it’s so small it can’t have that many of those mini provinces. I got the shock of my life when I Googled it. 32 counties it has. 32 sentences I have to write. Talk about overkill. They must be out of their gourds over there. 32 mini provinces. Well, I thought there’s no way I’m spending time on 32 separate sentences. The best I can do is lump them all in a story. So I printed off the whole list and got down to it. This is how it goes.

Continue reading “32 Counties” →

Yolanda flips through a Vogue on the couch, bemoaning her life, it’s lack of glamor, it’s zero excitement, it’s nil romance. She dreams of champagne in the afternoon and floating gowns of chiffon worn on snow-white beaches. One glance at her surroundings is enough to send her spiralling down the depression staircase. Barry entering at that moment, seals the deal. His smell fills the space.

“It’s snowing,” he says, shaking his head over top of her; chuckling as the dandruff floats down. “Yeyo, Yola baby, I wanna get snowed.”

“Oh yay!” says Yolanda with no enthusiasm at all.

“I’ve got an 8ball,” says Barry, waving a baggie of soft white powder in front of her nose.

Yolanda ignores him; staring at the magazine pages.

“I saw the ski instructor. This is fresh snow. Fell today. He had a chicken of the stuff. A whole Ki, imagine. Score, huh? Blow the bugles, Babe, that’s my kinda cake.”

Yolanda sighs, watching his pants slide down as he bends over, cutting the lines. Is this all life has to offer? A lint filled (or was it lint) butt crack in a tiny, grimy apartment?

“Come and join me at the rails, Babe. It’ll only take a jiff. Hahaha man I crack myself up sometimes. Ha ha ha. You get it Babe, Jif, crack? Hahaha!”

Yolanda shakes her head, still flipping pages.

“Just a little sniff, Babe. “

“Naw, I’m quitting. Gotta get out of this rats nest.” Get away from you she thinks.

Barry shrugs. Bending over the lines, he snorts each one in quick succession. “Man, that

rocks my world. He slides a wet finger through the dust of soft powder. “Hmmm

dessert.” Finger to his gums, a puzzled expression on his face he falls face forward.

Yolanda sighs, “I guess you’re snowed now, Barry.” She picks up her phone with gilded

nails and taps 911. “Ambulance please, suspected overdose.”

That solves one problem, she thinks and she sits back to wait for the future.

Snow – Clo Carey January 2020

Nonsense story – cocaine slang

Photo credits: Getty Images and Clo Carey

South Shore Scribes one-word prompt: “Snow” blog challenge #SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #onewordprompt #OneWord #cocaineslang

Drip, drip,

rain on the first day of school.

The sky is crying

and so am I.

Stomach balled tight.

“Breakfast!”

Dash to the bathroom – hammer on the door- throw up on the floor.

Nerves in shreds.

Hit the shower.

Drip, drip,

summer slipping down the drain.

Dull, dreary months stretch ahead.

Bullies and lunches in packed auditorium

teachers demanding and homework and noise

Drip, drip,

like Chinese torture

Sliding down windows as minutes tick by

Counting the hours ’til freedom again.

“Hurry up, you’ll be late.”

Put on the new clothes.

Force down the smoothie.

Grab the full backpack.

Friends at the door.

Splash in the puddles

Soaked to the skin.

Laughing and pushing and running the last bit.

There’s floods in the classroom

seeps into classrooms

No school; it’s a rain day.

YAY!

First Day of School? – Clo Carey September 2019

Nonsense Story @SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca   @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #school #nonsensewriting #amwriting #firstdayofschool