Magpie Tales#104

A real Oooerr image from Tess at Willow Manor this week!

There was a young lady from Cheam
who could not explain her strange dream,
saying "I'm at a loss.
I might be Diana Ross -
but these guys are not the Supremes."



Many improving Magpies can be read via the Magpie site

What kind of S.E.X was that again?

Rising to the surface once more, G-Man pleads for our 55 word Friday Fictions

"Depends where you put the italics."
"Eh?"
"Wild monkey sex. Imagine howler monkeys on amphetamines going 'YES!' and 'OMG!'"
"Whereas?"
"Wild Monkey sex is an out-of-zoo experience denied to caged monkeys."
"I see."
"And wild Monkey sex particularises the genus. Not wild elephant, armadillo or platypus."
"So what's wild monkey sex, daddy-o?"
"You trying to be funny?"

Magpie#103

This week's prompt from Willow Manor is a striking though sombre picture.

"Ah! There you are, Simpleforth. Tuesday 11a.m. Should you not be in a physics class?"

"I'm doing physics, Sir. And should you not say 'Here' rather than 'There' you are?  I am after all here, rather than somewhere over there."

"We talk about you in the staff-room, Simpleforth.  More lip than the rest of the Sixth Form put together.  So - before I haul you back into School - what is the nature of this physics you claim to be doing?"

"I'm listening for coffins. You see, Sir, these days -"

"You're listening for WHAT?"

" - lots of people want to be buried with their mobile phones in case they weren't really dead when they died."

"Weren't really dead!  Of course they were dead. This is a cemetery. Everyone's dead."

"You aren't dead, Sir.  I'm not dead.  And some of these (he points down) might not be. Then they need help. We really should try to unbury the undead. That's why I'm listening."

"You're listening, but I can't belive what I'm hearing.  Please explain - the big red crystal, the car battery, those headphones and that somewhat disgruntled TV antenna."

"The signals from underground are too weak to be decoded by a mobile phone above ground. I've tried with mine, Sir, and never heard anything. The underground is a radio blackspot -"

"You never got any calls from underground on your mobile phone in a cemetery? Should you be surprised? Should I be surprised? Of course not. Nothing about you surprises your teachers anymore. This has ceased to be funny, Simpleforth."

"But sir, if you were accidentally interred because some imported doctor who couldn't speak English said you were dead and the family agreed, wouldn't you want someone to be listening when you started knocking on wood, so to speak.  So I'm setting up a sort of giant crystal-set to see if I can pick up their distress signals.  If it works I can hire it out to the recently bereaved so they can be on the safe side."

"Simpleforth! If you were to be numbered amongst the undead, I'm not sure I'd want to be on the safe side.  Some people are better off d . . oh, never mind. Now. Back to school."

(Master seizes Simpleforth by an ear and starts to haul him away)

"Sir!  Sir!  Stop!  I think I'm picking something up! From right below our feet . . "

Rivals

It's Friday again, and true to his habit, G-Man grants us 55 words to do out worst. 

"Where do you want the tattoos, Mr. Gingrich"

"Give you two guesses."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Never surer."

"I do anchors. Roses. 'Love you, Mom.' "

"Just these pictures.  One to the left. One to the right."

"You want Mr.Romney and Mr.Santorum tattoed on your . .  er . .  chest? Why,sir?"

"Because they're two of the biggest tits in America."

Go to G-Man's pages for more kick-ass efforts.

Tess at Willow Manor offers this picture to get our creative juices going.

Walissy Kandinsky  Red Spot II

The Scourge of the Staff Room offers another . . .

Leviticus P. Simpleforth   Red Spot I

"What have we here, Simpleforth?"

"A picture, sir."

"I can see it's a picture, Simpleforth.  What, forgive me for asking, is it a picture of?"

"It's another red spot, sir.  I mean . .  it's a picture of another red spot."

"Simpleforth, I know I'm getting old and my memory of last week's art class may be growing dim, but did I not ask you to apply yourself armed with canvas and brushes in modo Kandinsky?"

"I thought about that, sir. Honest I did. Then I thought that re-interpreting Red Spots might be a better outlet for my talents. I'm not really into boomerangs and artificial knee caps. Even red ones."

"Your talents, Simpleforth, have so far remained well below your kneecaps.  And this bloodshot eyeball isn't doing much to make them more visible. Please explain your . . um . . I hesitate to say . . um . . daub."

"Good one, sir!"

"I thought I implied it wasn't good at all?"

"No sir, I meant your joke was good."

"I'm not in  the habit of making jokes. Particularly when viewing  . . "

"You said my eyeball wasn't making things more visible. Eyeball. Visible. I thought that was kind of funny. And just now you added 'viewing' "

"You can't waffle your way out of this, Simpleforth. The picture! Explain."

"Not much to explain really, sir. It's the Red Spot."

"The Red Spot?"

"Yes sir.  The Great Red Spot on planet Jupiter.  It's a hyrogen hurricane. Been blowing for hundreds of years. The winds blow round it at 950 kilometres per hour. Blow anybody's hairpiece off. Sir."

"That's quite enough of that, young man!"

"Sorry sir.  Just sort of slipped off. Sorry. Mean slipped out. Out, I meant."

"I'm tempted to open my punishment book, Simpleforth.  Disobeying simple instructions as to what to paint. Waffling. Studied insolence. You'll end up painting double yellow lines in the road at his rate."

"Oh sir! I was only . . "

(Art master exits in search of punishment book. Simpleforth calls after him but sotto voce)

"I'll paint double yellow lines round planet Uranus if you like. Look nice that would. Real purty!"

.

Many more interpretations of Kandinsky's picture can be found here

Friday Flash Fiction 27th. January

Not for the first time, the All-Knowing G-Man brightens our Fridays with another tempting 55 word offer.

Congrats! Here's your iGotcha phone. When you hold the mouthpiece to your forehead, your victim hears your thoughts. Don't waste words. Let it all hang out! Think bedtime. The mouthpiece camera shows him your top half. When he starts grunting the wired-in alarm clock rings. Whip your top off and shake yourself about. You got him!

. 

Poetry Jam, 24th.January

Dani asks us to write a poem celebrating our senses, or senses as yet undiscovered  . .

The 1011000111011011th. Sense

There was a young blogger called Chet
whose navel could download the Net.
But a hacker called Cyrus
emailed him a virus.
Now ring-tones are all he can get.

Magpie Tales#101

Tess at Willow Manor offers us a prompt which at first sight is problematic/enigmatic, but in fact is quite easy to decode.

IT'S BURNS NIGHT! (*)

Scots cannae hear a fiddle band
without they tap their feet.
And when the 25th(*) comes round
the lassies feel the heat.
And so before they take the floor
we strap them to a sheep!

The "Bees of Maggieknockater"
is not their first choice dance
and "Dashing Sergeants" (black or white)
do not lead to romance.

They listen to the jigs and reels,

while waiting "Strip the Willow"

The big black bandage keeps them still,

the fleece a pleasant pillow.

The hoolie starts!  We cut them free!

They join in with high zest.

(Do they do this in Fochabers

or stuck-up Inverness?)

And old John Knox turns in his grave
at this eye-popping Burns Night rave.

(*) 25th. January. Burns Night is celebrated by Scots, both domiciled and ex-pat. They foregather to feast on haggis and mashed neeps (golden turnips), and whisky.  The Haggis is piped-in, welcomed and addressed.  The poetry of the iconic Rabbie Burns is recited. Bagpipes are played. "Ae Fond Kiss", "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" are sung, at which point tears may flow as the whisky takes hold. There is often dancing. These guys have dispensed with the traditional kilts and tartan skirts for Auld Lang Syne, or other reasons I leave you to guess at. 

Worthier Magpies on display at Willow Manor.

Magpie Tales#100

This week, Tess's sets her prompt in stone.

Ooops!

Humpback:  "You look miserable. What's up?"

The Sculpt:  "Go away.  Leave me alone."

Humpback:  "You look like you lost a chest of dubloons and found a rusty anchor."

The Sculpt:  "Please. Leave me in peace..."  (Sobs)

Humpback:  "Now this won't do at all. Tears are lost in salt water.  Just tell old Humph all about it. A trouble shared and all that."

The Sculpt:   (Sighs, then) "See, I could've been a contender."

Humpback:  "A contender?"

The Scuplt:  "There's plenty of me. Thirty tons for a guess. I could've been a contender for the really important stuff."

Humpback:  "Important stuff?"

The Sculpt:  "Yeah!  I could've been the head of the Colossus of Rhodes.  I could've been part of the Great Lighthouse at Alexandria.  Or the back-end of that wassname. In the desert."

Humpback:  "The Sphinx?"

The Sculpt:  "That's the one!  I could've topped out the Great Pyramid at Giza."

Humpback:  "Been a Pointyhead, eh?"

The Sculpt:  "This isn't funny. If you find this funny, just swan off!"

Humpback:  "Sorry, sorry. . . "

The Sculpt:  "But what I really wanted was to be Zeus at Olympia. If you chip enough of me away, I reckon I'd look like one of Zeus's ears. Instead of which..."

Humpback:  "You know what I think?  You're doing a more useful job than bein' part of some old  Wonder of the Ancient World.  And you could've ended up much worse off."

The Sculpt:  "What could be worse than sitting in the sea waiting to turn into a coral reef?"

Humpback:  "You could've ended up crushed to half-inch aggregate for a freeway in Montana.  Can't be many fates worse'n that. Corals are all sorts of lovely colours. Montana's just red sandstone. Boring."

The Sculpt:  "Never thought of that.  I end up covered in pretty colours, while you . . "

Humpback:  " . . . I collect barnacles."

The Sculpt:  "You just come along any time and scrape them off on me."

Humpback:  "That's the spirit.  Is that a little smile breakin' out on those stony features? I do think it is. I'll be off then."

The Sculpt:  "Stop by any time. Don't be a stranger. Mind how you go now!"

(Humpback circles the sculpt before swimming away. He swats the water with his tail flukes, which knocks the sculpt off her pedestal and . . )
Humpback:   "Oh SHIT!"
The Sculpt:   "You clumsy prat! Now look at me . .!"
Humpback:   "Sorry. Sorry. But look at it this way. Now you're like that other wassname in the desert."
The Sculpt:   "What other wassname, you idiot?"
Humpback:   "That King Ozymandias."(*)
The Sculpt:   "But he's a colossal wreck."
Humpback:   "Exactly."


(*)  Read all about it!

Friday Flash Fiction 13th January

G-Man wants us to devote 55 words to some "Nice Guy" we know . . . or knew.

A sweet man, Sidewinder was.  Loved his wife.  Gave to bums and dropouts as well as charity. Adored kids. Mended stray dogs’ broken legs.  Put new clutches up old ladies’ beloved old bangers. Fixed dripping taps(*), leaking gutters, porch roofs or rooves. One bedtime he tackled Kafka's "Metamorphosis" . . . when he woke up . . . life’s so unfair.

(*) faucets when you cross The Pond.