Writespiration #60 The List

Write About The ListThis week is all about the list. Write a story about a list. Any list you like, maybe its THE list, her list, or his, or both of theirs, maybe its a good list, or an evil list, or a list of chores. Can’t wait to see what you come up with.

Last week’s writespiration was all about fairy tales and what happened after, happily ever after. I owe you a story for that, I’ve cheated and loosely incorporated last weeks theme with this weeks.

The Naughty List

His rounded gut hung so far over his black belt, I couldn’t actually see the belt any more.

“Nick, honey. Seriously. The drinking needs to stop, it’s not even October.”

“What do you know, Mary? You haven’t got to deal with over population. Or six point two billion spoilt brats that think an iPhone 72s is an acceptable stocking filler. Seriously, do you know how many iPhones I have on my list?”

He waggled his swollen finger at me and the movement wafted the acrid stench of  alcohol through the air. I cupped my nose to prevent myself gagging. He was a disgrace. He tutted and waved me off before I could guess at the number on his list. He sat up, face puffy and shaking.

“A fucking stocking filler for god sake. What happened to wooden trains and jack in the boxes? The little fucktwits don’t even do their chores anymore. ROBOTS DO. And I suspect the parents want THEM as their god damn stocking fillers.”

He leant back in his armchair, his face, the same pillar box red as his suit. He clasped his chest and rasped a few heavy breaths as he reached for his whiskey glass, and cigar.

“Nick, seriously. You need to calm down, you know what the doctor said about your heart.”

“Fuck the doctor, Mary, and Fuck the list too. We’re taking a vacation. To Cuba. They have cigars and I’m all out,” he said, stubbing the nub of his cigar into the centre of the list.

He scrunched it up, threw it in the bin and stood up.

“Now make yourself useful, love, and get Rudolph.”

***

Jane is the queen of humour, she never fails to write a cracking story and this is no exception. Go Cinders… I mean Amanda.

One of the differences between the French and English versions of the same fairy story is the ending. In English, they all live happily ever after. In French, they all live happily ever after AND HAVE LOTS OF CHILDREN. I can see plenty of marital discontent looming on the horizon…

“Look, Charming, Junior is not going to fall off a cliff, get eaten by a bear, or choke on a small part from a Kinder gadget. His Fairy Godmother promised. He has a lovely little sister to play with and that’s going to have to be enough.”
“But Cinders—”
“And stop calling me that crap stupid name. I was christened Amanda.”
“But Amanda, darling, it isn’t safe to only have one heir to the throne. The court is full of plotting and conspiracies. Any one of his wicked uncles could drop him down a well or—”
“If anything happens to Junior the crown will pass to Belinda. What’s the problem?”
“But Belinda’s a girl! She’s a doll and I love her to pieces but—”
“But nothing! What century are you living in, Charming? Belinda would make quite as good a job of cutting ribbons and smashing champagne bottles as Junior.”
“But if we had another boy—”
“That’s not going to happen, sunshine. I have an appointment to have my tubes tied next Tuesday.”
“You can’t!”
“Just watch me!”
“Mother will have something to say about that”
“Don’t bring Her into it.”
“It’s in the constitution, and in the story¬—they lived happily ever after, and had lots of children.”
“Two is lots. In fact, when I stop Belinda licking out the dog’s bowl or trying to stuff the cat in the dishwasher, I wonder if two isn’t one too many.”
“It’s your duty.”
“If you wanted duty you should have married one of the court women, not a kitchen skivvy.”
“Those ruddy glass slippers!”
“You want your glass slippers back? Go fetch!”
“That window was a specially commissioned work! It cost the taxpayer a small fortune.”
“Well, the taxpayer will be saving a small fortune on my official state frocks from now on. I’m leaving. Little Boy Blue’s been tootling his horn at me for months now. And he hates kids!”

***

Geoffle, by god did he nail Red Ridinghood, and no that wasn’t a metaphowar… read on and you’ll get the point!

‘So there were just the two of you when he entered the property you say?’
‘To be accurate officer, only my grandmother was home. I turned up after he had effected his entry.’
‘The wolf?’
‘How many times must I tell this story?’
‘Sorry Miss. I didn’t catch your name, by the way.’
‘I don’t get given a name, officer; I’m the heroine and I’m known by the bloody cloak.’
‘Right. Bit of a bummer that, if you want to sell your story. You need to think about some branding. My brother does a bit of branding on the side. Sheep and cattle mostly but he might …’
‘Can we stick to the story?’
‘Sorry. And when you say he ‘effected his entry’, is that a sexual euphemism?’
‘Do you mean metaphor?’
‘Is that what he did to your granny?’
‘A metaphor is not a sexual act, officer?’
‘No? Shame. So he entered your granny…’
‘Eeew. Perlease. Granny hid in the cupboard…’
‘I thought he ate her?’
‘That’s the French version.’
‘Ah. Bit liberal with the accualite, are they?’
‘Not for me to say, officer, but they are French.’
‘So granny’s in the cupboard, you come in and you say this wolf is in bed and talking to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘In English?’
‘Well you’d not understand the story if it was German.’
‘Good point. So what’s he say?’
‘Must we?’
‘Look miss, try and see my side. I get a call, all sort of screams and what nots at the woodland cottage. I turn up, find you, alone with an eviscerated wolf on the floor, your granny traumatised in a cupboard and no sign of any knife or axe… There’s not a mark on you neither. And you want me to believe this wolf talked to you and was about to eat you when a woodcutter turns up, chops up the wolf and then disappears.’
‘I was terrified.’
‘You seem fairly self possessed to me. Are you sure it wasn’t some sort of sexual meta-phwoar?’
‘Metaphor. No.’
‘Well I’ve not much choice. I’ll have to call the RSPCA. You can’t go hacking up endangered species and hide the weapon and expect to get away scot free. Quite frankly, Miss, what you’re telling me is just like some sort of fairy story only in this one you end up with wolverine viscera on the shag pile. That just wouldn’t sell.’
‘Rather Grimm?’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, miss.’

***

Sarah out did her self this week, with this seriously funny take on The Little Mermaid. which you can read here.

Following a four month separation, Princess Melody filed for divorce last week. Melody is confident about her decision. “I have no doubts,” she told reporters.

“These legs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” she said. “And these feet! Ugh. I have yet to find a pair of comfortable shoes and I simply cannot keep up with my toenails. They’re nasty. I’m paying for pedicures every other week!”

According to the princess, things have not been going well for a while. “The prince may be handsome and I appreciate him helping me get my voice back but he’s dumb as a barnacle. I haven’t had an intelligent conversation since I left the ocean,” she sighed. “Oh, and don’t get me started on the chef! He is still serving seafood for dinner!”

The prince is confused by Melody’s choice to end their marriage. “I divorced that regular girl and married Mel ‘cause she was cool, you know? She gave up her voice and her fin thing for me and now she wants to leave? Weird.” When asked if he planned to contest the divorce, the Prince answered, “Hey, I didn’t know there was a contest. What do I get if I win?”

Melody has discussed the situation with her dolphin friend, Fredric, who is now in negotiation with the sea witch for a potion that will allow Melody to become a mermaid once more. “That,” she said, “would be my ‘Happily Ever After’.”

 

15 comments

  1. When King Zog the Uncertain ascended to the throne (having been assured he could descend just as quickly if he didn’t like it) he found on the seat a box of papers with a list on the top. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
    ‘You father’s royal list,’ the Court answered.
    ‘What’s a royal list?’
    ‘Every king has to have a list. It defines his monarchy.’
    Zog was Uncertain what that meant but he took it on board. He asked for a private audience with his Chancellor. ‘Lomp, apparently my father had a list and I need one. It will define my monarchy.’
    ‘Yes, your Majesty and what do you want on your list?’
    Zog might have been Uncertain but he wasn’t stupid.’Ah ha! I’ll only know that when I have my list.’
    Lomp, who, long before the Ascension/Descension/Ascension debacle knew how this sort of conversation could go in circles with never a decision, nodded. ‘Leave it to me.’
    He organised the Royal Cobbler to attend his Majesty.
    ‘Are you sure?’ said the Cobbler?
    ‘As sure as my name is Lomp,’ answered the Chancellor.
    ‘You’re called Lomp?’
    ‘Believe it, sonny. Now can you make his Majesty his Royal Shoes?’
    ‘I can, but…’
    ‘But?’
    ‘He won’t like it.’
    A week passed; the old king’s list sat unregarded. The Court became restless, unsure what to do and fearing their new king might be living up to his title. They awaited the weekly audience with the king at which they expected to receive instructions and directions Meanwhile in the Royal Robing Room, Zog sat with Lomp and the Royal Cobbler. ‘Are you sure, Lomp?’
    ”Quite sure.’
    ‘Ok, but I don’t like it.’
    ‘I told…’
    ‘Button it, boot boy. This way your majesty.’
    The Court held its collective breath as King Zog emerged, leaning at an uncomfortable 30 degrees to the vertical due to the presence of one flat shoe and one with a five inch heel. There was a collective intake of breath. Zog began to feel embarrassed, the Court began to murmur when a your courtier rushed forward. ‘You seen to have a pronounced list your majesty. May I help you?’
    Zog smiled and nodded at Lomp and took the young man’s arm. ‘Splendid.’

  2. Here’s my story:

    One brown, dilapidated piece of paper. One piece of paper that was the difference between William knowing whether destiny was still in his control or not. This was not just any old piece of paper though, it was one of great value because on it were the names of the lucky ones, the ones whose blood, sweat and tears would not fall in vain, the ones who would be able to take the next steps without having to take steps backwards. “That damn list, if only I had it now so I could see if my name was on it” said an impatient William, his mind fixated on knowing whether he had made the grade, whether he’d made the cut, whether he’d made the team. It was so close, William could see the piece of paper clearly on the table and yet it was so far as the table was in the head coach’s office which was locked. “I really want to know whether I did enough”, William thought to himself as he pressed his face against the door window, he could not help himself, he just had to know if he’d made the cut.
    Ever since he was a young boy, William had dreamed of playing for his local football team and now his dream was almost about to happen. But for that dream to come true, he had to impress the head coach and his backroom staff, to show to them that he had what it took to play for such a big club. “Ever tried. Ever failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.” The words William said to himself before every trial, before every hurdle put in his way, he knew that he had to work hard, work harder still, fail hard, fail harder still and try again in order for him to reach the top. The hours in the gym and on the pitch, all the tackles, the close misses, all the niggles and injuries, all of that was worth going through so as long as he made the grade, for all of that effort to go to waste would bring crippling devastation but William knew that with every failure life brought, he had to get up and try again, fail again and fail better.

      1. You’re welcome Sacha, to be honest, even I myself don’t know what happened, that piece of paper as dilapidated as it was was just as mysterious.

  3. Hee… 😀 I’m one of those odd people who always thought Santa (the current version of him portrayed in the U.S.) is a bit creepy. Am I alone in this? Anyway, the flash is stinkin’ hilarious. His state, yes, but the state of our society… Actually, it’s not as funny when I really think about it. It’s bloody true. Bratty spoiled kids, bratty spoiled parents.

    1. pahahaha, really?! Actually, I take your point, its a jolly good one! Fat old man, wearing fancy dress and actively seeking out kids to sit on his ‘knee’ and tell him what ‘present’ they want. When you say it like that it sounds out right wrong!!

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