This 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.”
“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.”
“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.’
‘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.’
‘Well you’d not understand the story if it was German.’
‘Good point. So what’s he say?’
‘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?’
‘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.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, miss.’
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’.”