The Fame Generation

Image result for kim kardashian

image: The Independent

We were the “Fame Generation.”  Celebrity was everything.  We ravenously consumed reality television, we marvelled at the lifestyle of the rich and even against all common sense even elected them to be our leaders.

We wanted to be like our icons.  Labourers and the children of labourers believed the tabloid press and the glossy magazines which depicted the life we all could have if we only were more beautiful, better dressed, or enhanced ourselves with surgery.

Soon we would only wear designer labels.  We followed every fad diet that was produced.  We rehearsed our moves, both those meant for the stage and those we used in day to day life.  We entered ever increasingly humiliating “reality” programmes which increasingly were anything other than real life.

Messages on the environment were denied by those in the public eye, and ignored by others in deference to conspicuous consumption.  We worshipped pop stars, we began to “live” the message of RAP and Hip Hop artists.  And we were all sure, in the end, that we too could all be Kardashians.

Then it happened.  The financial system, undermined by greed, collapsed.  The oceans filled with plastic.  Violence spurred by prejudice or envy spilled out onto the street.  The end of Western Civilisation had come.

“Why?” you might ask.  It is simple:  the fault was in our stars.

 

Padre

(223 Words, 20 minutes)

 

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: The Fault in Our Stars

Away From Judging Eyes

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They congregated up in the hills, far away from judging eyes.  The Beckers were the first to arrive, Karl with his thinning reddish hair which made him look older than his thirty-five years. But he was still known for his endurance.  His wife Inge, buxom and blonde was going to turn a few heads at the gathering as well.

 

The Krammers came next, Eric with his gym-built physique and rippling six pack was going to be one to watch, though his wife Ursula had been one of last year’s favourites in her own right.  As they climbed out of their range rover, a Volvo pulled in behind them on the mountain lay-by.  The newcomers Will Dunker and his girlfriend Heidi Schmitt nervously joined the others and asked if this was “the right place.”

 

Soon all eight couples had gathered on the windblown hilltop.  The organiser, Gunther Bitmann signalled for them to step to the lee of the hill.  He then unbuttoned and removed his duffle coat and the others began to follow suit.  Then he said, “Welcome to our 2019 mixed-doubles yodeling contest.”

 

Padre

First Line Friday: July 19th, 2019

When Envy Comes Out of the Closet

Dresses, Apparel, Clothing, Clothes, Clothes Hangers

Pixabay

Which item of clothing is the most jealous?

There is considerable debate on this issue.  According to a certain British comedy group, the flat cap is,  as it looks with envy at both the bowler and the top hat.  But shoes would certainly disagree as heels being always down trodden would love to “get a head,” and be any type of hat.

Envy is not restricted to the extremes of head and foot however.  Even in the middle there is jealousy.  Slacks hate being seen as lazy, and they hate that the even more socially alternative denim is more popular than they.  It seems to be something about the genes.  While some derriere coverings simply skirt this issue, others are often caught up short.

Then there are the undergarments.  Pants and knickers are often the butt of other’s jokes, and really just want to disappear from sight.  But their cousins, the socks also have their nemesis – gloves.  Why do these show-offs get to cover individual digits?  Mittens seem to be in agreement with this glove-envy.

All in all the wardrobe is a place of many petty jealousies.   So fractious are some of these that one group is even known as petty-coats.

 

Padre

Fibbing Friday July 19

My Absolutely True Diary

Curry, Puff, Foods, Delicious, Pastries

Pixabay

 

I have always been confident.  I was top of my class in High School, and when I started my undergraduate architecture degree, I started the “definitive journal” of my life.  After all, I am destined for great things.  There needs to be source materials for all of the future biographies that will be written about me.

 

I began the second volume of the biographical journal as I was completing my Masters in Urban Planning.  My thesis, was cited by many as “ground breaking.”  Great things were to follow.

 

As I completed my Doctor of Public Administration from one of the top three universities, I began the third volume.  That was two years ago.  A flurry of resumes, and interviews followed.  How is it that God’s gift to urban planning is being so ignored?

 

I have put the first three volumes on display under my diplomas awards.  For now I am beginning my personal, and if I am honest, absolutely true diary which I trust will never come into public view when my ship comes in.

 

And why am I stating a fourth volume?  Simply this.  After all of my successes the only job I have secured is as a delivery driver for The Spice Garden Restaurant. Who would have thought that I, of all people, would end up working part time at an Indian?

 

Padre

 

(225 Words, 15 minutes)

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

The Visitor

Grim Reaper, Skull, Death, Skeleton

Pixabay

Arrias the Merchant was a man of wealth and power.  While a steady stream of supplicants for his favour visited his office daily, they did so under the steely gaze of Arrias’ dozen bodyguards.  Arrias was envied, even feared, but he was also despised by those who owed him money or favours.

 

He slept each night in a chamber with iron bars on the windows, and heavy wooden shutters lest an assassin attempt to shoot a dart or bow through the openings.  His door was of bronze clad oak.

 

Yet he slept fitfully.   Each day he gazed at the drooping chin, and greying temples with the knowledge that another assassin which he could not thwart, would soon stock him.

 

Then the day came.  He was sitting in his counting room and he saw the briefest glimpse of what seemed a skeletal black robed figure pass behind him and reflect upon his silver goblet.  Arrias shoved the cup from himself, and ran to his rooms, locking and barring the door from within.  There was a scraping sound upon the outer bronze work, and he looked through the reinforced peephole to see the grinning face of death.

 

Arrias’ heart pounded, and then slowed.  With elation he looked again, the figure had been outrun.  He had cheated the reaper!

 

Satisfied he sat in his upholstered chair, and congratulated himself.

 

He then noticed he was not alone in the room.  Sitting at the foot of his bed was a small blonde girl of about six.  She was swinging her legs silently, and mouthing a silent singsong of a rhyme.
Startled, Arrias asked, “Child what are you doing here?  Is your mother one of my maids?”

 

“No, silly man,” she replied.

 

“Who then?” he asked.

 

“I am the visitor that you have so long sought to avoid,” she said with a sad smile.

 

Arrias did not panic, but slowly closed his eyes and passed.

 

Padre

Tale Weaver – #232 – July 18th – Visit

Adventure in the Clouds

 

Nature, Landscape, Moon, Tree, Fantasy, Mirroring

Jack had become quite well known after his exploits up the bean stock.  Golden eggs had lifted his family from poverty and life was good.  Across town lived James.  He had been mates with Jack back in primary, but the two had grown apart, especially after Jack’s rise to riches.  James now found himself still in the grips of poverty and he was often hungry.

 

Surely if Jack can do it, I can too, James mused.  It’s just how to go about it.

 

James ran through his former friend’s story.  He had planted some magic beans, climbed the bean stock, grabbed the goose, climbed down and then cut down the vine killing the giant.

 

Sounds simple enough, James thought.  He then spent nearly a fortnight collecting every stray seed, bulb, and nut he could lay his hands on.  He planted them in neat rows in a vacant lot, and watered them daily.  Most germinated, and many started to make really healthy plants, but it was the peach stone that caught his attention.  The sapling that resulted was out growing all of the contenders.

 

In just three weeks it had become a tall sturdy tree, and its upper branches, disappeared into the clouds.

 

This must be the one, James mused.  He tucked a hatchet into his belt (just to facilitate a quick tree felling) and began to climb.

 

It took him three hours to reach the top, and the branches allowed him to easily step down onto a meadow on the top of one of the clouds.  There ahead of him was a huge female giant sitting on a blanket eating a picnic alone.

 

“Who are you?” she said as he approached.

 

“I’m James,” he said a bit terrified.

 

“Would you care for a sandwich?” she asked.  “I so hate eating alone.”

 

James looked at the five foot wide ham sandwich on its fluffy brown bread, and his mouth watered.  “Yes please,” he said.  He sat down and began to eat his fill for the first time in months.

 

“If you hate eating alone, why do you do it?”  James asked in a kind tone.

 

“My boyfriend has run off and left me behind,” she said.  “His house is empty, and he even took that stupid goose of his with him, but not me.”

 

James swallowed, and then said merely, “Sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” she said.  “And I do appreciate your company, it is so lonely up here.”

 

James helped himself to an overly large piece of apple pie, and said, “I really like being here too.”

 

“That’s nice of you to say,” she replied.

 

“By the way what’s your name?” James asked.

 

Thus began the friendship between James and the giant, Peach.

 

(453 words, 20 minutes)

 

Padre

 

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: James and the Giant Peach

Ship Shape

 

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All was well in the wheelhouse, the wheel oiled, and the bright work shining with a golden sheen. In fact the entire vessel was “Ship shape and in Bristol Fashion.”

David Miller looked at his vessel with a sense of pride.  He was in command.  He would take this glorious craft into the great waters beyond.  Oh, the adventures he was ready for.

His inspection complete he returned to the bridge, and looked over the controls.

“Dorothy,” he called out to his wife. “Do you remember where the boat rental guy said the starter was?”

 

Padre

 

Crimson’s Creative Challenge #36

Eternal Love

twin-souls-merging-1

Endless Compassion

In cosmic purpose entwined

An eternal love

 

 

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, July 17th 2019, Eternal Love

Challenge:  To write a Haiku and to use the theme “eternal love”.

Chèvrefeuille writes: “I think you all will have an idea what eternal love means, but it isn’t only eternal love as in relationships, but also about eternal love on a religious base, or eternal love for a specific painter or author, or something else for which you can have the feeling of eternal love.”

The above is my take on the challenge

 

Padre

Encounter at the Whispering Shallows: A Cousins Tale

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St Ives Beach

The place was known in the tongue of men as the Whispering Shallows, a mist covered inlet in which it seemed that quiet voices drifted across the waters.  Most of the merchant seamen and fishermen of Harbourhead avoided the cove, in fear of the strange phenomenon, or the rumour that the place was inhabited by ghosts or evil spirits.

 

In the language of the Sea-elves the small bay was called Merhaven, the haven of the Mer-folk.  The Elves too, seldom visited the place, not because of superstition but because of an ancient treaty which stated that this cove was to be recognised as a holy site of the Mer.

 

Seventeen-year-old Arun, however, was an inquisitive Elf, and he wanted to have a chance to once again to see and maybe even to talk with a Mer.  His Sea Clan had amiable relations with the Mer-folk, but most of their meetings were fleeting.  He on one voyage as a child seen three Mermen swim to the side of his father’s vessel and conduct the trade of pearls in exchange for bronze.   He was therefore determined to visit Merhaven on a solstice day.

 

As the dawn broke, Arun scrambled down the dunes to the cove.  As he did the mist started to melt away, and singing wafted over the morning tide.  Dozens of Mer were raising their voices to meet the sun.

Arun lay still among the grasses of the dunes until the ceremony ended.  The whole thing was a wonder to behold.  As the Mer dived and swam out to sea, Arun approached to examine the trinkets which were left in the surf – offerings to the gods of land, sun, and sea.

 

To many the artefacts might have looked just like flotsam and jetsam, but Arun knew better.  He had watched the Mer reverently holding each piece up to the sky, then towards the land, and then laying them into the sea.

 

As he was gazing at the pieces her heard a voice challenging him.

 

“What are you doing here Elf?”   ******

 

Arun started, then looked into the surf to see a Mer of a similar age to himself.  He has broad shouldered, and handsome and he bore a trident spear.

 

“I came to watch your ceremony,” he lied. “And to maybe meet one of you,” he added truthfully.

 

“And the steal our offerings?”  the Mer challenged.

 

“No, to add to them,” he said, and he look off the shell pendant he wore around his neck and dropped it into the water’s edge.  “My name is Arun,” he added.

 

“I am Tuqueel,” the young Merman replied. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

“Life below the waves, and above,” Arun said.

 

“Fair enough,” Tuqueel responded.

 

The two sat in the surf for several hours discussing things.  Tuqueel was as curious about the land-dwellers as Arun was about the Mer.

 

In time there meetings became more regular, and the two came to consider one another as a friend.

 

On Arun’s eighteenth birthday, Tuqueel even presented the Elf with a Mer-spear.  This was reciprocated on Tuqueel’s nineteenth, he being a year older than Arun, with the presentation of a curved bronze dagger fashioned in the style of the Elves.

(535 words, 15 minutes to the ******, 26 minutes overall)

Padre

 

Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge: Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: Wonder