Pixabay
Horse latitude
Sea like glass
No puff of breeze
Going nowhere fast
Calm but beautiful
Sky and sea mirrored
But I must be dutiful
And get this cargo delivered
Padre
Horse Latitude
#FOWC
Intercepts
War Room – Public Domain
“What will they do next?” the Prime Minister asked his Joint Security Team.
“It’s impossible to say for sure, Sir,” the head of Military Intelligence replied.
“Not so fast John,” the acting head of Communications and Intercepts interrupted. “Prime Minister, we have had a lot of coded chatter on their system. We have cracked several sections of it, and while most is as Sir John suggests, largely inconclusive, there has been a recurring mention of Kenya lately.
“We have picked up on that as well,” the First Sea Lord interjected. “But it is usually followed by mention of Sri Lanka on most days.
“So do I have this right? You are suggesting that the Terrorists are planning an attack somewhere in the Indian Ocean region, with Kenya and Sri Lanka likely targets?”
“I think that is a reasonable assumption, Prime Minister, but as I said before it isn’t an absolute,” Sir John replied.
Meanwhile in a fortified compound near Jalilibad, the network’s leader, “The Hyena” was sending his orders for the day. Two croissants and a large latte, and be sure it is that nice Kenyan roast. ‘The Scorpion’ would like a Sri Lankan bean cappuccino and a raspberry muffin.”
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The Audition
image: Pixabay
Walliamius had already given his golden thumb-up to a scantily dressed Athenian poet, early in the season. He would be joined in the grand final in the coliseum by a strange contestant from a place called “the crossroads” who posed an unsolvable riddle about a beast that traveled on varying numbers of legs.
Cowellus Simonius Maximus had just given a thumbs-down to an Egyptian juggler, and glanced at his audition schedule. He smiled as he considered the lively performances the afternoon session held in store. He really did enjoy these live semi-finals – after all they provided so much spectacle with it being a head-to-head competition.
As Spartacus, Judah Ben Hur, Maximus Decimus Meridius entered the audition space the audience roared with anticipation. This truly was going to be a close competition to gain the final spot on Rome’s Got Talent.
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After the Advance
public domain
The Second Corps had advanced, and after several hours volley fire and artillery duels the Federal troops had begun yet another retreat towards Washington.
The fighting now in a lull, Corporal Cooke sat down to take a much needed rest. At twenty, he was already proved himself, so thought he could afford the break. He opened a haversack, and took out a month old copy of Harper’s Weekly. Though old, he had not yet had a chance to read this edition. He scanned the pages, and shook his head at the inaccuracy of the woodblock prints.
After reading several articles, he put the magazine back into the sack and took out an envelope. The address was in a delicate feminine hand, and he sniffed the paper to see if it retained any sign of dainty scent. He then took out the letter. It began with the words, My Dearest Harvey. The letter was mostly chatty little accounts of what was going on in the town back home, but some lines hinted at her undying love. He folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope, and withdrew the photograph of a handsome young woman with big expressive eyes. He smiled as he looked at the pretty face, and then returned the picture to the envelope as well.
As he replaced the letter back into the haversack, he took out three pieces of hardtack biscuit, and a half eaten link of hard sausage. He drew his bayonet and cut the meat into three pieces and placed each onto the square crackers. He let each bite slowly soften in his mouth before chewing them and swallowing – making the most of each and every mouthful.
The recall soon sounded, and Corporal John Cooke of Jubal Early’s Division stood up and grabbed his rifle-musket. He bent over and collected all of the percussion caps out of the belt pouch of the body of the dead Pennsylvanian he had been leaning up against.
“Thank you kindly for the lunch, Harvey,” he said to the corpse giving it a friendly nod of the head as he departed.
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United!
It really couldn’t be called a conspiracy. It was more of an open secret, in which everyone present was in agreement. How could it be seen as conspiratorial when everyone, including the authorities knew what they were meeting for?
Despite this, however, Enid felt a bit uncomfortable with being part of it. She was in her very nature a conformist. “One mustn’t moan,” her mother had always said, and Enid had taken it to heart. That didn’t mean that she was actually happy about the situation in her heart of hearts, but she just wasn’t comfortable actually complaining or making a scene.
“Okay everybody,” Howard Clark, their self-appointed leader said. “Shall we put it to a vote? All in favour?”
Thirty-five hands shot up, while Enid glanced around the room. After a pause, she slowly raised her hand to join them.
“That’s unanimous then,” Howard said in a triumphant voice.
And that was that. The boycott of “Meatloaf Monday” at the Happy Acres Nursing Home was agreed. Residents would all fail to make their to the dining room for Monday lunch until the vile “mystery meat” concoction was removed from the menu. Family members would be notified, and supermarket sandwiches would be brought in, whether the staff nutritionist, Sally, liked it or not.
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Partners
Webber and Finch were in crisis. The partnership was less than three months old but had already suffered setback after setback. They really had believed that they had what it would take to get on in the strong-arm collections game, but everything seemed to be going wrong.
“I just don’t get it,” Harry Finch said. “It all made so much sense when I thought up the plan.”
“I don’t know, Harry,” five-foot-one Will Webber replied, equally puzzled by the chain of events.
“I didn’t drop out of the third grade to end up like this,” Harry reflected aloud. “You’d think with my brains and your brawn it would’ave been a piece of cake.”
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Something in the Wind
Image by Jerzy Górecki from Pixabay
Quiet now, and listen –
Hear the wind – whistle and sigh –
It’s really rather musical –
It’s sound while passing by.
Yet we are warm and comfy,
Safe from it’s beating chill,
But it is still so nice to listen,
To nature’s melodic skill.
Quiet now and listen –
With me share and delight –
The chance for some togetherness –
As we cuddle on a windy night.
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The Session
It was a rainy Sunday back when I was in high school. I was spending the day with my girlfriend, Tracy. She had always been a bit of a tomboy, and because of this, she took a lot of criticism from other girls who loved to tease her about her lack of “dress sense” and her husky voice. They had spread a rumour that she was a lesbian, which in the 80s was still not a “done thing.” This kept her from becoming popular with the with the boys as well.
I met her when I joined a Saturday bowling league. We were paired up randomly as a team, and we hit it off almost immediately. It was only when she started going out with me that there was any let of the ridicule she endured. She was a great bowler, and what most didn’t know was she had an incredible voice. That same huskiness they made fun of, gave her singing a Cher-like quality.
As I was saying before I digressed, It was raining, and the weekend seemed a “wash out.” Just for fun, I suggested that she get her guitar and we would record some of her songs. Being teenagers, and it being the Eighties, it was a stop and go process and our labours resulted in a cassette tape with three tracks we were happy with. Again just for something to do, we looked up a music agent in the Yellow Pages and dropped the tape into the post on the Monday.
About three weeks later she brought an envelope to school which she had received the day before. The stationery itself was high quality, and the pre-printed return address was that of the music agent. She was too afraid to open it herself. We stood by her locker and I gently teased the seal open as to not damage the fancy envelope, and then read the correspondence silently.
“He hated it, didn’t he?” Tracy said with her usual lack of self confidence.
“Love, actually,” I responded. “Looks like you have yourself an audition at a real music studio.”
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Based on some actual events but folded together into a single tale.
News?
Pixabay
“I am so confused,” Charlie said. “‘Fake news,’ half truths, and everyone saying the other side is manipulating the facts.”
“I know what you mean,” Carol replied. “Like the Tories setting up a ‘fact finding’ website that was just to confuse voters.”
“Then there’s the papers,” Harriet piped in. “You have the left-wing Guardian and the totally right polarised, Express.
“Telly’s just as bad,” Carol observed. “And it’s confusing. People have accused the Beeb of being liberal in its views for years, but now Labour is saying the BBC commentators have conspired against them.
“Like I said,” Charlie reiterated, “I am confused. Where can we possibly go to find the truth?”
“Maybe something foreign like Aljazeera or Fox will set us straight,” Harriet offered.
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Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: The Polar Express
The Date
Photo by John Fornander on Unsplash
Tanya sat sipping her drink at the table. Okay, Brian was good looking, and the photo from the dating site actually didn’t do him justice. Yet, three times he had picked up his phone since the date began.
Finally, he set his phone down and announced, “You are a little short, and you lips are a bit thin, but I think you will do.”
Tanya started at the rash statement.
“How could you say such a thing?” she challenged.
“Because Darlin’ I am the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Oh what hubris!
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Weekend Writing Prompt #136 – Hubris in 94 words.
