My short story piece ‘Houmous’ was published with Roi Faineant press this weekend. You can find this piece alongside some other wonderful writers here!
Tag: humour
Frimmelstein’s diary – short story
You can’t exactly end up more dead, can you?
A short story borne out of a writing prompt from the excellent Voidspace magazine. I have included the full prompt below in case you fancy giving this a try! Would love to hear your feedback on this tale which has been well received so far.
WRITING PROMPT – FREEWRITE
Read the first question, set a timer for three minutes, and write every thought you have. Repeat with the next question when the timer rings.
What was your first intrusive thought?
Why is poetry the language of the dead?
What was the reason you woke up this morning and are you sure you are awake?
Does your best friend know you?
Is everything a lie?
How do you know you are alive?
What did the last spider you kill say?
What do you look like to an ant? What about to a vulture or to a whale?
Do you regret being born?
What should this question be?
The Last Dance
This poem is a homage to one of my current favourites, Tarantella by the marvellous Hilaire Belloc (1870 – 1953). It uses the same frame and structure with a distinct reference to more recent events!
I listened to the original version, actually sung by Belloc which is very upbeat and jolly, however in my reading of this piece there is a very sinister tone. The title of this piece is ‘The Last Dance’ in reference to the original title Tarantella.
Do you remember when you got in,
Mr Johnson?
Do you remember when you got in?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw upon your heading,
And the coughs and the sneeze of a deadly disease,
And the party wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young brexiteers
(And the lies on the dark memoranda)?
Do you remember when you got in, Mr Johnson,
Do you remember when you got in?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young brexiteers
Who hadn’t really got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap at 7
Of the hands to be washing and the swirl
Of the last girl gone, Theresa, chancing,
Glancing, dressing like someone’s mother and
Dancing, oh how she danced
How through fields of wheat she advanced
Lacking and back tracking,
Snapping at a clapper and the spin
Out and in —
And the Tong, Tang, Ting of the old right wing.
Do you remember when you got in,
Mr Johnson?
Do you remember when you got in?
Never more;
Mr Johnson,
Never more.
Only the high resigning horde:
And the letters were a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far, far fall like Doom.
Haiku 91
An important tip
When you’re shuffling cards
Take out the joker
Spilled ink
Writing, a necessary function
Like an ablution
Possibly biographic
Or just graphic
#slap party
Dave slapped Steven hard across the face,
He thought about punching him but changed it
To a slap at the last minute,
Phil slapped Dave, no one slaps Steven apart from me he cried,
Steven slapped Phil, they were into that kind of thing
Jodie slapped Steven and Phil, she was gung-ho slappy,
It was the thing that made her happy,
Dave tried to slap Jodie back, but missed and then tried to carry it off as if
He was fixing his hair,
Susan thought about slapping them all,
Tony slapped her – I told you don’t even think,
About slapping anyone tonight!
Ben slapped Tony for being a bit judgy,
Dave started slapping Willy-nilly,
He didn’t like it much,
They all formed a circle of slap,
And applauded each one
Slap, clap, slap, clap
In the morning they were all a bit red faced,
Oscar, late to the party,
Wished he’d given them all a slap
A trip to Casualty
I had to go to Casualty last night
It was in a place called Holby,
All the usual gang was there,
Charlie, still not retired
Duffy, remember her?
Megan, you know the one, she
Used to clean up all the vomit
And was the only one who wore a green uniform
She was Daniel Day-Lewis’ mum
In that film about a left foot
As I entered the building, this chap
Who was once in The Bill
Can’t remember his name, the actors name, not the character,
He was doing some scaffolding work outside
He shouted down in a jolly fashion,
I’ve never done this type of work before, but
I’m sure it will be fine!
One of the boards looked very loose
Later the scaffolder was admitted into Casualty,
He had impaled himself with a scaffolding pole,
Duffy called the doctor in,
That looks nasty the doctor said,
I think we should try to remove it
Charlie intervened, his years of acting experience coming to the fore,
I don’t think we should do that he said, you could kill him,
He used that furrowed eye rolling expression
Which everyone knew meant Charlie was right again
Charlie phoned an off screen Consultant and
Sorted it in a jiffy
The doctor huffed a bit and left in a mood
To go and work in rep theatre
Charlie, Duffy and the scaffolder had a mini celebration
The scaffolder ended up vomiting everywhere
Megan cleaned it up
Poem – Puffin hearts
Why bother to net a puffin?
Their smoky hearts ain’t nothin,
It’s a beautiful life you’re snuffin –
Why not try a muffin?
Lose the syrup
Every time you see me wince,
When your toupee misshapes,
How long must I endure,
Your less than subtle skull capes
How it flops and furls around your head
When you get up to dance,
How it holds the general public
In a static gaping trance
How I hate, how I despise
When you allow your lid to rise,
When it detaches in small patches
as you swerve the stormy skies
What is hiding neath your syrup?
some sort of barber based disaster?
Does your scalp squeak when you wash it?
Is it pale as alabaster?
lose the syrup
don’t use a syrup
remove the syrup I beg
I imagine a dilemma,
When your lady friend comes round,
you kiss her gently on the hand
While holding tight to your crown
Will the rug remain in situ
As you dazzle with repartee?
Or watch in horror
as it falls in her lap
when you serve her creme brulee?
And in your efforts to impress
tell me how far would you undress?
would you rest it on the mantle?
or perch it on a candle?
Are there contraptions by the bedside
Does it need a nightly mangle?
or do you prefer to fling it with abandon?
do you let it freely roam?
is it scattered with your clothing
like a guinea pig, uncombed?
What’s the deal with what lies under?
does it look like a wrinkled egg?
Whatever it is can it be that bad?
remove the syrup I beg
lose the syrup
don’t use a syrup
remove the syrup I beg
Are you afraid to show your curls
or is it thin and getting thinner?
is it tattooed with a picture
of your favourite Sunday dinner?
Was that dye job so disastrous
that it requires a hairy jacket?
did the lustrous black it promised you
not do what it said on the packet?
Do you remember at the racetrack
When you stooped to pick up your beer
Do you remember the redness of my face
When you uttered the words so clear
‘Ahem, scuse me love,
but it would appear my syrup
is caught in your stirrup
just to think of it drives me to tears
Whatever it is stop worrying
Bald is cool man,
Bald is character,
When alls been done and said,
So please remove that weird appendage
you have resting on your head
It isn’t cool, you don’t look young,
You look like what you are
An ageing, vain and wig adorning
man who went too far
Dad, you’re old, you’re bald, let it go
Trolling
For every keyboard warrior
There’s a method to defeat,
It’s hold control, F U and
Delete
Gavin Turner 