Another wet summer camping in Brittany. Every year we do this, every bloody year! I hoped, once the kids left home, we’d end this annual nightmare, but he won’t have it. Says he looks forward to meeting up with Maureen and Jim from Barnsley and Betty and Kenneth from Sidcup.
God, the thought of another year, sitting in a leaky tent, listening to Maureen from Barnsley go on about her delphiniums and Kenneth from Sidcup bringing us up to date with his gallstones, is more than I can bear.
Maybe this year I really will throw myself overboard, mid-channel.
An unusual writing challenge at Chris Fielden’s site. To write a 100 word story with as many adverbs in it as you can manage. Every 100 stories he gets he is publishing as an anthology and any money raised is going to First Story.
Terribly Tasty Torso
Claire wishfully looked at Dave’s beautifully sculpted body, laid out lifelessly on her mum’s bed. Unabashedly, she gracefully ran her stylishly manicured fingers through the hairs on his manly chest. “Such a waste,” she muttered mournfully.
“Can’t be helped,” said her mother briskly, in a ruthlessly matter of fact voice. “Regretfully our needs heavily outweigh his. Are you ready?”
Claire nodded remorsefully. Staring at Dave’s brutally battered body, she hungrily parted her lips exposing two extremely sharp fangs. Her mother briskly stepped alongside her. Quickly and effortlessly the women savagely tore at the terribly tasty torso in front of them.
“Good work Jones. We know this Goldilocks character is responsible for the Dumpty murder and the massacre of the Bear family and I’d bet my pension she knows what happened to the Gingerbread Man. All we need now is to find out who her boss is. Anybody with her?”
“Yes sir. The owner of the black car parked out front went up to her room five minutes ago. The car’s registered to a Miss Muffet.“
“Miss Muffet! It can’t be. What the hell is the head of MI6 doing here?”
“Don’t think so George. I’ve had a quick peek up above and there was quite a frost last night. Looks like winter is on its way. You know how the cold gets into these decaying bones of mine. So I thought we’d stay in, make the most of this warm soil left over from those hot summer days we’ve had this year. Might go out tonight.”
“That would be nice love. We could sit on the bench the kids had dedicated to us and watch the stars. Just like we did when we were alive.”
It was while we were clearing out Grandma’s house that I came across her old shoes. Mum had always told me that, in her younger days, Gran had been quite a tearaway. The locals had called her the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’.
To me she was just a sweet old lady, who smelled a little of old mothballs and lavender soap. I smiled, as I remembered sitting on her lap, listening to her tales of strange lands and winged monkeys.
My thoughts were interrupted when mum shouted, “Dorothy, dear, have you finished in there? It’s time we were going.”
OK, I admit I was at the house. I was just passing and saw the door open and popped in. And yes I ate the porridge and may have accidentally broken one of their lousy chairs. Sure they were a bit angry when they came back and caught me napping in the kids bed, and we may have exchanged a few heated words, but you’ve got to believe me Inspector, when I left that place they were all very much alive. I’m telling you, as God is my witness, I know nothing about any poisoned pizza and three dead bears.
Says he’s leaving, even bought himself a bike so he’d have his own transport, but we both know he won’t. He gets like this sometimes, says he wants a life of his own, tired of following me around. I tell him that would be OK with me, I never asked him to tag along. But, if the truth be known, we’d miss each other if he moved on. We’ve sort of got used to each others ways over the years. I’ve told him though, if he stays the bike’s got to go – can’t have that following me wherever I go.