Being determined to keep this up as long as possible, I am trying to form the habit of posting most days I am at home, and (cheap) wifi availability permitting, some days when i am away flying.
I can’t promise that the stories will be polished, but they will be mine, which is the point really. As an exercise in just getting words out, it should be useful. There seems more point to it if someone else can read them too.
So, to today’s story: not having left my house since yesterday yet, and i will be later as i am working all night, inspiration comes from my bike ride round the village.Enjoy.
James looked up from the road as two goldfinches flitted overhead, tails like gilded arrows.
Launched into the warm evening air, their image remained soldered into his vision like a fizzled-out sparkler.
James lay on the ground, bracing for the inevitable pain. He waited. Logic began its equation game: if I have crashed, there must be pain; to feel pain, my nerves must be connected to my brain; if there is no pain, that connection must be severed; ergo, my neck is broken.
‘Well thanks a bloody lot mate.’
Startled, James sat up and looked round. Apart from a sheep sprawled over his mangled bike, the road was empty.
‘Did you hear me?’ said the sheep, ‘The least you might do is apologise. Distracted by the pretty little birdies were you? Cyclists: you’re all the bleeding same.’
Conversing with a talking sheep being beyond his capability for the moment, James turned to encounter himself, still horizontal, blood gushing from a gaping head wound. He looked back at the sheep.
‘I think I’m dead.’
‘Whereas I’ said the sheep, rising from its defunct carcass, ‘am presumably full of life. We’re both dead, idiot.’
‘Why are you talking?’
‘The point,’ said the sheep, ‘is that you can understand me at all. We’ve always understood your meaning.’
‘Well, what do we do now?’
‘And dead sheep are afterlife experts because?’
‘Your sarcasm is really annoying me.’
‘Really?’ mocked the sheep, setting off. ‘Get used to it. We’re making this journey together.’
Copyright : The flyingscribbler. 2010. (is this necessary? Perhaps.)