Taking Dictation #writephoto #humour #alternativehistory

‘Morning Moses.’

‘Morning God. Looks like it might turn out nice.’

‘You fishing for a hint? You had a flutter on a sunny one, have you?’

‘God. How could you think such a thing?’

‘Hmm. And the fam? The missus happy?’

‘She wants more children.’

‘Ah yes that is often the case.’

‘You couldn’t, you know, maybe work the oracle?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Now don’t get all storm and drang but word has it you’re not ill disposed to a little IC.’

‘IC?’

‘Immaculate conception. You know, bonk-free babies.’

‘No comment.’

‘So it’s true.’

‘Look Moses I’ve warned you about reading ahead. You’ll have to sort out your family issues yourself.’

‘Oh great. It’s okay for your lot but when a mate – who let’s face it hasn’t ever let you down – asks for an itsy-bitsy piece of benign divine intervention, he’s told he’s on his own.’

‘Moses, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we? I’m the supreme being, capiche? The maker of all things, the all seeing, the all knowing…’

‘Not a mate, then?’

‘Not a mate.’

‘Great. So what brings you through the clouds? I hope it’s not another of your hikes. Do you know how many sandals I wore out getting that lot around the Red Sea?’

‘You don’t half whinge, do you?’

‘You try walking round that sodding pond with a bunch of miserable…’

‘Careful. I can always find some where for you to reflect on your lot…’

‘Oh yes. Why don’t you send me the desert for forty days and nights. Like you do…’

‘I told you just now about reading ahead. More of that and it’ll be forty years, not forty days.’

‘You’d never?’

‘Try me. I’m here because I’ve a job for you.’

‘Why does that fill me with the joys? Not.’

‘Oh get over yourself. You’re not that important, matey-boy. There are plenty of others who could do your job. Abraham, Noah, Job…’

‘Fine. I get the picture. All I’ll say is just you wait until your next 360 degree appraisal. I’ll have a few pointers to suggest about your management style, believe you me?’

‘Yada yada yada… Look do you want this job or should I…’

‘Yes alright. You know I’ve got a family and contraceptives aren’t cheap.’

‘They don’t exist.’

‘They don’t? What about that scallop poultice?’

‘Useless.’

‘Sulphur embalming.’

‘Unpleasant but about as useful as pointless parable.’

‘Figgy ungent? Orange pip insets? Date pate?’

‘You’re a sucker for a new idea aren’t you?’

‘Bloody hell. Wait till I get my hands on that Ham. He’ll be lucky if he can…’

‘That’s exactly why I’ve called. This defaulting to violence when things don’t go your way.’

‘He got me sticking sodding pips up my pee-pee.’

‘One might question the credulity of the man who thinks stippling his wife’s, erm… you know is a sure fire – excuse the pun – way of avoiding procreation. Though then again that might work really rather well.’

‘Oh yes, have a good laugh. What is it then?’

‘Oh yes. Right. Now here’s the thing. I think the people need a bit of a nudge. I’m not sure they’ve got the ‘one god’ piece yet. They’re still inclined to offer up sacrifices to all sorts of dodgy deities and second rate celestials. So I thought we might sketch out a few suggestions for how we take things forward.’

‘Uh huh!’

‘You don’t sound sure.’

‘No it’s got its attractions…’

‘But…?’

‘It’s all a bit, you know, egalitarian. More Jonny than Jehovah.’

‘What do you suggest? Recommendations?’

‘Better…’

‘Rules…?’

‘More like it…’

‘Commandments?’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘You don’t think they’ll think I’m a bit pushy.’

‘You’re God, not some carpet seller. They expect to be told. They can wait a bit for the free will piece.’

‘Have you read part two?’

‘I may have had a sneaky peek….’

‘I told you what I think about reading ahead. So okay, let’s go with commandments. I’ve a few suggestions and…’

‘How many?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Oh, no no no. Maximum ten, five for preference.’

‘Ten!’

‘Maybe we should run through them.’

‘Run through them? I thought you said they should be commandments. You know, sort of imposed dictates of the all knowing?

‘Yes, well, that’s good in theory, of course but you’ll want to have a focus group to test the reactions across an appropriate demographic…’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Fr’instance there’s been a certain amount of chatter about you embracing recycling.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, See here’s the thing. In the good ol’ day’s you, being God would decide it’s time to create heaven and earth and all that good stuff. Chapter one, yes?’

‘Yes…’

‘And then you’d run the cycle and reach Armageddon… yes, I know that’s reading ahead but bear with me.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘So, the thinking has it this can’t be the only building project you’ve been involved in. I mean if this one’s finite there must have been others? And there will be more to come? Am I warm?’

‘In a manner of speaking, though of course it isn’t always heaven and earth… I like to mix it up.’

‘Natch. What was the last one?’

‘Tupperware and clingfilm. It didn’t really catch on. Too ephemeral. Hence the rock and stuff.’

‘Exactly all that plastic…’

‘How’d you know about plast…’

‘I’m the bloody prophet, God. It’s what I do.’

‘Right, yes. Soz. On you go.’

‘What people want, if there are going to be these commandments is an emphasis on recycling. You know reusing the old structures. If you make people sort through their rubbish. Bin it properly. Then things will last longer, we’ll not bugger things up for the future generations…’

‘Bit pointless, don’t you think?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well since you have had a peep at the last chapter, you know things end. Armageddon, yes?’

‘We did wonder if we might have a word about that.’

‘I can hardly change it now.’

‘Oh come on you could rewrite the ending. There is sure to be a second edition of the Bible. How are the sales?.’

‘Bit disappointing in truth. Though there’s this Gibbon who says he can guarantee me one in every inn.’

‘Bit of a risk, lining yourself up with a primate. Not great PR when you’ve made man the big dog around here.’

‘I’ll get him to change his name. Anyway, no changes. I don’t buy these happy endings.’

‘I thought Tolkien nailed it with the Grey Havens.’

‘Pah! Bloody fantasist. Time of men indeed. Come on we’ve drifted off the commandments. What else?’

‘Hang on, Where’s my list? Right. Compulsory veganism, early adoption of democracy, soaps to have credible plot lines, no one to invent the mullet or the beehive and equality for women.’

‘You what?’

‘I told them it wouldn’t fly. Let’s park that one. Maybe if there’s a second edition. What about you? What’s on your list?’

‘People can only worship me, I am the one true God, no false idolatry…’

‘You don’t think that’s says ‘me me’ a little too much? It does suggest a lack of confidence don’t you think?’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Religious tolerance as a minimum. Or if that’s a bit to next Millennium for you, we could scrap religion and encourage glee clubs. Everyone likes a bit of a singalong.’

‘Moses, I think you are rather missing the point. Just grab a chisel and I’ll dictate my ten.’

‘There you go. ‘Dictate’. It’ll all go horribly wrong if all you want are a bunch of Yes people doing your bidding, saying how wonderful you are. All that adulation isn’t good for a God.’

‘Well, let’s give it a whirl eh? You ready?’

‘Chisel poised…’

#writephoto prompt

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August #garden

This year the garden has excelled itself. With the Vet’s marriage and her getting ready at home it was extra primped this month.

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Seven Days Before The Nuptials; Memories of a First Time Father of the Bride To Be

My daughter married the most delightful man over the Bank Holiday weekend in August. We had the most splendid time. The following is nothing like what happened. Really… We had a registry office ceremony the day before the Big Event in front of family and friends – these images are from the first ceremony

Am dispatched to collect the MIL’s dress. Apparently the old dragon is more dirigible than assumed and an emergency zip has had to be inserted. Arrive to find exasperated seamstress – emphasis on the stress it seems – and tearful MIL. ‘I must be pregnant’ she wails. I suggest this is an unlikely explanation for her expanding circumference given she shared with us her journey through the menopause ten years ago. She retorts that patently she has recovered her fertility to which the seamstress – a competent if unsubtle Geordie – responds that the fact it is called menopause does not mean she can press play and resume her fecundity. My mind is a whirl. Does this mean that she and Norvid her ancient Swedish beau have consummated their relationship? She must read my thoughts. ‘It’s not Norvid.’ She tells me.  She confides that someone has interfered with her server and done inappropriate things with their hard drive, thus rendering her with child, presumably of the artificially stupid kind.  Leave them to their discussions and head for the pub. There are certain images that only strong drink can help you unimagine.

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Resetting To Zero #storytime

Amber Trent sits in her chair and focuses on the garden. The wind of earlier has died away and the birds, sated on seeds are elsewhere. All is still and silent.

Amber Trent doesn’t move. She is replete, pain free and alert. Today her son Patrick will visit. His son will marry next year, he has told Amber and he will, she is sure tell her of the latest plans.

Amber Trent knows the other residents will be having tea later in the communal lounge and that they will be kind and understanding when she sits in the green winged chair.

Amber Trent wants nothing so much as to die. This room, this flat is her prison, its pleasantly decorated walls and personal knick-knacks reminders of a time when she had choices. Her escape is to the doctor’s or the hospital for kind, understanding people to take great care in humiliating her as they hunt a vein or insert a tube, compassionately extending her life for no purpose beyond the fact they can.

Amber Trent likes her little patch of garden and the insistent birds. But they don’t answer her questions and don’t stimulate her like Rodney once did. Patrick and his son, whose name will come to her shortly are kind and attentive but more absent than present. The residents and warden smile and nod but soon tire of Amber’s silence. Rodney used her silence as his backdrop; it created the auditorium for his soliloquys. Now that theatre is hushed but no longer expectant and all Amber wants is for the curtain to close.

Amber Trent knows people would wonder at her greatest wish, telling her what she has to live for. But they don’t see it as Amber sees it. The golden silence that makes up most of her day is, without Rodney, not just the absence of noise but the absence of hope.

Amber Trent is no longer still; her shoulders heave in silent sobs as a single tear slowly wends its way down her cheek.

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Day Eight #storytime

Day Eight

Terry Godd sat slumped and looked mournfully at the cheery man opposite. ‘And?’

Dr Pattison Abraham tapped his fingertips together nervously. ‘You need rest.’

‘Rest? I can’t rest. I’ve got to finish this commission or…’ Terry gasped as pain seared across his lumber region. ‘Sheez.’

Pattison moved swiftly to Terry’s side. ‘Let me see.’

‘My back’s been playing up since day four. I was promised help with the heavy lifting but you can’t trust a bunch of jobbing primates, can you? Not when they’ve not been around long. Harry told me to do the big structural stuff last but I couldn’t see how that would work.’

Pattison palpated the affected area while small sparks issued from Terry’s ears. ‘Harry’s your brother?’

‘Yes, we Godds do all head offices major projects. Been in the family for ever. Father to son and so on.’

‘He experienced, isn’t he?’

‘Oh sure, he’s been pulling together these things for eons but this is a biggie.’

‘Surely they’re all big ones? Can you lean that way? Then that. Then that.’

‘You want me everywhere, don’t you?’

‘You’ll get used to it. So this is special?’

‘Yes. See this one’s going to be recorded, right? We’ve got scribes these days. They’ll write it all down.’

‘Write? What’s that?’

‘It’s a new technology. In Harry’s time he’d put in a shift and sit back waiting for the adulation and what happens? A couple of generations being revered and then it all fades to some half baked myth. Usual the ingrates go off and worship the sun or the moon or some river or weather system. They don’t ask where they came from, do they? Ouch. Bloody hell, doc, careful.’

‘Hell? What’s that?’

‘Ah right that’s another neat innovation, helps keep the clients focused on the Main Man.’

‘Who is?’

‘In this case it’ll be me, natch. When it’s finished.’

‘You’ll enjoy that, will you?’

‘If I get it done. The catch is that, according to head office, I have seven days to get this show up and running.’

‘Why seven days? Anyway, what’s a day?’

‘It’s the time it takes to build a client base with all the infrastructure… planet, mammal entourage, a range of of healthy food snacks, climate varieties to allow for a choice of pigmentations and holidays… look, can we pick up on that later, okay? I need to meet this publishing deadline. If the first two clients aren’t in situ, ready for the launch with the first couple of chapters written and off to the printers I’m toast. Can you get me back to work?’

‘Well, you should take care. You’re not that young…’

‘Ah that’s just the way I’m imagined – it’s the all-knowing wisdom shtik we Godds are known for. Means the flowing grey hair, benign though lined countenance and fulsome (also grey) beard come as standard. I need to get through the seven days, top up the oceans and rivers and pop the newly created clients in their garden.’

‘Well, I suppose. Can you take a few of these day thingies off afterwards?’

‘Hmm, I really need to see them over the first few chapters. I could ask my assistant to keep a watching brief.’

‘That would be good.’

‘If it goes wrong at the start there’s no knowing where it might end.’

Pattison sat at his desk and wrote a prescription. ‘What’s the worst that might happen?’

‘Oh goodness. Where do I start? Famine, global petulance, day time television, Morris dancing. They might even want a vote.’

‘Yes well I hope this assistant is up to it.’

‘Oh me and the snake go a long way back. He’ll be fine.’ Terry took the prescription and peered at the indecipherable scribbles. ‘What am I meant to take?’

‘An Apple a day. Pretty standard stuff. So what’s this record called? I may get one for the Missus for her birthday.’

‘The Bibble.’

‘I’ll just jot that down so she knows what to ask for.’

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Umbrollia Revisited #writephoto

Umbrollia was unique in nature having developed a wormhole between it and its neighbouring parallel universe, through which lonely and lost brollies and umbrellas and other misplaced weather protectors passed in the hope of finding a more caring environment where they would be remembered even though it had turned out sunny. And generally those abandoned parasols and parapluies contented themselves with their new situation which, while not heavily peopled with caring users at least had eradicated all windowless lost property offices and dank cloakrooms. No spring loaded rain protector languished for long in the low gravity environment of Umbrollia but spent happy days auditioning for remakes of Mary Poppins and Singing in the Rain with robotic actors taking the human roles or enjoying a spin class on a windy beach where the experts turned themselves inside out and back again to the astonishment of the recently arrived.

One day, when the forecast squalls had the world’s protective apparatus heading for the outdoors, a frisson of excitement rippled through the tight-furled tripled-tipped populous. Word had it that an owner had been seen on the hillside, striding around and muttering about its much loved and lost rainshade. Every time this happened hope soared in the artificially canopied crowds – could it be that their old owner cared so much that they had made the effort to cross to the next universe in defiance of all natural laws to look for their trusty coverage? Older members of Umbrollia’s elite worried he might be some sort of opportunistic trickster, intent on grooming the more vulnerable members of Umbrollia’s community with a view to cruelly selling them a vision of caring new owners and considerate drying facilities only to sell them on the cheap to the indifferent if inadequately prepared?

After a lot of tooing and froing and a fair bit of opening and closing a delegation of the most robust brollies and bumbershoots, parasols and sunshades was dispatched to inquire of the man’s intentions. Umbrellas are naturally silent so the man didn’t see them until he was surrounded. To the watching audience he looked startled when he saw what he had approached him.

The leading brolly opened slowly and spoke. It got as far as ‘good morning’ when the man lost all definition as the life drained out of him, the shock of animated weather guards being too much for him to take.

The lead brolly looked at the sunshade representative. ‘Well?’

The sunshade looked at the overcast sky and shrugged. ‘Looks like he’s become a shadow of his old self. He won’t be needing us.’

The brolly nodded. ‘Shame.’

The parasols watched the brollies go. ‘Why do they always put a dampener on things?’

‘It’s the nature of the beast. Fancy a quick twirl?’

‘Why not?’

This was written in response to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt

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And So To Bed…

To anyone who spends time here, I’ve decided that this August my daily blogging will become spasmodic. A change is as good as a rest they say. I’ll still do the odd prompt, I’m sure, and maybe the occasional review and pics of Dog and the garden.

But I have a wedding to enjoy and some real Father of the Fianced experiences to garner and convert into a set of posts. And I have sooooo many bookish things I want to do…

… thus, for August it’s goodbye from me…

and

goodbye from him…

For now. TTFN

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