Lensdiary

My Friend George

Responding to Mindlovemisey word prompt , write prose or poetry using the following 12 words ***dashing, morning, bed, forecast, always, sighed, give, neck, head, warmth, laid, part.***

Let me introduce you to, George, a crocheted monkey affectionately named after Curious George owned by the Man with the Yellow Hat. I still fondly remember the episode where George made a grab for the man’s yellow hat and took a shovel to bury it by the trailer.

My 17 year old granddaughter, Brianna, was into crocheting, mainly making small animals for her friend’s birthday. They became so in demand among her school friends that she soon had a small cash business going . In order to encourage her I asked her to crochet me a monkey and I would pay her $50. Well imagine my surprise when she came up with a huge monkey instead of the small one I had imagined. I gave her a grin and said it was much more than I expected.

I took the monkey from her to carry it back to my house, and gave it its own chair. It has become a dear friend and companion and sits there patiently listening to me go on and on about the nastiness of social media and the ineptitude of politicians in general and never once interrupts.

George

The Wily Trout-Revisiting the SS Cafe and Bistro

Poet reading at a poetry slam in a crowded cafe bistro — A poet performs before an applauding crowd at SS Cafe and Bistro.. Responding to Denise’s six sentence story at girlieontheedge blog with the prompt word, **word**

Word was getting around of a poetry slam happening at the SS Cafe and Bistro, and never having been to one curiosity drove me to check out the place, once again.

I entered the SS Cafe and Bistro expecting a cover charge, but to my surprise I was casually waved in by a bloke puffing on a cigar, deep into a book, The Saviours of God: Spiritual Exercises, by Nicos Kazantzikas, this huge dog, maybe Cerberus, sitting at his feet giving me a searchimg stare.

I observed an enthusiastic crowd seated at tables surrounding a small stage, shouting encouragement to a red headed woman slamming poetry, and I’m sure I saw the ghost of Charles Bukowski hovering overhead, dragging on a cigarette , hoisting a beer, grinning from ear to ear.

Thinking this might be my only opportunity to explore the place and using the poetry slam as a distraction, I made my way past the managers office into the dark corridor beyond.

I stepped hesitantly into the corridor, my head spinning with the onset of claustrophobia as the walls pressed close on each side, it was unnaturally quiet, no sound intruding from the poetry slam, the air humid and electric as if announcing a pending storm.

Was that a soft footstep up ahead, I hesitated, should I go further or return, and my mind was made up as the lights flickered and then extinguished leaving me in total darkness, so I made a sensible withdrawal to the safe, comforting haven of the poetry slam, contrasting the sensory overload of happy vibes to the sensory deprivation of that dark corridor.

The Wily Trout-Fred

Bartender shaking a cocktail behind a bar stocked with liquor bottles — Responding to Denise’s six sentence story at girlieontheedge blog with the prompt word, word

So, I purchased this run down bar for a reasonable price, a bit of work needed, a designers challenge, but I must say the designer rose to the challenge and I was very satisfied with the results.

Now for the hiring, I figured the most important person in a bar was the bar manager, the quarterback of the team so to speak, so I sent out enquiries and was rewarded with 86 resumes.

My eyes glazed over reading the resumes each a carbon copy of itself, I resorted to vodka, which didn’t help the cause, but my word, one resume did eventually stand out, a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, and a degree in philosophy to boot.

So in stepped Fred for an interview, tall at 6’4”, long grey hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck with a hoop dangling from his left ear, an interesting background, a portfolio manager for a major investment company, liked to party, succumbed to alcohol, lost his job, lost his wife and children, lost his house and ended up on the streets.

His resume recorded his work history to 2011 and then nothing, so I asked the obvious question, what have you been doing for the last 15 years, and he was very honest, he bought a tent, lived under a railway arch, spent his remaining money on alcohol, fell into despair, and then received his Damascus moment in the form of a young woman from a Christian outreach program.

A group from a local community church were engaged in outreach tending to the homeless, and a fervent young woman of 20, Kayleigh, visited him every day with a cup of coffee and a sandwich continually repeating Jesus loves you, you know Jesus loves you, and finally the penny dropped and he believed, joined Alcoholics Anonymous and decided to move forward with his life, and he looked sincere enough so I took a chance and hired him.

The Wily Trout

Responding to Denise’s six sentence story at girlieontheedge blog with the prompt word **function**

I was sussing the competition and deciding whether to go for it and buy me own pub, something I’ve always wanted to do, and hey, it’s only money, and I made a few quid in Stepney before the taxes started to bite.

So, the competition, there’s The Baaamy Inn owned by Keith, looks like a fun place full of jokers having a laugh, and then there’s the SS Cafe and Bistro, not sure about that place, SS has a sinister connotation, and I’d be quite within my rights to be wary of the place.

I had a pint at the Baaamy Inn, exchanged pleasantries with Len the barman, listened to some of his jokes, and then wandered over to the SS Cafe and Bistro.

There was this tall, skinny, bloke talking to a small fat bloke who gave me the once over as I entered, another bloke was discussing the movie Odyssey in a Greek accent to two women patiently hearing him out, and the barmaid looked me up and down, and said what’s your pleasure.

I ordered a beer, felt like a fag, and waltzed over to the cigarette machine placed at the entrance, astounded to see a pile of Watch Tower magazines placed in a wooden rack , which threw me for a loop, and I thought, blimey, I know I’m a confused Limey, but this is beyond the pale.

Anyway, now I know my competition, I think I will open me own pub and try to make a go of it, after all we are in the Dog Days of Summer, trying to function in all this heat, so I purchased this run down bar halfway between the Baaamy Inn and the SS Cafe and Bistro and named it the Wily Trout.

Ritual

Responding to Denise at girlieontheedge blog’s six sentence stories using the word **fire**

In January, 1987, Roop Kanwar, 18 years of age, married 24 year old Maal Singh Shekhanat in the Sikar District in India.

Eight months later Maal Singh died of gastroenteritis in a hospital in Sikar around September 3, 1987.

On September 4, 1987 the villagers set fire to Maal’s funeral pyre and Roop, dressed in traditional bridal ceremonial attire, ascended the pyre and joined her husband in self immolation.

She was subsequently hailed as “Sati Mata” (Pure Mother) and a shrine developed at the site attracting devotees and offerings.

Later investigations by journalists and activists suggested Roop may not have gone willingly to her death and 45 people were subsequently charged but released for insufficient evidence.

This is the last recorded case of Sati in India, an ancient practice in some part of India, in which a widow immolated herself on her husbands funeral pyre.

Why I am a Cultural Catholic

Responding to Reena’s Xplorations challenge #442, Light — What truths emerge when the weight of light is too heavy to bear?

I was taught from ages 4- 11 by the Sisters of St. Joseph. At the age of 11 I was asked if I had a vocation for the priesthood, I was a book worm.My answer was I don’t know. I was bundled off to a Salesian College for four weeks, where I discerned I definitely didn’t have a vocation for the priesthood. Someone stole my candy/sweets from my locker. It was my first discovery that wanna be priests weren’t necessary holy in their intentions. I was disappointed with Vatican 2 doing away with the Latin mass, being a traditionalist at 18. I loved the Latin mass, and also my Latin classes at school. The U.N. has been trying to push a universal language called Esperanto since the 1920’s and to have it taught in schools. I thought Latin could have become the universal language of the Church and to ban it was a huge mistake.

Fast forward and I became a scout master in my local Catholic Church when I emigrated to Canada. I sat on a number of committees at various churches over the years including the parish council. I joined the Third Order Carmelites ( Lay Carmelites), and ten years later everything changed.

I left the Catholic Church in 2005 at the height of the sex abuse scandal. The Boston Globe had published a series of articles in 2002 revealing that the Archdiocese of Boston had repeatedly reassigned abusive priests while keeping allegations secret. One priest was accused of abusing 130 children over decades at different parishes. Investigations into child abuse by priests in the Catholic Church spread from Boston to the rest of the U.S. and eventually worldwide.

I understand that predators are attracted to where their prey exists, because that is the nature of the predator. But I cannot understand the cover up. The shepherd protects its flock, that is the shepherds job, it does not offer the sheep to the wolves. So I lost my faith in the institutional church. Darkness had crept into the Catholic Church through predatory priests and instead of willingly shedding light on child abuse the hierarchy sought to cover it up to preserve the reputation of the institution over the safety of its most vulnerable flock.

So here I am 21 years later calling myself a Cultural Catholic. I have a statue of Mary in my living room, I have crucifixes in every room in the house, but I have absolutely no use for the institutional church. Catholicism has shaped me and so I am grateful but confused about its future.

Revenge

Man fishing from boat on a calm lake with a large trout caught on the line — Responding to Denise at girlieontheedge blog with the prompt word *slip*.

Revenge is best served cold, so I waited patiently, waited with expectation, waited for justice to be served, not cold, but on a boiling hot plate.

There I was minding my own business, swimming in a warm lake, when suddenly a worm appeared in front of me, my mother taught me to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, and particularly of worms, whose natural habitat was earth not water.

There he is, my nemesis, the trout that has eluded me through these hot summer months, the trout that thought he could outsmart me, the trout that thought he could just slip unnoticed through these waters which I’ve fished for years.

It’s a known fact that salmon are inferior to trout, I’m not being racist, some of my best friends are salmon, but most trouts agree that salmon have a lower IQ then a jellyfish.

Where is that wily trout, I just saw him a moment ago, look he’s being pursued by a salmon, I can’t believe my luck, salmon or trout for dinner, I’m not that fussy.

So, there was this particular salmon who always bullied me, taking the food right out of my mouth, I found him, nipped him in the fin, and as expected, he chased me straight to the fisherman’s pole, and the fisherman and I both smiled with satisfaction.

Man plans, God laughs

Man holding unconscious woman near cliff during storm with lightning and rough sea — **Responding to Reena’s challenge #441 write a story in both the parataxis mode and the hypotaxis mode**

Parataxis

Man plans, God laughs.
Nurtured murderous mind, harbouring ill intent.
Married for greed. Married her fortune.
Opportunity.
Gentle sleep. Horrific death.
Stormy night. Towering cliffs.
Lightning strike. Tumbling form. Foaming tide.
Man proposes, God disposes.

Hypotaxis

They say that man plans and God laughs. From the first day of his marriage to Sybil, Roger nurtured his desire to murder her and to dispose of her body in such a fashion that it would look like an accident. He only married her for the fortune she had inherited from her father and he had no intention of waiting around for her to die from natural causes. He harboured his ill intent for five years when one dark stormy night he saw his opportunity and grasped it with both hands. He crushed some sleeping pills and placed them surreptitiously in Sybil’s wine glass. She was soon snoring peacefully on the couch and Roger waited a further ten minutes just to be sure she was truly out. He carried her sagging body outside and struggled through the drenching rain towards the towering cliffs which bordered the edge of their property. He bellowed his triumph to the storm as he peered over the edge of the cliff face and turned towards his prey. Thunder boomed loudly overhead followed by a jagged bolt of lightning which crashed to earth piercing his body. Roger pitched forward over the cliff bouncing off the jagged rocks into the foamy depths of the ocean. Sybil, awakened by the constant splash of heavy rain on her face sat up in a daze wondering how on earth she had arrived at the cliff. She staggered home to an empty house. Man proposes, God disposes.

A Little Yarn

Younger hunchback with more misshapen back — Responding to Denise at girlieontheedge blog, six sentence story challenge using the prompt word **YARN**

This is a yarn about Jack, a hunchback, deformed, toiling at his forge to turn unshapely metal chunks into serviceable horse shoes, knives, swords and any implement that the villagers desired.

The villagers always approached Jack’s forge cautiously and eying his misshapen figure outlined against the raging fire would make a sign to ward off evil.

The villagers were great gossipers, as in all small communities, and meeting nightly in the tavern over their mugs of foaming ale they would discuss whether Jack was fathered by the devil, and the greatest laugh was over whether a woman would even dare look at him.

Rose was a beautiful gypsy woman selling her charms to the villagers to ward off evil and hated the way that men would openly lust at her with their glaring eyes and course gestures.

The Norns, meanwhile, were spinning at their looms weaving the fate of humanity beneath the world tree Yggdrasil

It so happened that Rose’s horse threw a shoe, and so as the fates had foretold, she and Jack were destined to meet and eventually, after many adventures, live happily ever after.