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Pigtails passed the sheet of paper to Puppyfat, who crumpled it into a ball with an applause of jabby pats. Puppyfat then tossed it at Freckles, who with a palm-swiping forehand drove it through an open window into the street below, where, after a three-second spinning tumble, it tapped the felt brim of Mister Garland’s trilby as he strolled by whistling merry.
The old man stopped and looked up, just in time to see a freckled face and a swish of strawberry-blonde hair vanish behind a flurry of lime-green curtains. Mumbling thoughts we’ll never know, Garland dropped on one knee, firstly to tie an undisciplined shoelace, secondly to claim the paper ball, and thirdly to unravel and smooth-out its creases on the sun-warm pavement. The horned tips of his carnival moustache twitched and an snowy eyebrow dithered, for the words scribbled on the wrinkled rose-pink sheet surprised him:
‘Our choices in life are our own, but the successes of our choices are limited through no choice of our own. We may choose a certain path but that path may not have chosen us. Free-will exists only within the ultimate limitations of self, and because of this, our choices conform (in the end) not to who we want to be but to who we are.’
Garland rose slowly emitting a thin hum, his left kneecap clicked, and closing his snowflake lashes he scrunched the paper back into a tight ball with his long cordon-bleu fingers, before popping it into his mouth like a shrivelled cherry. It was the first day of June 1996, a Fryday, and how his dentures chewed that papier to a bitty paste.
Tring-tring. A young lad sporting a tangerine cap and Dennis-the-Menace jersey zigzagged by on a bicycle, silver spokes sparkling, ringing its flimsy bell. Garland smiled (tring) still munching (tring-tring).
Once again he looked up, this time to see a brace of tightrope-walking magpies alight on an overhead telephone-wire. Garland watched them bounce, coattails wagging, holding onto their tophats. He listened to their carking calls: an almost jealous Rak-kak-kar.
“Two for joy,” he mused, still ruminating the rose-pink ball.
Yow! A red setter – its moist snout poking out the passenger-side window of a passing yellow car – barked once in recognition, then again (yow!) in floppy-eared forgetfulness.
Gulp.
Garland swallowed the mashed’n’mushy paper acknowledging all about him with a knowing nod: “Hm, food for the soul on a dinnertime stroll . . .”
His tomato nose wriggled, the heels of his sable brogues tapped together, his whiskers curled happy, and jingling a riffraff of pennies in his blazer pocket, he continued along the avenue of green-gold sunbeams, just a little fatter and a soupçon wiser.
The old man stopped and looked up, just in time to see a freckled face and a swish of strawberry-blonde hair vanish behind a flurry of lime-green curtains. Mumbling thoughts we’ll never know, Garland dropped on one knee, firstly to tie an undisciplined shoelace, secondly to claim the paper ball, and thirdly to unravel and smooth-out its creases on the sun-warm pavement. The horned tips of his carnival moustache twitched and an snowy eyebrow dithered, for the words scribbled on the wrinkled rose-pink sheet surprised him:
‘Our choices in life are our own, but the successes of our choices are limited through no choice of our own. We may choose a certain path but that path may not have chosen us. Free-will exists only within the ultimate limitations of self, and because of this, our choices conform (in the end) not to who we want to be but to who we are.’
Garland rose slowly emitting a thin hum, his left kneecap clicked, and closing his snowflake lashes he scrunched the paper back into a tight ball with his long cordon-bleu fingers, before popping it into his mouth like a shrivelled cherry. It was the first day of June 1996, a Fryday, and how his dentures chewed that papier to a bitty paste.
Tring-tring. A young lad sporting a tangerine cap and Dennis-the-Menace jersey zigzagged by on a bicycle, silver spokes sparkling, ringing its flimsy bell. Garland smiled (tring) still munching (tring-tring).
Once again he looked up, this time to see a brace of tightrope-walking magpies alight on an overhead telephone-wire. Garland watched them bounce, coattails wagging, holding onto their tophats. He listened to their carking calls: an almost jealous Rak-kak-kar.
“Two for joy,” he mused, still ruminating the rose-pink ball.
Yow! A red setter – its moist snout poking out the passenger-side window of a passing yellow car – barked once in recognition, then again (yow!) in floppy-eared forgetfulness.
Gulp.
Garland swallowed the mashed’n’mushy paper acknowledging all about him with a knowing nod: “Hm, food for the soul on a dinnertime stroll . . .”
His tomato nose wriggled, the heels of his sable brogues tapped together, his whiskers curled happy, and jingling a riffraff of pennies in his blazer pocket, he continued along the avenue of green-gold sunbeams, just a little fatter and a soupçon wiser.
Excellent. Nice one BG. :D
soupçon, dinnerly. :o)
Enjoyable, and strange as always.
Enjoyable, and strange as always.
And I enjoyed reading it. Muchly.
There's always something kind of ... free ... (or something) about how you write. Always makes me smile.
*hugz*
There's always something kind of ... free ... (or something) about how you write. Always makes me smile.
*hugz*
Thanks for reading/commenting.
It's not about anything, really. I just tried to write a surreal snapshot with no killing :) and it came out like this. I enjoyed writing it, and that's the main thing.
It's not about anything, really. I just tried to write a surreal snapshot with no killing :) and it came out like this. I enjoyed writing it, and that's the main thing.
A jot of frivolity surrounding something deeper? A pleasure as always.
Amazing description.
And that's really all I can say.
And that's really all I can say.
I rather enjoyed that, even though i had know idea what was going on
Pigtails passed the sheet of paper to Puppyfat, who crumpled it into a ball with an applause of jabby pats. Puppyfat then tossed it at Freckles, who with a palm-swiping forehand drove it through an open window into the street below, where, after a three-second spinning tumble, it tapped the felt brim of Mister Garland’s trilby as he strolled by whistling merry.
The old man stopped and looked up, just in time to see a freckled face and a swish of strawberry-blonde hair vanish behind a flurry of lime-green curtains. Mumbling thoughts we’ll never know, Garland dropped on one knee, firstly to tie an undisciplined shoelace, secondly to claim the paper ball, and thirdly to unravel and smooth-out its creases on the sun-warm pavement. The horned tips of his carnival moustache twitched and an snowy eyebrow dithered, for the words scribbled on the wrinkled rose-pink sheet surprised him:
‘Our choices in life are our own, but the successes of our choices are limited through no choice of our own. We may choose a certain path but that path may not have chosen us. Free-will exists only within the ultimate limitations of self, and because of this, our choices conform (in the end) not to who we want to be but to who we are.’
Garland rose slowly emitting a thin hum, his left kneecap clicked, and closing his snowflake lashes he scrunched the paper back into a tight ball with his long cordon-bleu fingers, before popping it into his mouth like a shrivelled cherry. It was the first day of June 1996, a Fryday, and how his dentures chewed that papier to a bitty paste.
Tring-tring. A young lad sporting a tangerine cap and Dennis-the-Menace jersey zigzagged by on a bicycle, silver spokes sparkling, ringing its flimsy bell. Garland smiled (tring) still munching (tring-tring).
Once again he looked up, this time to see a brace of tightrope-walking magpies alight on an overhead telephone-wire. Garland watched them bounce, coattails wagging, holding onto their tophats. He listened to their carking calls: an almost jealous Rak-kak-kar.
“Two for joy,” he mused, still ruminating the rose-pink ball.
Yow! A red setter – its moist snout poking out the passenger-side window of a passing yellow car – barked once in recognition, then again (yow!) in floppy-eared forgetfulness.
Gulp.
Garland swallowed the mashed’n’mushy paper acknowledging all about him with a knowing nod: “Hm, food for the soul on a dinnertime stroll . . .”
His tomato nose wriggled, the heels of his sable brogues tapped together, his whiskers curled happy, and jingling a riffraff of pennies in his blazer pocket, he continued along the avenue of green-gold sunbeams, just a little fatter and a soupçon wiser.
The old man stopped and looked up, just in time to see a freckled face and a swish of strawberry-blonde hair vanish behind a flurry of lime-green curtains. Mumbling thoughts we’ll never know, Garland dropped on one knee, firstly to tie an undisciplined shoelace, secondly to claim the paper ball, and thirdly to unravel and smooth-out its creases on the sun-warm pavement. The horned tips of his carnival moustache twitched and an snowy eyebrow dithered, for the words scribbled on the wrinkled rose-pink sheet surprised him:
‘Our choices in life are our own, but the successes of our choices are limited through no choice of our own. We may choose a certain path but that path may not have chosen us. Free-will exists only within the ultimate limitations of self, and because of this, our choices conform (in the end) not to who we want to be but to who we are.’
Garland rose slowly emitting a thin hum, his left kneecap clicked, and closing his snowflake lashes he scrunched the paper back into a tight ball with his long cordon-bleu fingers, before popping it into his mouth like a shrivelled cherry. It was the first day of June 1996, a Fryday, and how his dentures chewed that papier to a bitty paste.
Tring-tring. A young lad sporting a tangerine cap and Dennis-the-Menace jersey zigzagged by on a bicycle, silver spokes sparkling, ringing its flimsy bell. Garland smiled (tring) still munching (tring-tring).
Once again he looked up, this time to see a brace of tightrope-walking magpies alight on an overhead telephone-wire. Garland watched them bounce, coattails wagging, holding onto their tophats. He listened to their carking calls: an almost jealous Rak-kak-kar.
“Two for joy,” he mused, still ruminating the rose-pink ball.
Yow! A red setter – its moist snout poking out the passenger-side window of a passing yellow car – barked once in recognition, then again (yow!) in floppy-eared forgetfulness.
Gulp.
Garland swallowed the mashed’n’mushy paper acknowledging all about him with a knowing nod: “Hm, food for the soul on a dinnertime stroll . . .”
His tomato nose wriggled, the heels of his sable brogues tapped together, his whiskers curled happy, and jingling a riffraff of pennies in his blazer pocket, he continued along the avenue of green-gold sunbeams, just a little fatter and a soupçon wiser.