The Observer for the Daily Post

Posted in the Daily Post : In The Style Of : Tales of the odd and unexpected

“There’s no way to remove the observer – us – from our perceptions of the world” Stephen Hawking

The Observer

I was sitting in the coffee shop, my well-deserved latte in front of me. I was content in emerging into my daily readings on my tablet, but for some reason my eyes kept wandering to the hassle in the bar. Patrons were leaving and new ones were stepping into the shop.

‘Why not!’ I thought. I could play the part of the observer for a little while before continuing my own tasks. Who knows, maybe I would pick up an idea or two for my next writing project.

Sipping my coffee, I noticed the young couple in the corner booth. They were enjoying each others’ company, looking each other in the eye, no words were spoken. New love was in the air.

Feeling like a peeping Tom, I search for something else to gaze upon. My eyes were scanning the room and landed on a woman with three offspring. The mother was deep in thought, or so it seemed, reading the newspaper while her children were throwing napkins, straws and other small items at each other. I wondered how she managed to turn off the surroundings. The patrons at the next table however were not so lucky. Shaking their heads, they grabbed their orders and moved to another table at the farther end the coffee shop.

I laughed a little at the scene played out before me. Good thing I had been thinking ahead and chose the solitary spot close to the windows in the corner. I had a clear view of the whole establishment, but I was also able to concentrate on my reading if I wanted to.

I thought to seek out one more scene before tuning myself out. I noticed the waitresses behind the bar having a heated conversation. I was not able to hear what they were talking about, but clearly the other one was angry about something and kept on ranting, while the other one was just listening in. Wide eyed, nodding every now and again. The angry one was waving her arms in the air, while the quiet one remained stationary, her hands seemed almost glued to her sides. It seemed from an observer’s perspective, the ranter was in charge in that particular relationship, while the listener did just that and probably agreed to everything the ranter told her.

I lost my interest after a little while and noticed the coffee house getting emptier. Guess the rush was over and I could get back to my reading.

the-observer

Is there any Figgy Puddin’ left? for the Daily Post

Posted in the Daily Post : In The Style Of : Tales of the odd and unexpected

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” Charles Dickens

Is there any Figgy Puddin’ left?

The year was 1845. I was about ten years of age and working as a stable girl. Our family lived and worked in Lord Hamilton’s manor house. It was Christmas time and as a gift for the servants, the Lord arranged a feast for the staff and their families.

Mommy had the children dressed in their Sunday best. My two brothers were complaining about the stiffness of the shirts. Starch was itchy and could cause rash, especially if one scratched the itch.
I had my favourite dress on and my younger sister was a bit jealous of the red and green colouring. She was wearing a plain blue coloured hand me down.

After all the fuzz and hassle with the wardrobe, the whole family was finally set to go to the main house and start with the Christmas dinner. Us servants would be dining in the large kitchen. Several long tables were brought in with extra seats as well. This wasn’t a large household. With around fifteen servants and their families, well not all had children and spouses, all in all around sixty people in total crammed around the tables. The two cooks had had their hands full with the preparations and naturally every one that could had chipped in.

But now it was time for celebration. Everyone was finally sitting down and getting quiet. After grace the noise level rose again. Food containers were passed around and everyone was filling their respective plates. After all, it wasn’t often we got to eat in this manner and variety.

After a while, everyone had cleared their plates and it was time for dessert. My favourite was the Figgy Pudding. If possible I opted for seconds. As I got my plate of the delicious substance before me, I licked my lips and dug into it with gusto. It did not take too long for the food to disappear from my plate.

My mom looked at me with a smirk. I looked back at her and passing my bowl I asked: “Is there any Figgy Puddin’ left?”

I was smiling widely, feeling exhilarated, when the bowl was passed back to me with an other helping.

When the final bits were eaten, it was time for the traditional sing along. The farmhand brought out his accordion and after the first few tunes, we all joined in. The evening was spent singing, chatting and finally picking up the tables. We all went back to our dwellings, thanking the Lord for the special meal.

Merry Pudding and God bless us everyone!

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Back in Time for the Daily Post

Posted in the Daily Post : In The Style Of : Tales of the odd and unexpected

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“When I was kid, my social network was called ‘outside’ “

Back in Time

This is the work one of pure fiction. Neither polar bears nor reindeer were harmed in the creation of this literary process!
The year was 1924.

Longitude and latitude: Somewhere up north, thataway! The Finnish Lapland would probably be the most accurate location for this tale.

How old was I?

I guess I was somewhere between ten and twelve years of age. In those days, people were born and they died. No one really bothered with the record keeping. Lord knows there were plenty of us to go around.

Despite the fact it was close to midsummer, there was still snow on the ground. The reindeer and polar bears were roaming the streets while us kids were running around, having snowball fights. That is, during the minimum spare time we had between school, chores and work. Sleeping in those days was a luxury. Sometimes we had a full night’s sleep, sometimes the watch duty fell on my plate and I needed to stay up all night. Luckily, coffee had been invented ten years prior and we were all pretty much hooked on the sweet dark liquid.

Our housing for the winter months was an igloo, which the whole family constructed out of ice. Snow was used as plaster to fill in any holes between the blocks of ice. During the summer time, we had a tent like structure made out of bear and deer skin. Unfortunately all of us favoured the winter dwelling for one simple fact: The summer house stunk like a skunk. The choice of material was not a good one, but then, it was depression and all commodities were scarce.

The trip to school, either winter or summer time was made on skis and it was part to the exercise curriculum for all of us still eligible for the classes. A twenty kilometer trip back and forth was not a big deal and was building the strength and endurance nicely. This also came in handy for our after school activities. Some of us went to work in the coal mines, while others were herding rein deer or taking care of their younger siblings.

Each Saturday the Sauna was heated and all the family gathered into the cramped little room, heated up to eighty degrees. We were sitting all butt cheek to butt cheek in the nude on a wooden construct in the small dark room. Only the burning fire in the stove gave some lighting. As a luffa, a loosely tied bunch of birch tree branches with leaves on them was used. Out mother pummeled us with the concoction and me thinks she enjoyed it a little too much. Granted we children gave her grieve sometimes, so I will give her that.

Bathing for us then meant taking dips in the icy, below freezing waters. This, after we had first heated our body temperatures close to baking. Then we ran naked to the lake, where a large hole had been dug into the ice and plunged in.

All in all life was pretty ordinary and uneventful in my childhood, apart from the minor quirks.

Do I miss it? My childhood?

I would rather spend my next holiday on a labour camp!

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On a Slow Road to Hell for Freaky Friday

Posted in Freaky Friday: Tales off the odd and unexpected

“Going to hell, in a handbasket”

On a Slow Road to Hell

Loosing all sense of colour
No use in a loud holler
All shades of grey are fading
The perfect picture slowly degrading
Turning to black and white
Really, there was no fight

Life passing by in slow motion
Reminiscent of an old silent film
But with less commotion

Standing here
Where the line used to be
Then, drawn in sand
Facing what I feared
A wall of concrete
Now complete
Wondering,
Who’s got the upper hand

A note of some kind
Almost rendered me blind
In proud bold letters,
A big ass sign

“TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT!”

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Forty-Seven for the Daily Post (three)

Posted in the Daily Post: Numbers : Poetry and Humour

“I no longer believe in the Easter Bunny,
and I’m beginning to wonder about Santa Claus.
But I believe wholeheartedly in 47”
Sarah Dolinar

Forty-Seven for the Daily Post 

The Culprit:

Maybe I am an alien
With a devilish plan

“Hello, I am Specialist 47
Delighted to make your acquaintance
Please find attached my credentials
For some mind maintenance”

Resident of Earth since 1947
Successfull mind melds, total of 47 000 000 047
47 more years to beat
Until my mission is complete

My contact information
4747 Galaxy Boulevard
A short promenade
A right down the hall
Or give me a call
My mobile number 555-4747
Thank you for your confirmation

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Forty-Seven for the Daily Post (two)

Posted in the Daily Post: Numbers : Poetry and Humour

“I no longer believe in the Easter Bunny,
and I’m beginning to wonder about Santa Claus.
But I believe wholeheartedly in 47”
Sarah Dolinar

Forty-Seven for the Daily Post 

The Homage:

How phenomenal
Quite Astrological
Completely magical
Oh so mythical
Like a rock star

My profound respect
I am fundamentally perplexed
How very puzzling
Even a little hustling
Quite the dazzling

You are… the Culprit

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continued in part three

Forty-Seven for the Daily Post (one)

Posted in the Daily Post: Numbers : Poetry and Humour

“I no longer believe in the Easter Bunny,
and I’m beginning to wonder about Santa Claus.
But I believe wholeheartedly in 47”
Sarah Dolinar

Forty-Seven for the Daily Post 

The Proof:

The time is now, 00.47
Roswell 1947
Film, 47 Minutes
Waterford Greenwich 47-piece Flatware Set
Exit 47
47 followers
London Bus Routes – 47/N47
4711 Eau de toilette
Level 47 Walkthrough
Agent 47
47 Ronin
U.S. Code › Title 47
The 47 Society
47 likes on Facebook page
47 mints in the box

bundesstrase_47_number-svg

continued in part two

Tales of the Odd and Unexpected for Throwback Thursday

Posted in the Throwback Thursday: Tales of the Odd and Unexpected

“The only thing I ever throwback on Thursdays are drinks”

Tales of the Odd and Unexpected for Throwback Thursday

While digging through the archives after Halloween, I found these tales of the odd and unexpected for your enjoyment for this weeks Throwback Thursday serial: Happy reading!

Tales of the Odd and Unexpected (or what ever floats in my mind): Part One

Tales of the Odd and Unexpected (or what ever floats in my mind): Part Two

It’s A Human… No, It’s A Drag Race!

TBT CASETTE; IPOD

It’s A Human… No, It’s A Drag Race for Tales of the Odd and Unexpected (TBT)

Posted in the Throwback Thursday: Tales of the Odd and Unexpected

Dame Edna Everage Tour

“We are all born naked and the rest is Drag” – RuPaul

It’s A Human… No, It’s A Drag Race!

This is Ixavier Lasloth coming live from the Galaxy near you!

Our news team is currently orbiting a small bluish rock in the farthest corner of the known universe. We are here to observe the supposedly dominant occupants of this planet they have named “Earth”. These people seem to be involved in something called the “human race”, although as to where and when the race will take place is still unclear.

We are here to observe the ritualistic behaviour of this particular species, whose skin colour is varying from a pinkish hue to darker brown shade or sometimes even red. Some of them are covered in a thick fur like layer, while others remain neutral and satisfied in their original skin.

We are in disguise to avoid any panic our strange appearance may cause in the inhabitants.

Upon closer inspection, we can clearly detect at least two distinctive sexes, but there may be more.

Although most of these creatures seem to be content in their existence, some of them rebel against the existing norm. These individuals have ventured to live their lives with their own set of rules and formed tight knit groups and living off the radar. These “outsiders” worship their heroes in an almost religious fashion.

This exceptional behaviour is the reason, why this reporter landed on this forsaken rock and decided to have a closer look.

After making contact with some of these “radical groups”, we were fortunate enough to get invited to observe one of their many rituals. The core group and their followers call themselves “De-rag Q-ueens.

We were invited to observe their masking ritual, reserved for the most elite individuals of the group. The “males” as we got to know them were performing an age old ceremony named the “drag race”.

Observing the ritual to a fault, there is a strict regime to follow:

The first step is to apply a thick layer of paint on the face. The next step is to add a head piece, which seems like a construct of some sort of animal hair. These headpieces come in every imaginative colour of the rainbow. To complete the transformation, a garment weaved with glittering items is pulled over the top half of the body. The feet are covered with footwear constructed from a leathery material and with an added feature, which seems to give the wearer more height.

When the total transformation from “male” to “female” was complete, it was time to “put on a show”.

The Q-ueens lined up and started walking in orderly fashion on what seemed to be a structure of wooden planks they had named the “cat walk”. A rhythmic beat followed by electrical lights flashing caused the Q-ueens to start producing sounds from their throats causing melodic sounds coming out from their mouths. This ritual was of a repetitive nature, where the melodies and sounds varied depending on the individual performing them. The “show” continued and the partakers managed to change their attire several times over before the ceremony was over.

All in all while observing this religious ritual in all its glory, this reporter found oneself caught in the moment; cheering and applauding at the end of the ceremony, which luckily was the accepted social convention.

While trying to get more in-depth information as to what the origin of this particular ritual was, I was fortunate to interview one of the elders among them. And the message, quite clear and directly quoted:

“We may be born naked, but surely the rest needs to be drag”
In this reporter’s opinion, this may be one of the more successful stories of Earth.

Until next time, this is Ixavier Lasloth, signing off!

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Tales of the Odd and Unexpected (or what ever floats in my mind): Part One (TBT)

Posted in the Throwback Thursday: Tales of the Odd and Unexpected

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“Every writer I know has trouble writing” Joseph Heller

Tales of the Odd and Unexpected (or what ever floats in my mind): Part One

“This written tale is based on the prompt:”Four-hundred words. One at a time. Go.”

I woke up, when I was born, no sooner, no later. That was as stupid an opening line as “Once upon a time” or “It was a cold and rainy night”, but I thought I was being clever in starting the tale with a joke. You who follow my writing may have noticed the humouristic twist in most tales, at least at some point. For the life of me, I cannot write serious, not matter how I try. Maybe I would have a career in joke writing or scetches for “Saturday Night Live” or similar shows.

OK, so the agreed process for this tale is: Absolutely no censorship in this tale, my mind freely flowing as my fingers do the typing. I am no longer in command of this vessel. What ever is written on these pages is purely fictional as produced by the army of voices living in my head. I was thinking of cheating of course, thinking before writing, plotting my way into this tale.

After emerging from the deep state I was in, I decided to finally let go, to leave it alone, to not think too much and see what will develop. Apart from the typos caused by my fingers not being able to keep up, this is all just a flow of the mind. I know it is crowded in there, despite the fact the sign implies there is “room for rent”. My occupants like to play tricks on me and those who might take a glimpse to my brain.

Funny things those renters of mine. I prefer to use that word rather than thinking this is a permanent situation. I do hope, that, at some point the other voices will take their leave and I can finally make decisions on my own. Whether that be writing or something else. Mostly it is writing though. When I do decide to let go, the writing is usually good, so I really shouldn’t be taking any credit. But someone once said, A good writer borrows, a great writer steals.

Oh, oh, I am stuck now, either the others went on a break or then they are all napping. I am actually wondering how familiar and TV-oriented this sounds. I do sound like a Borg drone from Star Trek, don’t I. “I can’t hear the others, I need the others to survive!” must be the most quoted line in the franchise when the Borg characters are in play.

But I digest, I mean digress ;P

Flow of mind or the lack there of. A while back I wrote a funny note on my mind having too many tabs open. Oddly enough, that was not fiction but fact. I do like to dabble more on the fiction than the fact side, never getting too personal, but I have a warm feeling inside of me. Guess I am safe as long as it doesn’t run down my legs! But so far so good.

So, back to fact or fiction, was that what I was talking about? No, it was the thing of too many things occupying the brain at one point, hence the tabs and open thing. OK, back on track. So yes. That actually has a link to the ever so talked about writer’s block. The only blockage I have or have had for the past fifty odd years is or was the fact that I do censor myself, a lot. I have so many ideas, causing my mind to overflow.

Currently, as I started my writing life for the third and hopefully charmed time, I will let myself write what ever I want, who ever I want and where ever I want. Sans all the self doubt, drama and excuses. Oh my! Now I am finally getting serious! I actually got a little serious there a day or so back when I poured my heart and thoughts to a few darker poems. I admit I use humour as a cover and rather than dwelling on real life issues, I crack a joke.

I freely admit to the following personality traits: I am sarcastic, pessimistic, I have a warped sense of humour, I am spontaneous yet conscious, I am lazy, but also industrious, at least when work is concerned, personal life not so much. So now you know. I like to hide but remain right in the open. I talk a lot, but say nothing.

Back to the topic again, (I seem to be loosing the track now constantly), what ever that was, I actually forgot at this point. Oh yes, free flow of the mind. So not a jogy, not a Vulcan, not logical, just your average everyday humanoid being. So that is my life story or sort of story. At least what I came up with today. I guess this is more than four hundred words. I don’t know how much of myself I have revealed in this little mind tale, but read between the lines or over the lines. Somewhere there, between, lies the truth.

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