An unusual Sunday “Simon”

“A-men.”

As the last notes of the hymn echoed around the rafters, and the sound of the church organ faded, the elderly congregation sat in a rustle of paper, a waft of too much perfume, and a bustle of perfectly coiffured Sunday hairdos. The vicar remained standing as his flock settled, gazing out over the one-third full church, before smiling gently.

“I’m very pleased to say,” he said, “that we’ve a visitor in the congregation today, young Michael there, who’s about to be ordained. He’s exactly the sort of person that a modern, forward-looking Church should be looking to engage with.”

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The Lesson of Catastrophes

His disruptive nights of parading nightmarish spectacles were persisting. Jonas awoke, yawned, and prepared to start the day, then realised he was still asleep dreaming of waking, yawning, and preparing to start the day.

Catastrophes come in all shapes and sizes.” He attributed this philosophy to his untreatable narcolepsy and lamented the waste of creative energy others devoted to anticipated global apocalypses; energy that could, he believed, be more usefully employed addressing life’s immediate personal challenges. Comet strike annihilation; rebellion of the robot serfs; flooding by rising sea levels; alien invasion; all such fear fests he had let pass by.  Humankind waited for Armageddon; he waited to wake up.

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A Lesson in Life

bric-à-brac jumble sale stall

She’s at it again, using her allure to get people to do things for her. I watch jealously from my bric-à-brac jumble sale stall. I had spent the last half an hour carrying heavy bags from my car. Now, she strolls in, followed by a team of eager pleasers hauling all her boxes. I really hate her sometimes.

Angela, five foot eight and with an effervescent personality and curly blond locks. I understand what the entire male population sees in her, but what I don’t get is why she is able to bewitch the female population as well. That doesn’t include me, of course. I’m immune to her charms.

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You Chose to be Colourblind?

“Toby Metcalf!” thundered Mrs Thomas. “Are you insulting my intelligence with this effort!?

It had been a simple request. Mrs Thomas, covering Mr Ellison’s art class, had tasked the students to colour in a black and white drawing of a king standing outside his castle. Whilst the kids scribbled on their printed copies with coloured pencils, she had marched between desks, sniffing out any miss-behavers.

“I want normal colours,” she boomed, “no purple grass or orange skies, realism is your goal!”

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My Mother’s A Witch

Billy Thomas stomped up the lane, kicking anything in his path, muttering away to himself, frustration written all over his face, every muscle tensed. She had been right again. Even when he made gestures behind her back, she knew. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else got away with things, but not him. She caught him every time.

            Plonking himself down on the river bank, he gave vent, screaming at the top of his voice, ”My mother is a witch,” over and over. Behind him, a gruff voice asked what his problem was. Turning, he saw old Mr Morris stood behind him, dressed as usual in clothes that looked too large, a wrinkled face like the bark on the trees, a flat cap, but eyes that were clear and bright. Billy didn’t know him that well, but he always had a couple of pennies when the boys went round with penny for the guy and carol singing. Embarrassed at being caught, Billy grunted. The old man then motioned him, ”Come and walk awhile and tell me your problem, bach, I may be able to help.”

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Learning Together

Lewis and Jackie Mullens accommodated mother and son asylum seekers for six months. Their action surprised the neighbours who’d considered the childless pair to be the most boring couple on the estate, Jackie doing something with ledgers and her husband something similarly uninspiring with laminate flooring. Both had fewer interests than a sleeping tortoise.

            Initially the visitors brought no change to their lives. Lewis tall, walking with the gait of a superannuated guardsman, had a face stamped in capital letters with silliness of the kind found in nineteenth century inbred, minor European royalty. Jackie was equally unemotional, her mouth usually clamped shut as though she’d swallowed a rat. Occasionally when nervous she uttered a loud laugh that could cause a stampede at a horse fair. They were expecting Greta and Volodymyr to fit in with their rigorous dullness.   

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Lessons in Magic

Guardian angel overlooks baby, daighter and mother.

‘But I can’t write a story!’ Gwen cries, scraping her chair backwards and folding her arms, as though the blank page might scald her.

I wave her pencil around like a wand. ‘What if I told you that this is an enchanted pencil?’

Her eyes widen but she purses her lips, willing herself not to smile. She’s still not sure.

I tilt it towards her. She twirls it between her fingers, examining it from all angles.

Something must convince her – the way the silver paint catches the light, perhaps – because she tucks her seat back under the desk and begins to write. She writes furiously, her tongue protruding and her fingers gripping the pencil so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

The story, when she reads it aloud to the class, is a magical tale of adventure. She beams proudly through the applause, and then says,

‘The magic pencil worked!’

I hold it up and frown theatrically.

‘Silly me!’ I laugh. ‘This isn’t the magic pencil. It looks like you didn’t need it after all.’

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