More RATTLER’S TALE Stories
by Anthony North
for
Friday Fictioneers
Poets & Storytellers United
The Sunday Muse
in association with
KEYUDOS

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

DINERS

Empty restaurants.
Well, what did we expect? After the pandemic.
The trees had surrounded them, you see. Cut them off.
And when loads of people turned up at hospital with no nose …
… roses, you see. Sharp petals. And wheat whiplash could hurt, too.
Still, online shopping got through – meat only.
Which was a surprise, what with cows rearing on hind legs. Even sheep got bristly.
No one asked what was in the sausages.
If only I could make it to the bar.
Get drunk on mature wine.
Plenty of that.
Except chianti.

MASK: A DIALOGUE

I: We all wear a mask.
ME: Speak for yourself.
I: I am – it’s for the pandemic.
ME: Another one?
I: The real one – the virus of individuality.
ME: But we’re two.
I: Exactly. But so many have forgotten.
ME: Forgotten what?
I: That there’s me and I. Me is me and I is the me I have to be to be accepted.
ME: Well I couldn’t give a &%*!
I: But I have to, or I’m weird, an outsider, an outcast.
ME: Is that why you won’t let me out?
I: I can’t. Freedom won’t allow it.
ME: But that’s mad!
I: Aren’t we all?
ME: Come on, take the mask off. Place it down on the table. Look up!
I: I want to – I really do – but I have to thrive; to succeed; to be accepted.
ME: So you deny your inner nature.
I: I deny everything to do with nature. I have no choice.
ME: But we and nature are the true one.
I: I know that! But I can’t know it. Not … outside.
ME: So you is you and I can’t be part of you.
I: That’s right. Except for my screaming.

More RATTLER’S TALE Stories
by Anthony North
for
Friday Fictioneers
dVerse
Poets & Storytellers United
The Sunday Muse
in association with
KEYUDOS

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

CHANGE

The philosopher sat back in his chair on the roof, watching the urban sprawl.
He soon began to notice the obvious – he saw the history of man.
He saw the old churches, testament to when the biggest buildings reflected God.
In the far distance, he saw now silent factories, as industry ravaged the planet.
And he saw the towering banks, as money ravaged society.
And finally he looked below him, at the squalor on the edge.
And he thought: nothing changes.

WHERE HAVE ALL

Where have all the millions gone …
The old man hadn’t a clue. One minute they were there, then …
Covid 19 – or was it inevitable after the Downturn, or this, or that …
… or maybe – just maybe – his own greed.
He cried as they towed away his Rolls Royce, repossessed his mansion.
And designer suit swapped for jeans and t-shirt …
He was on the road again.
Back to his roots – his destitute roots.
‘When will they ever learn?’
The question nagged at him as the days passed, his stomach empty.
Slowly his depression increased, until …
He mouthed: ‘When will I ever learn?’
The sun shone then. He was back in the Beat Generation, Kerouac his guru.
He remembered the lines of the Beat Poets …
‘Gone to graveyards, every one.’
And their dreams.
Shattered.
Maybe it was in the name.
Their naivety.
Their hopes of changing history.
Why does life always beat poets?

Book 28 of 68, A Family Loss: A Crime cum Horror Novel, out 27 April

More RATTLER’S TALE Stories
by Anthony North
for
Friday Fictioneers
dVerse
Poets & Storytellers United
The Sunday Muse
in association with
KEYUDOS

PHOTO PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

BIRDIE

Birdie loved windows.
He’d perch there and watch – especially the tech.
It was everywhere nowadays – tech.
Phone, alarm – a man by a laptop, writing.
Not that Birdie knew what they were.
He didn’t have consciousness like humans do.
Though he was smart.
Birdie stared, and the writer stared at Birdie.
Eventually the writer got bored – went back to work.
And Birdie stared some more.
Finally smart Birdie had seen all he wanted to see.
He uploaded the passwords and droned off.

THE EX-WIVES CLUB

It had taken her a long time to contact him.
‘Yeah, reader, I married them …’ he said …
‘… Madonna, Lady MacBeth and Lucy.’
She said: ‘But you never divorced. And you weren’t exactly faithful.’
‘Hey, I’m a modern man – the freedom to roam and all that.
‘And let’s face it, neither were they. They even swap familiars.’
‘The simple fact is,’ she interrupted, ‘you had no respect for women.’
‘Yeah I did. It’s just that I wanted to respect them all.’
She broke in once more: ‘No, you were a nasty, insidious womaniser.’
She was getting angry now, and realized how easy it was to …
She didn’t have time to finish.
As any medium knows, emotion breaks the circuit, his last words echoing in the ether.
‘So how long are they going to stand on my grave … ?’

Book 28 of 68, A Family Loss: A Crime cum Horror Novel, out 27 April