Gathered round him, laughing. Whole pub thought he were drunk. Half way down my lager and black I saw his head lolled. They put stickers on his face. Grinning like Cheshires. His eyes closed, lips turning blue. I said “Get out of the way, you lot. Put him down. Lie him down on the floor.” Bugger it if floor were sticky with slopped beer. I gave him kiss of life. Well nobody else saw he was dying. My training kicked in. Tha never really take a break. Well he almost went again in ambulance. I just sat down and cried. They fetched us a double whisky.
Time later he comes round with bunch of flowers, box of chocs and a thankyou.
via Daily Prompt: Zip
“A Bakers” published in LiterallyLiterary. Thankyou Terijo.
View story at Medium.com
daisy’s infest the lawn with garish yellow, abandon themselves to naked display, flaunt their unsightly heads like fever blotches and pustules of them and if you just lop of their cocked heads and don’t fork out their deep roots they come back again snooty and snotty, like neighbour we’ve been trying to hoik out lounging on his deckchair fag in gob smoking out street with his obnoxious weed. Calls it herbal. My arse it is. Purist marijuana. Toked up and high he is. Like a frigging daisy.
via Daily Prompt: Avid
Three Poems kindly published by Janet in the outstanding Communicator’s League
https://communicatorsleague.com/2017/04/23/three-poems-by-paul-brookes/ via @wordpressdotcom
and Cadmus and marriage she mused over her vodka shot espied her young gardener the neighbour, all tight arse and bronzed nicely and her his posh totty fallen on hard times due to financial irregularity, yes she would enjoy a fall on his hard times, a cliché but it was her cliche. She was a cougar, wasn’t she? Not mutton dressed as spring galivanting lamb. A cougar with two plastic hips and a dream in a shot glass.
via Daily Prompt: Harmony
see him dig over his borders with fork, and see years ago through red eyes a sharp school uniform in black, Mam secured noose striped school tie flap, black shined shoes scuff in his headlong gasp at bodies twitch pierced on school railings, small animals impaled shudder and shakes his head to make these sights disappear out of his sweated head. And my neighbour forks up worms.
via Daily Prompt: Spike
in proper fresh Beef fat for better flavour, in a proper chip pan. Don’t let
old fat lie. Keep it new, not like neighbours, nowt against them,
not meaning to be offensive but veg don’t put hairs on your chest,
or give a bloke owt to hold onto on a night. There’s yon young un out
on a morning in her slippers and pyjamas hangs out her undies,
as if no ones looking. Him next door in his loose dressing gown lumps white
bags in grey bin, pussy cardboard boxes in blue. Like I said don’t let old fat lie.
Tha allus sees summat proper fresh
out thee windows.
via Daily Prompt: Fry
at his military haircut garden, her delicate wineglass posture backyard, my cracked concrete yard, rotted wood fence and gate and don’t feel guilty for once, or that it’s a provocation for others to take it out on me. I marvelled at my late sister laughing off her mistakes, whilst I felt inadequate, incompetent at mine. How did she do it? Don’t take life seriously is the lesson. Took me years to learn I defeat myself. Now I laugh at my incompetence, and remember her chuckle.
via Daily Prompt: Chuckle