WordPress Weekly Challenge: Countdown

For this week’s challenge, I invite you to breathe new life into the established genre of the end-of-year countdown list. Sure, you’re welcome to share your top-20 books, songs, or obscure craft beers of the year.

My late Nera cat who left us for the eternal corn chambers last year, once wrote a Christmas Wish List. It had a few repetitions, but she wanted to make sure that it was read and her wishes were granted. We still miss her and hope she now has her permanent supply of tuna fish wherever she is.

I thought about this end-of-year countdown list and came to the conclusion that it is a necessary fact of computer life to register you passwords. We are all told that the passwords we need on our computer should not be written down for safety reasons. It might be that someone finds the list with the passwords. Do not enter them in your iPhone, iPad or computer, and if you write them down then write each worded in a coded fashion that nobody understands what it is all about.

Now this is very sensible but you have to remember the codes you applied to register the passwords. I really would not want anyone to know how to empty my bank account when banking online. I definitely do not want to be cloned in Facebook as it might be that my suspicious colleagues, who I do not know personally, will disown me as being untrustworthy. Today I am the proud possessor of many computers, some out of action but ready to go when plugged in. Others used daily and I am not counting my iPads. Computer central we have a problem.

I am really wondering if I visited the tattoo shop and had my many passwords engraved somewhere on my body, it would be the best choice, but where? On the other hand we are constantly advised to change our passwords regularly meaning that my available skin would soon be full, no room on the body.

I now have an Apple computer, no two, but that is not the problem. Apple are the kings in passwords. They have a password for everything. You want to buy something in their Apple shop, then use your password, no problem. You want to modify something on your computer, then use another password and if you have an iPad you will be informed that you have changed your password. It seems that Mirosoft Windows were accused of not being secure enough with their software. They have found the solution, a password and even a fingerprint, but what happens if I forget which finger I used.

To return to online banking here are also passwords. If you have plastic money, Visa Card, Bank Card, cards for this and that in the local store, there will definitely be a password included. You want to buy a book online, no problem, as long as you remember the password.

This is your today’s life, so you begin to make a list, but unfortunately now and again you will be required to change the password, and oh horror, you have forgotten the new password. You can contact the various password hungry people by mail and they will supply a new password. You become a regular customer to their e-mail address and if you do not organise you e-mail answers, you forget which one brought you the correct password. I have now thrown all caution to the wind. I have begun a list on my computer, but being sly and computer litereate, I have transferred this list to a memory stick, so what could possibly go wrong. Now where did I put that memory stick?

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: The Object

In the case of the idea drought, an object provides something basic to observe and describe, a starting point that might ultimately lead you into a deeper story.

It was just there. No-one knew how it arrived, but it was sitting on the breakfast table. Julian saw it first of all. He was having breakfast before school and his mum was busy making sandwiches for his morning break.

“Mum, what’s that?”

“What’s what Julian?” and she continued spreading the butter on the bread, not looking to see what her twelve year old son was talking about.

“That thing on the table, it even has a switch and the top half is almost transparent, as if it were a window. Is it some sort of new computer thing dad brought home?”

Julian’s mother decided to see what the fuss was about and threw a glance at the table. It was a rather strange object. A thought of an unidentified flying object came to her mind, but it was not flying, although still unidentified.

“Julian time to go to school.”

“But mum, what about that …….”

“To school, I will have a word with your father.”

Mrs. Smith was now alone at home, but not quite, the strange object was still on the table. She touched it, but it was cold. She took a closer look at the top half and was sure she could see something inside. Suddenly Mrs. Smith’s cat appeared, jumped onto the table and arrived next to the object. It sniffed the object, hissed, jumped from the table and disappeared as fast as she could out into the garden through the cat flap.

Mrs. Smith was now worried. She listened to the object and heard a faint ticking sound. Was it a bomb? The cat was scared and had disappeared. She decided to call her husband at work. She pressed the number and his secretary took the phone.

“Hello, Carol Smith here, can I speak to my husband?”

“He is not in the office this morning. He had to go urgently to the head office. Can he call you back?”

Carol told the secretary that she needed to talk to her husband urgently. There was something wrong in the kitchen and she was frightened and would be calling the police.

The machine was ticking and there was a click and a light shone in the top half. She called the police and described the problem. The police told her to immediately leave her house. They would send the bomb disposal squad. They mentioned something about terrorist problems. Five minutes later a van arrived encased in steel and two men climbed out, both dressed in armoured clothing and a helmet with a vizier pulled over the face. A third man also left the van. He seemed to be the chief and was telling the men what to do. Carol gave the men in the armoured clothing the keys and they entered the house carefully.

Suddenly there was the screeching of car wheels and Fred Smith, Carol’s husband arrived.

“What’s wrong Carol, my secretary called me with an urgent request to go home. Something about the police.”

“There is a bomb on the table Fred. Probably planted by a terrorist group.”

“Is the top half of the bomb almost transparent, and does it look like there is something inside.?”

“Yes Fred, exactly. Do you know something I do not know?”

She immediately though of her husband belonging to a terrorist group.

“Sorry Carol, I had no time to tell you.”

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked, almost believing that her husband was going to give her a confession of being involved with gangsters, terrorists.

“It was a gift from an advertising agency. A mini steamer and I know you wanted a steamer for the vegetables. I thought it would be a surprise if I set it up quickly before I went to work this morning. I put some vegetables inside. It has a timer and will start cooking by steam half an hour before we eat, just the right time to cook the vegetables.”

“Ok, men, everything in the clear” called the chief bomb expert, hearing what Mr. Smith told his wife.

“It was a hoax, no threat.”

The bomb disposal unit left, after Carol had served them a few beers for their trouble. The steamer was a success, and naturally Fred Smith sent some to the helpful men from the bomb removal team to show that it was just a kitchen machine and not a potential danger.

The cat returned in the evening, took a sniff at the machine and decided it was not such a threat to his feline life.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Silence

We’re asking you to make “silence” a presence in your post

There is a garden just across the path. It was a garden with vegetables, flowers, trees, bushes: a garden to please the eye, a reward for the gardener. It is now a quiet garden; there is no longer a gardener. It is now a garden of silence.

I called my father last week he is now 98 years old.

“Hello dad”

“Hello Pat”

“How are you keeping?”

“Yes”

“How are you keeping?” my voice was a few decibels louder.

“Yes”

“No dad, I mean HOW ARE YOU KEEPING.”

Mr. Swiss calls from another room. “Do you have to shout like that when you call your father?”

“Yes, he cannot hear me.” And then my dad reacts.

“OK, just the same, just the same.”

“Dad are you wearing your hearing aid.”

“Yes.”

“Your HEARING AID.”

“No, it’s no good. I cannot be bothered, it doesn’t help.”

and so the conversation continues. I tell him that my husband has problems with his back. “Yes” he answers, and after a while he asks me how my husband’s back is.”

My husband tells me when I have finished with my call, “I think the complete neighbourhood probably heard the conversation.”

My father lives in silent country.

There are many forms of silence. A silence that no longer exists and a silence that it’s owner does not realise it exists.

I once had to travel by train. I entered the carriage and took my phone to inform my husband I was on my way. The lady sitting opposite, suddenly put her fingers to her lips. I looked at her with bewilderment. What was wrong. She pointed to a sign on the wall of the carriage saying “Quiet Zone”. It seems that in this carriage quiet was to be observed at all times. It was a carriage for the readers, the sleepers, the “zombies?”. It was not the carriage for me, so I left as soon as I arrived and moved to the next carriage where there were human beings, people that lived and breathed, that spoke to each other. I decided a world with silence was not my world.

One day I will move on to a quiet world where my garden no longer exists, where I will have eternal silence. I might move on to a deaf world with a hearing aid, but I hope I do not move on to a world of silent compartments in a train.


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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: An Ode to Chilli con carne

So this week, we challenge you to step outside your blogging box and try something totally different:

Do not worry, I am not telling everyone how to cook a perfect dish, so you do not have to flee from this informative blog. I would not dare to do that, lacking a portion Mexican blood and not being able to trace my ancestors to Pancho Villa.

It is just a fascinating thing to cook a chilli con carne, especially as my first experience was hearing the expression in various American police series or films. It seemed to me that Columbo, the famous detective with the hippy raincoat, often ordered a bowl of chilli when dining in between solving the case. I only knew the chilli plant as being something hot, burning and strange. My English taste buds did not appreciate this new spice. I was imagining a bowl of small red chillies being spiced with some salt and pepper.

The solution was completely different, of course. One fine day I ordered a new Swiss cookery book featuring recipes with mincemeat and amongst these was Chilli con Carne. The solution was found, the mixture of beans, peppers and meat was flavoured with chilli pepper. Now I knew what Inspector Columbo had been eating, although I remain corrected. I think he ordered chilli beans, so he probably left all the extras out of this fiery dish; he might have been a vegetarian, hence omitting mincemeat.

With trembling kitchen spoon I stirred my first pan of chilli con carne. I had a glass of cold water ready for cooling my burnt mouth through trial tastes, in case I over spiced this wonderful dish with too much chilli. Since my humble beginnings I have become adventurous, a real dare devil. I even buy a complete red pepper, split it through the middle and remove the seeds. I cook this with the rest but remove it before serving. I discovered this should be done with care. After fileting the seed pod, do not put your fingers in your mouth, or perhaps rub an eye which might be irritated. I do not think I have to explain why.

What do you eat with your bowl of chilli con carne? Again probably a matter of taste and everone has their own thing. At my humble unknowing beginnings, I insulted my bowl of chilli by serving a side salad with it. Since this day I have progressed and now serve my chilli with fresh bread. The Swiss Family Angloswiss prefer white bread with a crispy crust, something ciabatta similar. This is one of the few opportunities I indulge in to eat white bread.

And hints or improvements in this unique dish are welcome. To be quite honest I found it such good photo subject, and I must be the first to have written “An Ode to Chilli Con Carne”.

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: Backward

You can start at the end, and then lead us straight back to a traditionally ordered sequence of events (it worked for Citizen Kane). Or you can give us the full Memento treatment and take us backward one step at a time to the very origin of your story. Whatever works: just hook your readers with a powerful conclusion (that comes first!), and then captivate them with the story of how it came to pass.


This story was based on a discovery where I live. The Skull

I was preparing to go to bed. There was a storm outside. I awoke to a clap of thunder and lightning and there he was, sitting on my bed, sort of semi transparent.

“Who-who-who are you?”

“Me, I suppose a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“You know the one they dug up today outside where they are building that house.”

I remembered, there was quite a performance. Whilst digging the foundations they had uncovered a severed skull, the rest of the bones were scattered around. The newspaper men were there, the town architects, and it was discovered that many years ago the beheading block was in our village for the local criminals and villains.

“You are the skull they found?”

“Yes, that’s right Miss, at last. I had been waiting a few hundred years for a bit of freedom and stretching my legs. The place looks different to when I knew it: all these strange houses. To my time it was a hill with a chopping block at the top surrounded by fields, cows and the like. I had better be going, have a few hundred years to catch up with, although it is nice and cosy here.”

I became curious. “I would offer you something to drink and eat, but I suppose ghosts do not eat or drink. Before you go, tell me what happened.”

“You really want to know, well nothing special, but this is what happened” and he commenced.

“Yes, that’s me although I wasn’t dressed in my best at the time. When you are beheaded you have to wear what they give you. I was a good looker in my time and the ladies knew it. Unfortunately that was my downfall and one of the reasons for my early demise.

I was caught red handed I suppose you could say, but it was a little embarrassing, for Lady Von Kappeler and for me. Of course my hands were not red, they were the colour of my skin, but so was the rest of me and the Lady? There was no mistake, she certainly looked like a lady wearing what she brought into the world. Lord Von Kappeler, her husband, was supposed to be in town with his colleagues, probably doing the same as I was, but not with someone’s wife, just visiting the local ladies. I had paid Maggie to keep him occupied all night, so that her ladyship and I could have fun together, but Maggie was greedy and wanted more money for her services to his Lordship. They had a little argument, his lordship decided why pay for it when it is all free at home and was off.

Now if it was like today when you all have these iPhones and mobile things, Maggie would have warned me that he was on his way, but in the eighteenth century when the Lord had a horse, there was no escaping. So me and her ladyship were having fun, my ears were only open to her squeels of delight and pleasure and not to the sound of hooves on the cobblestones in the courtyard. I didn’t even have a chance to cover my private bits, the door opened and there he stood, the husband, the Lord.

There was a little argument, her ladyship telling him that I had forced her to do what she was doing. Now that was a joke. She could never get enough, but what is the word of a highwayman and thief against that of a lady, so I had no chance.

“I should challenge you to a duel” said his Lordship “to rescue my honour”.

I laughed. “When they know that you were spending the evening with Maggie at the local brothel I think your honour might be questionable” was my answer while I wrapped the sheet around myself – it was cold in that castle bedroom I can tell you.

“Guards, seize this intruder” he shouted and I had no chance with six of his men grabbing me. They pulled me down to the cellar. He was a crafty bloke that Lord. He even had some of his gold and silver deposited in my abode, which was a wooden hut at the edge of the forest. My place was searched from the town guards and they found it all. What was I to say. Of course I denied it all, but even Maggie held evidence against me at the trial. Yes the Lord had paid her and Maggie did everything for money.

Lady Von Kappeler gave me the rest, telling how I had climbed through the bedroom window and forced myself upon her. She had no chance, she said, with tears in her eyes (did I smell onions). I escaped a duel with the Lord which was a good thing as he was one of the best gunmen in the town and he would have certainly killed me with the first shot. I was condemned to a beheading. Now I was a pretty fellow really and I treasured my head above all. Unfortunately the law did not find this was the case and so it was up the hill on the beheading block and there I was since, until they dug me up.”

With that he took a bow and walked through the wall. I never saw him again. I wondered, shall I call the newspaper, but I somehow think they would not believe my story.

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WordPress Weekly Challenge: I remember

Set a countdown timer for 10 minutes, choose one of the writing prompts below, and just start writing. Your worst memory.

Me on the right in brownies uniform, grandad on the left in his favourite armchair

I cannot remember when exactly, but most probable around 1962 when I was 14 years old. It was a normal night as always, although I know my grandfather had not been so well throughout the day. He was born 1875, lived his life in our house, his wife dying in 1946, my birth year.

He had a good rough life, according to the ways of the working class population at the time. Was a gifted artist, wood carver, and in the building trade as a carpenter throughout his working years. I remember my mother telling me he would work in a local public house but would rarely come home after work, being the best beer customer they had. We had a wonderful collection of china beer mugs at home in commemoration.

 He learnt his swearing watching the men gambling on the street corner as a boy. One of the reasons why the teacher sent him home from school. Swearing at the teacher was not correct, even at the end of the 19^th century.

He seemed indestructible. Smoked like a chimney, swore like a trooper and was just grandad, sitting in his armchair out in the yard in summer in the sun even when it was hidden by thick clouds of industrial smoke. He joined us watching the television on Saturday evening, blocking any clear view of the screen through thick qualms of cigarette smoke. He rolled his own cigarettes of course with Rizla papers and tobacco.

Now granddad was not so well at the age of 87. I went to bed that evening and my mum and dad were with granddad downstairs in his bedroom. I could hear the raised voices as mum became excited. Her sister, aunt Lil, was called for. She lived in a house just opposite ours in the same street. Aunt Lil, mum and dad looking after granddad counting each breath and watching each eye movement. They sensed what would happen. Voices were loud and excited

“Dad, dad are you ok? We will call the emergency doctor. Why not, you are not well.”

and so I heard the voices all night. My sleep was little, practically none. I felt what was happening in that bedroom downstairs, the urgency of raised voices, concern, worry climbed through the floorboards to my room. For once I was neglected, on my own. My mother had other problems. The doctor was called for, but he did not come as quickly as needed. We were just a simple family in a crowded East End of London, not anything special and probably the idea was to have a look in the morning.

Aunt Lil shouted again “Dad”

My mother “I think he has gone.”

I stole a look at the clock. Around six in the morning, daylight was breaking. No-one in our house closed their eyes during the night. My parents and Aunt Lil who had called her husband Uncle Arthur in the meanwhile watching after granddad. He passed away peacefully. His time had come, but our house was full of sadness tumult during that night. For me it was a night I have never forgotten.

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WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Mind the Gap

Facebook: to poke or to puke

Morticia, my pet in Pettville - a Facebook pasttime

Let us begin at the beginning. Facebook was forbidden on the computer, was blocked in the company where I worked. There were too many having a look in between, posting and liking. Too much valuable working time was lost.

I only really fell into the Facebook world when I was retired. It seemed to be a compensation for my working life. I played games until one fine day I realised there was a real world out there somewhere. Planning a fictitious farm or restaurant was not the essence of life and begging other members for little gifts to help me to complete a quest was not exactly worthy of a Nobel prize. There was housework to do, not just to be fitted in between. I had other hobbies, photography and writing which were slowly being neglected for the sake of a brainless game.

I have belonged to this club of lost souls for about five years. I still belong. No “belong” is the wrong word, Facebook belongs to me. I enter with a name and password. I have gone through a metamorphosis in this world of likes and shares. I used to write things, post photos, write a status with no real meaning. Now I have become an observer, lurking in the shadows of a web site that automatically opens on a tab every day. I really do not need it, so why is it always open on a separate tab? I suppose because it is there.

Something happened a couple of weeks ago which made me think. My other half is not really a Facebook person; forums and social sites are not his sort of thing. He has other hobbies and where my computer is full of photos and blogs, his is full of music. However, he did risk a step into the world of Facebook as being an amateur jazz musician; he could maintain contact with other musicians and jazz lovers. I would call him a reluctant Facebooker. One day he found enough is enough. He asked himself the question “do I really need this rubbish?” His answer was “No” and he left Facebook. This gave me a “poke” to use a Facebook word. I followed his way of departure. A lengthy process, but he did it. The last information he got from Facebook was that he had two weeks last respite before he was eternally banned. To cut a long story short, he made use of the two weeks and rejoined on the last day of his exile. His colleagues convinced him that he would be missed and so he is back.

This got me thinking. Shall I leave? Facebook was becoming a slight nuisance. The daily confessions from the general public, their daily diaries of what they were doing; the declarations of love and respect for this, that and the other were frankly said “getting on my nerves”. Am I such a selfish person that I do not declare my eternal respect for a departed parent or family member for all to see. No, making private public is not my thing.  I could understand my husband completely. I am still there and have not left. The only reason being that I have a couple of far flung relations in other countries, some ex workmates and friends. I also treasure the fact that I can cross post my WordPress blogs.

I have about 700 contacts in Facebook that I do not know and have never met; a remainder of my gaming days.

I realised I would miss a some groups I belong to. Various authors, musicians and art, as well as a group in the area from where I originate in London. Not to mention that my old school has a thriving site with many names belonging to my school days around 1959-1964.

If Facebook collapsed tomorrow or ceased to exist, I would not cry. I would have a couple of regrets, but my life would continue as normal. It just is not important enough to spend time on mourning its departure.

For those that enjoy this public spectacle of showing off their feelings, thoughts and beliefs, I wish them all the best; if you enjoy it, then why not. It is no longer my idea of enjoyment.

WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Love in the 21st Century

For this challenge, we want you to write about 21st-century love.

I don't usually do love stories, not my thing, but I had an idea for this one. I do not write about my own personal life in that connection. I just do not find it belongs in Internet for everyone to read. So here is my effort for this week.

E-mail group for night owls – online e-mail exchange

Moonman: Hello moongirl.  Your thoughts and ideas are wonderful. I am sure we are soul mates.

Moongirl: I was thinking on the same lines. It seems we are both night people. I work on the night shift at the hospital and you work at the zoo looking after the nocturnal creatures.

Moonman: Yes, for us the night turns into day. There are some things in life that have to be done during the night hours. The animals that sleep in the day have their longings in the night hours.

Moongirl: Do you have longings in the night hours?

Moonman: Oh yes, and you?

Moongirl: Now it is getting personal, but I now know you long enough to confess. My night feelings are very intensive.

Moonman: How intensive?

Moongirl: They vary. At full moon my feelings are completely out of control.

Moonman: How much out of control?

Moongirl: You have to see it and feel it, and on an online chat talk, you do not get the deep feeling.

Moonman: I long to meet you personally, but I am not sure that a full moon night would be the best time for me although I never work at the zoo by full moon, it would be too complicated.

Moongirl: Don’t disappoint me. Be honest, tell me why.

Moonman: I get feelings, sort of a little out of control at full moon. I change a little.

Moongirl: So do I, I leave a deep impression on the people I meet at full moon.

Moonman: I am sure you leave a wonderful impression. Do you mean sensual, with feelings that leave their mark.

Moongirl: Oh yes, definitely, but tell me about the little changes you have?

Moonman: I don’t know. It is difficult. I can hear much better. I hear a mouse walk over a grass stalk, I see better. I see the bats as they fly through the tree branches. They even speak to me.

Moongirl: Tell me, you are really getting my feelings up. I am also not able to work at full moon. I get longings, special longings. Does your body change, develop things out of control.

Moonman: Oh baby, you are really on my track. Yes I admit it, but not all appreciate the changes.

Moongirl: Tell me about them.

Moonman: Err well, yes, my ears get a little more pointed. My teeth also and I get just a little bit hairy to be honest.

Moongirl: You sound like a werewolf.

Moonman: And now you don’t want to know me anymore. So let’s just forget it.  I just ….

Moongirl: Stop. Nobody’s  perfect. Let me tell you the department I work in at the hospital, then you might understand why I also do the night shift. I work in the blood bank.

Moonman: Tell me more.

Moongirl: I never work on a full moon night, it gets complicated for me as well. I need that night for myself to get out and about meet people and get to know them closer.

Moonman: I think I know what you mean. Tell me do your teeth grow a little longer on those full moon nights. You do not have to answer that one if it is embarrassing.

Moongirl: you see we are soul mates. I think you know what I am.

Moonman: Sounds like a female vampire to me, but just joking of course.

Moongirl: I don’t joke about things like that. It goes too deep. Moonman I must meet you, my feelings for you are so intense after this exchange. Yes I admit it, I am a vampire.

Moonman: Ok, we meet on the next full moon night at the local park. We will have a ball I am sure. Just follow the howling and I will be there.

Moongirl: No problem moonman, I will fly to you. I love you Moonman with all my blood, teeth and vampire allure.

Moonman: I am longing to smell your breath and give you a complete lickover. I can be myself with you Moongirl, I am sure. I have at last found the love of my life. My lonely days are now over.

Moongirl: Just wait for me in the park. Oh the fun we will have together.