My first post is a copy of a submission I made in response to a Creative Writing exercise. We were given ten particular words to use within a piece of short fiction. I won't bother listing the words, although you may be able to guess a couple. The piece is here because I had fun writing it.
The Unwilling Guest
I dropped the cruet in the punch bowl and the conversation around the table stopped.
Maureen, my wife, apologised on my behalf, claiming that I was suffering from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome – the annoying tingle of pins and needles that can result in numbness and pain in one’s hands. There was a collective hum of sympathy, but it was only a brief respite before the inane chat continued.
The truth was: I had needed to do something to relieve the boredom. Perhaps it’s something to do with age, a growing intolerance with people wasting what remains of my life. Perhaps I’m entering a second childhood – I don’t know. I do know I’d rather knit fog than hear about the latest celebrity gossip. And why this preoccupation about footballers and their teams? I know diddly squat about that and don’t want to.
Not that it would have been any better sat amongst the bride’s guests – they all seemed like they had corks up their proverbials. Or a number three wood, as they’re all golf fanatics.
I had told Maureen I didn’t want to come to the wedding. Of course, when she said I didn’t have a ghost of a chance of avoiding it, I wasn’t going to argue. Yet when we arrived and I gazed around the room at the range of numpties there, I decided I wasn’t just going to sit around.
Before anyone else came into the dining area I managed to switch around quite a few of the name cards on the tables. That was entertaining. I told a few guests that I am called John Royd, and my wife is called Emma. And that fake telegram I was able to slip into the pile: I can’t wait for that to be read out.
I’m sure Maureen suspects something is going on.
Ah well, they’ll be divvying up the wedding cake soon. I can flick sultanas at the bride’s mother.
