Tuesday 29 April 2014
Knights In Ardour
The two knights, Sir Lancemenot in
blue strip and Sir Gladhehad in red, faced each other at opposite ends of the
jousting arena. Lances and shields at the ready they prepared to do battle.
Lady Guinowhere, in her seat in the King's stand stroked her growing bulge lovingly.
The bee flew into Lancemenot’s helmet just as he snapped the visor shut. For a few brief moments, metal clad limbs, thrashed about wildly, before toppling ignominiously off the horse in a clanking, groaning heap.
Lady Guinowhere, in her seat in the King's stand stroked her growing bulge lovingly.
The bee flew into Lancemenot’s helmet just as he snapped the visor shut. For a few brief moments, metal clad limbs, thrashed about wildly, before toppling ignominiously off the horse in a clanking, groaning heap.
The stricken knight
ripped off his helmet just in time and smiled with relief as the bee flew off
without stinging him, but it disappeared almost immediately as Gladhehad smashed his head in
with a spiked ball on a chain.
Lancemenot, eyes watering, tried to stand up but
his armour was too much of an impediment. He watched helplessly as the red
knight swung his sword to deliver the coup de grace. He had just enough time to
scream ‘It’ll still be my bastard!’ before his head was detached and kicked
into touch.
Some spectators shouted ‘foul play’ and ‘we want our money back’
while Lady Guinowhere spewed up her morning sickness over King Arthur’s favourite hunting dog. The
wedding was definitely off barring a miracle.
Copyright Harry Hunt 2014
Copyright Harry Hunt 2014
Trapped
The
carriage is almost full; just one seat half unoccupied. I make my decision. The
large, ginger haired woman it is then. Ignore the aggressive glare and try to
avoid physical contact. I grope awkwardly in my pocket. Damn! No paracetamol. Dirty, antiquated rolling stock, fit only for
midgets. What’s the country coming to.
Valkyrie
slowly turns a frog like head. Little
creep has nerve; thought she’d covered both seats. Hate little city slicker
types. Flabby buttocks gently vibrate. Get
a whiff of that mate. She wrinkles a podgy nose and regards him with beady
eyes. Je vous accuse.
“What’s
that bruise on your head?”
I
blink. Is she talking to me? Is my small
lump that obvious? What’s that awful smell? I want to tell the others it
isn’t me.
What the hell’s it got to
do with her? You don’t just interrogate strangers on trains. Try to hold breath
and speak simultaneously.
“On the roof of a train…got hit by a low
bridge,” I mumble.
Sarky little runt. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that.
What train?”
Bad breath, BO,
flatulence. I glance round desperately,
for salvation.
“…The
one before this,” I reply, feeling queasy.
“What…the
four thirty ?”
“Yes,
the four thirty .”
She
snorts triumphantly. “Now I know you’re lying. There isn’t a four thirty . I made it up.”
Dear God, give me strength.
I wish there was. I’d have made sure I was on the bloody thing.
Copyright Harry Hunt 2014
The Beginning of Wisdom
There
came a time when I looked out across a vast expanse of water and wondered if
there was anything beneath the surface. As I wade into the shallows they
gradually become deeper until eventually, I’ll swim - or drown.
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