Microcosms 52

Hello, everyone. Welcome to Microcosms 52.

As last week, there’s no contest. This is a ‘just for fun’ post to bring 2016 to a close. There is simply a photo prompt below – no character, setting and genre elements and no slot machine. Let your imagination run wild – although not too wild, as the usual maximum of 300 words applies. But the challenge is open until midnight, Thursday, 05-JAN-2017 (EST). (The countdown clock will show 24 hours , because I still don’t have the technology to adjust it…)


All being well, normal service will resume with a contest post at 00:00, Friday, 06-JAN-2007 (EST).


Happy New Year to everyone!


Courtesy @TheShakes72
Courtesy @TheShakes72
Microcosms 103
Microcosms 51

3 thoughts on “Microcosms 52

  1. Have you somehow tapped into my secret fears and found photo prompts to match, Geoff Holme?
    Back later with some words once I’ve jump-started my blood-flow.

  2. Protect and Survive
    300 words. Geoff Le Pard
    Norman thought of himself as meticulous; Daphne thought him slow. He started many jobs always intending completion. Rarely did it happen. However the construction of an air-raid shelter was one project Daphne determined Norman would finish.
    Norman’s problem was a Victorian urge to over-engineer. The neighbours dug a simple pit which they covered in corrugated iron. Norman hunted out precious bricks, while assessing ground conditions and the best prospect – east-facing he thought.
    Progress was slow. Bombing raids came and went. Daphne and the boys sheltered with the neighbours. Meanwhile Norman pottered and pointed and pontificated.
    The boys joined up and still Norman built. VE Day passed in a blur for Daphne as she imbibed more oak leaf wine than was recommended.
    When she returned, as the rain blew away, Norman was waiting. ‘It’s done.’ At the top of the steps, he added, ‘Pity it’s over really.’
    Maybe it was the worry about her boys, off to the Far East, maybe it was the year’s of using the neighbours, maybe it was just the drink but Daphne saw red. She ran at Norman’s back gurgling incoherently and pushed.
    The combination of wet steps and the force exerted sent Norman tumbling. He lay inside the door, clearly dead.
    Daphne sighed. She made herself tea and then some concrete. In a surprisingly quick time she bricked up the entrance and begun filling in the steps with soil. If anyone asked about Norman she said, ‘He’s decided on a fresh start.’
    No one questioned Daphne. When, 60 years later the shelter was opened, none of the family still lived. The dead man was assumed to be a vagrant.
    Indeed it wasn’t the body that caused the stir but Norman’s magnificent shelter. In death, at least his precise handiwork had been appreciated.

  3. Steve Lodge
    300 words

    Ah Yes, But A Lot Of It’s Rubbish, You Know.

    All in all, a holiday that promised much, failed.

    Dad borrowed a car and a caravan from a mate and we headed cross-country from London to North Wales. Rhyl Llandudno. Sounded like a football team.

    Car and caravan failed to make it up a hill near Banbury. Blocked the whole road, but nice people turned the car around so Dad could jump-start it going downhill and then go back for the caravan.

    With an iffy car, Plan B was the east coast. We found a site and a geezer to fix a flat tyre on the caravan. We were running out of holiday and our parents were on the edge of their tempers. Least from here if it all went tits-up, we could get a train back to London.

    We’d had kippers for tea in the caravan. Dad was reading a local paper he’d found.

    Suddenly he smiled. “Says here there’s a football match tonight in Scareby, down the road. Local league, nothing posh. Playing the Third Rifles. I’ll take the boy.”

    Mum obliged, bless her. “Off you go. I’ll take Jacqui to the site club bingo. She’ll be my lucky charm, won’tcha, darling?”

    Scareby FC was a deserted field. We waited at the top of the steps that led to the changing rooms.

    “Players’ll be out soon,” Dad was confident. “Paper said kickoff is 7.”

    “Bit basic, innit?”

    “It ain’t Wembley.” Dad agreed. “I tell you, son, I don’t fancy that drive back to London tomorrow. You wait till I see that Sid.”

    “Help you, sirs?” A farmer turned up behind us.

    We didn’t understand his accent but I took a punt “We’re here for the football.”

    “Orrr. Last week, sirs.” He replied.

    Dad muttered as we walked off. “That must’ve been an old paper I found. Sod it.”

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