Who Stole My Stripe?

Alternate Title: Richard! What Are You Doing?

As many of you know, I'm a simple guy. I take great delight in often very basic things and express little joy over such monumental purchases as cars, houses and their ilk. In true Yorkshire fashion, 'I like what I like'. So, you can imagine my delight at buying a toothpaste consisting of three coloured stripes: blue; white; green. I'd never had that combination before.
I started using said toothpaste a week ago. Blue and white were the colours that squeezed from that tempting tube; green failed to emerge. I put it down to how it was filled, and though bitterly disappointed realised I would someday soon achieve my three-striped dream. It did not come. I was less than pleased.
This morning I could take no more!
Now, before my rant unfolds, I should also tell you this. I am quite robotic. I do things in certain ways and enjoy the repetition. Towels will always be folded the same way, food packed in cupboards in a set fashion; my timing of getting up, going for a run and other similar events are always the same; if I bash myself, I'll do exactly the same thing again within minutes, and the list goes on. It's just the way I am. If let's say, my wife, should move something even a yard from where it should be, I'm lost in an ocean of confusion. This happens regularly. I just can't help it.
Back to my rant.
I squeezed in anticipation, my tongue in cheek. That green stripe had to be there. It had to! It wasn't. Oh dear, oh dear!
I was on about my tenth curse when my wife risked walking in. She'd heard me and wished to help. Instead of trying to explain, she took my toothbrush and turned it upside down: the toothpaste fell off with a resonating, cataclysmic boom. It did, you know.
And there was my green stripe. I'd squeezed the toothpaste onto my toothbrush exactly the same way each day with exactly the same result; I'd hidden the green stripe. Oops!
In conclusion.
Don't leap into assumptions that you cannot prove. Don't rant and rave over the trivial. Just remember this. Toothpastes only last a few weeks. Don't sully those special times together with anger.

A Richard's Life Production
For an on behalf of Lunatic Studios.
Coming to a supermarket near you.

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Coffee Shop Confrontations

If it was to pass without incident or event, without anger or altercation, I had to stay calm. There were no awards for foolishness, nor unprovable bravado. In this game of life and death decisions, I had to remain cool, unbothered, frosty.
"One lemon muffin please."
Her words cut through my misting, morning torpor like a bullet through paper; she'd bought the last one!
My fingers clenched, teeth grated, eyes shot daggers.
"I'm sorry," she said looking me up and down. "Would you like the last one?"
That was it, my faith in humanity restored. Not only was she stunning, but kind. I could've leapt in the air clicking my heels, laughed in jubilation, sung my heart out. But…
"No, you're alright, love. I'll have toast instead.
Well, after all, I was English.

When Two Are One

When Two Are One

Regardless of the provocation, I resisted. Although my fists balled so tight that I thought my fingernails to burst out of the back of my hand in sprays of crimson, I bit back the pain and sought the meditative calm of Zen. But, as always, my temper was not mine to control. One word from you and I poured upon them like a tsunami of pent-up rage. No one was spared. No one cared.

The child, a young boy of perhaps ten, looked from them to me and back again, smiled, then took back his lunch box.

They expelled me, of course they did, but justice had been served. She took me in, or so I told my parents, gave me a job and respectability. I’d have done anything for her, fought armies, braved monsters, loved. I didn’t, but would have.

When I woke one day to find her gone, I collapsed. Not a word written or verbal had warned of it. Not a clue to my desertion did she leave. All that remained was a single voice in my head where once there’d been two. I hated its owner. I hated me.

50 Word Stories: Anyone / Anytime / Anything.

Alanna raged about everything from the price of peas to the woman in too short shorts. She seemed capable of turning her anger upon anyone at anytime for anything. Nothing was safe, nor sacred. No topic was taboo, nor estranged. Alanna made fire from ice. I’d always loved a challenge.

The Annoying Thing About Glasses (A Personal Post)

Now, you may think me a competent person… What do you mean, you don’t? Goddamn! Anyhow, I have an inbuilt mechanism that makes me rather robotic. I can and prefer to do things a set way — it’s just the way I am.

As luck would have it, most things I do, I usually do right straightaway. If I do, I shall always do them right. I can write something, put that writing away, then come back a year later and continue with an exact same sentence that if I’d checked a few lines further on is already there. Freak!

In real life, I was and still am good at sport — I’m good at editing, too, because that was almost ‘sprot’ — particularly anything that involved balance. I loved football, rugby, cricket, running and the list goes on, and I’m lucky to say I was good at them all without ever really trying. I write this to illustrate that I am not a bumbler.

So, why tell you all these personal details and eccentricities? Answer: to highlight my failings. I’ve found my nemesis: reading glasses.

About six months ago, I bought my first pair of reading glasses. It never bothered me having to wear them and still doesn’t. If ever given the chance to wear sunglasses, I’ve always jumped at it, as the pinching effect on my nose and general lessening of glare helps me avoid the headaches that wreck my life. This has continued with reading glasses. However, and referring back to earlier, I do things a certain way. I also like things to be just so. I can’t stand my glasses being dirty, smudged, breathed on, or any other such impairment of vision. Unfortunately, from the very first time I touched them and because of my aforementioned foibles, I can’t stop putting fingerprints on them. I’ve done it wrong once and always shall. It drives me mad!

I can hold my glasses at their furthest points and slip them on my head from distance: they’ll be smudged. I can wipe away all forms of residue and have them breathed upon before they even get near me. I can use the softest cloths, the best wipes or even wear gloves and still my glasses will be smudged. It is failing I have. I am ashamed of this inability.

One day, I hope to correct this truly irritating quirk. I will approach my glasses case, unzip them, remove my specs and place them on my head to a view of crystal clarity and smile at my aceness (I just made that word up). ‘Tis a dream I have. Ah, one day.

I’m sorry if this baring of self has disappointed anyone, really, I am. If you view me any less, I apologise. But know this, by the time you’ve finished reading this story, I’ve already smudged my glasses enough times to make me red with rage. Yet still, I write. Yet still, I try.

Richard

King of Smudges.

In Frustrations Found

People  065

I tear at my hair with the savage intent of a hungry tiger. This is not how it is meant to be. This is not… not… but I cannot find the words, they are lost in a mist of tumbling red where glaring eyes fire and vicious disassemblers of dreams lurk. I have lost myself. I am lost.

Breathe, I say. Write just write. Lose yourself to worlds and places others do not know. Throw yourself upon midnight dreams and cloak yourself in darkness. Cast yourself upon swords of your own creation and lick away the blood with false relish. They will not find you, I insist. They will never know I’m here, I try to convince myself. But, they do. I am always found.

Frustrations abound in this cacophony of me, this unsettling of self. I shake my head and scream, but nobody hears, not even me. Fingers clench until my fists turn white shaking with something… something, but I’m unsure what?

This world is a strange and wonderful place. There is so much potential, so much scope to make marvels of all that we know and all that we see. This world is a place for all people, all minds and bodies, but not mine. Like a jigsaw with an extra piece, I am surplus to this place. I find it… frustrating!

50 Word Stories: Scaredy-cats

A menacing exchange of glowering, slitted eyes, the two antagonists circled in soundless rage. Not for the faint-hearted, each appraised the other like Great White sharks in oceanic depths unwilling to fight unless necessary. Who'd blink first? Who'd rule the street? A hiss, a meow, and the ginger cat fled.

50 Word Stories: The Problem with Migraines


The problem with migraines is they're unwelcome. Kind of like snowstorms during Wimbledon, or Godzilla stepping on the final pair at The Masters just before sinking their final puts, migraines suck. Unsatisfactory outcomes, migraines twist and turn and churn and scratch. However, they do give you something to write about.

Sensational Sensations

The sensation began as a prickling beneath my fingernails, a discomfort, nothing more. Yet, like an electric current flowing under my skin, through veins supposedly carrying blood, not animosity, it made a circuitous route of my body sparing not one inch of self. If someone had shaken my shoulder, slapped my face, it would not have roused me from the catatonic state I’d fallen into. As realisation spread and reality fell into place, memories stirred and myths became truths, I felt what she’d felt; it hurt. And through it all, throughout this experience I wished never to repeat not once did she blink. In eyes of pooled sapphire, she saw through me, her inner lightning flickering, then upped and walked away.