I'm joining Monday Photo Prompt at 'Bifocal Univision today. The challenge is to create a post inspired by the photo prompt. It could be poetry, prose, a quilted jacket - anything you please!
Here is this week's photo - my nonsense follows.
Hal was unhappy. Not only that, he was cold. How had he ended up on this chilly pillar without a stitch of clothing and a silly flying helmet on his head?
The last thing he remembered was the olive eating competition. He had reached fifty-one and was definitely on a winning streak. Just thirty-five seconds to go and he’d win the prize. He couldn’t recollect what the prize was but knew it must have been something he really wanted as he didn’t like olives much.
He was swallowing the sixtieth olive when he began to feel rather peculiar. Too late he realised that the olives were preserved in alcohol, not brine, and combined with the several drinks he’d imbibed just before the contest (‘Dutch courage’ he’d persuaded himself) they had served as an anaesthetic. He dimly recalled falling slowly to the floor (as with all accidents, time seemed to slow down) and hearing laughter and shouts of encouragement. Now, this!
He chewed his fist and stared glumly at the ground. He would have liked to move, but modesty forbade – that, and the crowd of interested onlookers pointing at him and giggling. Suddenly, a young woman pushed her way through the crowd and strode up to him. With horror he recognised his fiancée. She was furious.
‘I knew this would happen if you let Joe organise your stag party. Some best man he is,’ she fumed. ‘I hope it was worth it. Here’s your prize,’ and she handed him an outsized jar of olives. ‘We’re getting married this afternoon - did you remember? Don’t be late!’
As she stormed off, Joe stepped sheepishly from behind the trees and handed Hal his clothes. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he mumbled.