Bored : Flash-Fiction

Bored. Bored beyond belief. Bored to tears. I grab my trainers and go for a walk. Bored of the terraced houses. And semi-similar hatchbacks parked out-side semi-similar houses. Not so bored as clouds step aside and allow the sun to pour down on me. I grab my chance and sit on a bench in a graveyard. Restless. The bench a commemoration to a young man gone too soon.      Bored.  Of people passing by and people passing away.    Headstones line the neatly mown grass and fresh flowers adorn the sides of headstones. They tilt towards the names of the deceased. Bored ghosts. Wandering amidst the stones waiting for the ice cream van to come along. Its shrilling tune like a kaleidoscopic waterfall across their soul-sensitive auras. The children rush and so do the ghosts. A 99 flake. A double-blob on a large cone. A twister. Dig deep into that plastic tub and fish out the chewing gum ball with your finger. Ghosts swirl around the ice-cream van with the excited children. Ghosts can’t taste but they have yards of imagination. The van departs and the shrills and trills of the music send waves of good feelings to the residents of the graveyard.    Bored.   This place is so quiet. I head home to dinner and television. The ghosts twirl and flip around the graveyard. They pass right across my nose and laugh. They even push through me and I shudder, pull up my jacket, and head back home. Bored.

writing for bored pensioners
Ice Cream Writing


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