Sunday Stories..."Eight"

I call these "Sunday Stories"...but those who read them will know that they are prompted on Thursdays and often written whenever I can squeeze them into the day!

This one is from one of my prompts.
The Number Eight.

I googled this and was amazed at just how much information there was about "eight"...worldwide...I knew about the Chinese importance...but not any of the others. The stories the others wrote were just amazing...I love this group!!

So here goes.....

Eight

    Flossie was in her usual seat next to Millie on the tables in the back row of the old cinema, now used for the town's bingo sessions.
    Her legs were hurting again. They had been getting steadily worse all that summer and now they were so swollen she could hardly wiggle her feet. Puddings she thought and sighed, sponge puddings, and she carefully pulled her tights over them.
    That morning her normal bus had been jammed as it sailed past her, and the driver deliberately not looking her way as she tried to flag him down. There was nothing for it but for her to take to the road into town, and walk the mile and a half as quickly as possible.
    She was thinking, "If I had a bit more money, I'd take a taxi", but her pension just about stretched the week as it was. A taxi might mean that she would have to draw some out of the Post Office Account and doing that was enough to make her very fearful. A lifetime of staying out of debt was like an iron rod firmly holding her backbone in place.
     Millie, her bingo companion, was an old school friend. They knew one another's ways and habits and fitted together like a hand in a glove. But Millie had something that Flossie had never had... luck in bucketfuls! Whether at school, in work, in marriage...yes even at the bingo...Millie's luck regularly turned up trumps. Flossie mulled this thought over as she made her way into town hoping against hope that the dark clouds she noticed gathering in the west, didn't drop their load of rain on her before she reached the cinema.
    Have you  noticed how one thought can lead to another? Like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower looking for the one with the most sweetness? It may lead to a positive thought or could take you down some dark path of sadness and despair. Though never one to dwell on the past, yet that day she found herself remembering the loss of a baby, the shortage of money and Fred dying so young leaving her  alone with no family and a life of scrimping. But she was nearly there at the bingo hall and the rain had held off...so...reasons to be happy!
    There in the front of the queue, yohoing her over, was Millie. "I've kept your place.What happened? What a nuisance!...Just ignore the looks of  those women." said good friend Millie.
    Today was to be the big win. Once a month a special was held with a thousand pound win and today was that day. However the most that Flossie had ever won was a fiver and maybe once ten quid. Millie's luck on the other hand was a different kettle of fish. She often walked out with a couple of hundred. Not that she was mean...no, on those occasions she treated them both to a slap up lunch somewhere in the town for as she said she probably wouldn't have started going to the bingo if Flossie hadn't invited her along. That had been after Fred's death, when she had  tried every day to be away from the memories of their life together and find something to fill the hurt and emptiness inside.
    Eight games played . Those were the rules on a Tuesday morning at  the bingo hall. Four games, a break for tea, coffee and a biscuit and finish up with another four. Then "See you next week," and everyone made their way out and home.
    Kevin, the master of the balls, shouted for quiet. A roomful of women and men chattering and gossiping meant that he had to call more than once. But once the numbers were rolling out, the proverbial pin sounded like a gong.!! All ears alert, all eyes down and a shout of victory somewhere in the room. The games progressed, and one by one the shouts went up. Millie won fifty quid with her final seven on a card and smiled, "That's lunch for you and me today chuck",
    Tea and coffee over, crumbs swept on to the floor, the caller began again. Silent players praying for success. Bills to pay, holidays to plan, family to help. Who knows what hopes and dreams were depending on success that morning in the old cinema. Game seven came and went and still Flossie sat, dobber in hand unsuccessful again. How many tenners had she paid out over the years? "I'm giving it up, not coming again, the whole thing is a waste of money and I'm stupid!"
    Game eight and the people in their seats were restless. This was the big one. She looked at her card. Her eyes blurred from unfallen tears. Concentrate you fool she said to herself. Dob, dob, dob. She had one square left. Then someone shouted , "Full House!".....Flossie sighed and was about to tear up the card when the person realised they had made a mistake.
    Then Kevin called out, " Lucky Chinese...number eight."    In a dream she shouted, "I've got it!" And turning to Millie said...."The lunch is on me I think", as tears rolled down her face.

 
 

Sunday's Short Story...by The Shanaghy

Sunday's Short Story by The Shanaghy

It's the thought that counts

said

The Count that thinks.

He knew that the country was not in the forefront of the world's thoughts. The usual reaction was..."where?".. when he mentioned his homeland.....Veralia.

To be honest the borders were not vast, in fact not so much as a spit apart as some said.

But being the Count of Veralia he stood tall and motioned with his finger to the dot on the map which he called his homeland. It was in between the two big powers left and right. And closed in at top and bottom by two lesser ones though just as pugnacious in their dealings with him.

He knew that they all wanted to swallow up his beautiful land and add it to their already vast empires.

His homeland was a place of hills and valleys, rivers and streams and gentle slow living villages and towns, where the centuries of care had meant that generations of families stayed put and built up the kindly infrastructure which his father and family before him had maintained.

So it was no wonder those powerful ones lusted after those few acres of earth, for that is what powerful people do. Always wanting what they can't have. Always wanting more.

Many fables and proverbs have been retold in front of the  fires of winter, by families with their children huddled on knees , telling about the weak and the strong, the large and small, the fast and  slow. Stories of the lion and the mouse, fox and crow. Why even the hare and the tortoise.

So the Count knew that it was not always the biggest, noisiest, strongest who succeeded in battle. No, it was the thought that counts.

And he must be aware of the dangers and keep thinking.

Count Honore, for that was his name, was no slouch when it came to brains. An academic training and lessons in military strategy, together with the wisdom passed down through the stories of the common people, gave him a head start in his fight. For fight it was.

He considered the tortoise who kept plodding on to win the race and put a motto above his desk. "Never give up".

He remembered the mouse who befriended the lion and removed the thorn from the lion's paw and up went another motto..."Be kind to strangers".

And he never forgot the advice given by his old nanny...."Do ye next thynge". and up went another on the wall.

They never did get his land.

It was as if Veralia was invisible. Perhaps they were all too busy in their powerful meetings. Talking to their powerful friends...kept close to make sure they knew what each other was doing, as none of them trusted the other. Perhaps they thought it was something to see to once they had the next round of important international talks under the belt. Once they had decided the future of millions of folk, who didn't really give a hoot anyway!

Whatever the reason, the Count who thought, knew that it's the the thought that counts.

And it's the type of thought in particular....and he was that type of Count.