Over To You - Entry The First

Last week, I ran a competition (of sorts) asking for you, the lovely readers, to give me prompts from which to weave you a story (of sorts). Well, you entered in your fives so here's the first of a week's worth of entries which you asked for (and if you didn't ask for it, well, you should have when you had the chance, shouldn't you?) Today's entry comes courtesy of Lady Euphoria Deathwatch and consists of the following elements:-

Name:- Dancer Dave
Object:- Goblet Of Forty Beetles
Dialogue:- "I told you ten times not to do that and now you're stuck like that"
Title:- Sitting On A Cold Stone

So, here's what that gets you....

Sitting On A Cold Stone

His name was Dave and he loved to dance so his friends all called him Dancer Dave. By their own free admission, they were people of somewhat limited imagination. He would dance at home and dance in the pub. He would dance in the street and dance on the bus. He would dance with his friends and dance with anyone who happened to be passing at the time. Terpsichore was his muse and he loved her dearly.

Sometimes he would stop dancing. No one dances all the time. Unfortunately, when he wasn't dancing, he liked to sit. This wasn't a problem in itself - lots of people sit for much of the time and they are, for the most part, very happy with the experience. No, it wasn't so much the sitting as much as it was the choice of sitting location. For, you see, Dancer Dave had a liking for sitting on cold stone (partly to cool down his overheated buttocks and flanks from all that rhythmic movement) and, as we all know, such activity can lead to a medical affliction of the botty area.

Serious Steve, Dave's equally literally monikered friend, was wont to warn him about the dangers of such repose.

"I wouldn't sit there if I were you, Dancer," quoth Steve, "you'll get piles."

But Dancer Dave would heed no advice and continued his stone sitting ways. And lo and behold, the grapes of the arse did indeed begin to hang betwixt his tender cheeks. Now, Dave was not a man who was overly fond of the medical profession. He had a suspicion of doctors and what he termed "their high-price quackery". So instead, he ventured to visit his friend Herbal Harry for some unofficial medical advice.

"Oooh," sympathised Harry, "I see your problem. Nasty. Well, me old mucker, try some of this. Two of these three times a day and you'll be right as ninepence. Oh, and that'll be two hundred quid, please."

Herbal Harry handed him a bottle as he gently booted Dancer Dave out the door. Rubbing his tender parts tenderly, Dave examined his new acquisition. The label said "Goblet Of Forty Beetles" and the contents appeared to be exactly what it said on the tin.

So take the tablets did he and little change in his haemorrhoidal existence did he see. Serious Steve was not about to change his name to Sympathetic Steve.

"I told you ten times not to do that and now you're stuck like that," said Steve.

And so distrustful Dancer Dave with his dislike of doctors lives a life of discomfort and distress with his distended derriere. Still, at least he doesn't have diarrhea too.



Well, there you go. There's your fist effort and, hopefully, it was to Lady E's liking. Who will be next up tomorrow? Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?