I’ve wrestled with the ethic of posting even a picture of a gun on any of my blogs. I definitely don’t want a picture of a gun on my poetry blog, but haven’t written a poem for this prompt either. I know my guest blogger is refusing to insert the pic on any of her blogs as a matter of principle. She’s only taking part in this week’s carnival by way of rounding up blog links for a post here tomorrow. (She’s also working on ideas left behind from previous weeks… apparently.)

My brain’s too lagged after the working week to round-up any creative writing / fiction type reponse to this week’s Creativity Carnival response. I had hoped to revive my ‘creative witing blog with a piece of fiction, but it’s not happening before the next prompt is due to be announced (tomorrow).

Anyway, Shafali’s pic reminded me of toy guns. I had some of those as a kid – from spud guns, to cap guns to water pistols – they used to last a bit better than the more modern disposable versions you could buy when my kids were growing up.

(I added the black frame to the cue-art) Click to visit this week's prompt page for pingback links to other participant entries

(I added the black frame to the cue-art) Click the pic to visit this week’s prompt page …

The story that really sprang to mind when I saw this picture was the memory of one Christmas, still quite young and the pivotal year we discovered there was no Santa!

I don’t know why my sister always loved to play with my toys better than her own. I had to share and didn’t want use of her stuff much! We always had similarish things or amounts of money spent by our parents on presents but I’d have an Action Man she’d borrow and she’d have a Sindy doll I had no interest in! There were always a few stocking fillers to open as soon after waking as we wished…

This particular Christmas morning, my sister had woken first, opened her stocking and been overjoyed to find a notebook and pen. The pen was gun-shaped (rifle) and it was what she loved about it most – it was quite well used by the time I woke to open my stocking.

I didn’t mind at all finding a quite nice ordinary ballpoint pen, quite grown-up in style and our notebooks were the same. I must have been five or six and my sister a couple of years older. However when my mum woke up, hearing us awake discussing who’s pen was best, each happy with their own, she couldn’t stop the words falling out her mouth, ‘Oh Vince! You put their stockings in the wrong rooms!’

Still worn out from Christmas Eve preparations, Mum got up, came in my room and then made us swap! I was in stitches at my sister in tears because she was never bought anything good like a gun, but we had to have the gift intended for each of us. I pointed out it was alright for her, I’d hardly used that nice pen yet while she’d half-filled a notebook using mine!

We weren’t ever so surprised that Santa wasn’t real it was just confirmation, but from then on mum made sure she supervised ‘Santa’ leaving our presents!