‘We won, Ognar… we won…’ Myrtle clutched the (rather oversized) Great Chicken Run trophy as she beamed from ear to ear (with reference to the ears on her head, and not those on her own one of its kind blouse she created and was wearing), ‘no longer are we the laughing stock of the street!’
Ognar too smiled broadly, his toothy grin a stark contrast to the mouths he had printed on his shirt, courtesy of his wannabe fashion designer wife. ‘Indeed we did and indeed we’re not, my little pomegranate!’
A knock rapped upon the door of their bungalow, Rance House, causing them to both slide to their feet (Ognar loved inventing, and he created a couple of easy-stand armchairs for them both), ‘it’s them, Ognar, the press photographers… let’s go out front where the neighbours will be watching’.
They peered over Myrtle’s prize-winning privet (which, when it won, looked like a beautiful ballerina in the middle of their front garden, but now looks like a flattened onion), smiling broadly as all the neighbours had indeed lined the street, and the mayor himself had turned up for a photo opportunity.
‘Sorry about your little incident, Councillor Floo,’ Ognar said to the mayor, in all sincerity, as he and his wife revelled in their publicity, ‘I don’t know what could’ve happened to the stop valve… they’ve never done that before with the inflatables I’ve made.’
Posted for Six Sentence Stories. Denise’s prompt word this week is ‘Stock’.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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