Heartburn Moon: The Band That Missed a Beat
When the social committee announced the Summer Sounds Talent Night, five neighbours decided it was their time to shine. Thus, Hartburn Moon was born — a band so full of enthusiasm, it almost made up for the lack of rhythm, timing, and basic musical ability.
Trevor was on drums because he owned a set (well, half a set — the hi-hat was a saucepan lid). Denise played keyboard, but only in “demo mode” because it sounded fancier. Ed handled guitar duties, mostly by strumming three chords and hoping no one noticed when he switched keys mid-song.
Wendy took the microphone — not because she could sing, but because she had a microphone. And finally, there was Gary on bass, who spent most of the rehearsal trying to figure out what the little knobs did.
Their big number was an original song titled “Love in the Laundromat.” Unfortunately, the power went out mid-performance, and all that could be heard was Trevor’s saucepan lid clanging in the dark and Wendy’s voice bravely belting, “Baby, spin me round one more time!”
The audience roared with laughter and applause. They thought it was a comedy act. Heartburn took a bow, convinced they were destined for stardom.
Now, they’re booked for every sausage sizzle and community fair within 10 kilometres. Their motto?
“We might miss a beat, but we’ll never miss a gig.”
………………………………………………………………………..
The Village Idiot
At the Village Retirement Home, everyone knew when the village idiot arrived—not because they saw him, but because they heard him. His entrance was usually announced by a booming, “HELLOOOO, MY FAVOURITE PEOPLE!” which echoed down the halls like a foghorn in a tiled bathroom.
He considered himself the resident comedian… a title nobody had given him, but one he embraced with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s discovered pots and pans.
His jokes were legendary—not for their humour, but for their catastrophic lack of it. He’d march into the common room, plant himself in the middle like a misplaced garden gnome, and shout, “WHY DID THE SCARECROW WIN AN AWARD? … BECAUSE HE WAS OUTSTANDING IN HIS FIELD! GET IT? OUT-STAND—”
By this point, the knitting group had usually upgraded from sighing to full eye-rolling cardio.
At bingo night, he was even louder. “NUMBER 22—TWO LITTLE DUCKS! QUACK QUACK!” he’d shout, even though he wasn’t the caller and nobody had asked for sound effects. Last week, he’d added interpretive dance. Nobody has fully recovered.
Yet, despite the groans, complaints, and a petition someone may have drafted behind the scenes, he kept going—marching around, popping into conversations uninvited, loudly telling yet another awful joke about chickens, or socks, or something else that made absolutely no sense.
And strangely… somehow… everyone would miss him when he wasn’t there. The halls felt too quiet. Too normal. Too… sensible.
Because in a place where days could blur together, the village idiot’s terrible jokes and thunderous enthusiasm reminded everyone that sometimes, a good laugh doesn’t need to be good at all—it just needs to be loud.
………………………………………………………………………..