Michael gazed dreamily outside his dining room window, his mind a blank hole peppered with chicken and booze. The garden stretched for what seemed like miles and miles, broken up by a fir archway. As another brain cell stopped and sparked, Michaels gaze focused on a mass of white. Squinting, he looked to the side slightly, spotting the beautiful blossom tree. “Ah” he thought “The blossom from next door as blown onto the top of the holly bush, how very picturesque”. He slowly lifted his weary legs and floated to the back door, grabbing his Polaroid off the table by the door. As he strolled through the crisp and wet September grass, he once again focused his gaze on the holly, ready to admire this sight of blossom icing its top. As Michael got closer, however, the tranquil sight began to change. Is blossom furry? He wondered, speeding up slightly as he got nearer. Finally his hung-over eyes cleared and he examined the holly. Upon the top of the bush lay dozens of soft white feathers and in the centre a dead dove. Michael became aware of something attached to his belt; he looked down and saw the pellet gun and looked up and saw the pellet. In the dove’s side.
“Hmm” Michael pondered, “I must have drunk more than I thought”.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Bob
You are such a clown Bob with your unruly hair and your creepy ways. I don't really find the squirting flowers particularly funny, nor the squeaky nose or the big feet. Surely there must be another way for you to entertain, to try and raise a smile. It must be tough when people are terrified of you when all you desire is to spread joy. But tell me, what is joyous about this older man, these sad shoes, the faded nose and the limp curls. The painted on smile, the crossed out eyes and the dead bulbs. You are a joke, Bob, but nobody is laughing.
Terry The Onion
Terry the onion moults. He moults flakes of dry brown skin that drift to the floor like mouldy confetti. His legs are like roots and his arms weak twigs. Since falling from a rickety bicycle basket into a child’s push chair, then being discovered by a hysterical mother who threw him into the pig farm that was her back garden, Terry has been on a search for a frying pan. As his skin slowly fades into patches of black and his layers begin to crepe, Terry knows he would rather be cooked than rot alive.
The pigs do their best to thwart his journey, pushing and shoving, clumsily forcing their snouts onto the poor onion. Despite the knocks and the scratches, Terry knows each push and shove moves him nearer to his goal.
One pig in particular, however, Terry cannot abide. Obnoxious, fat and with a hairy snout, Porker (as he is imaginatively named) enjoys goading Terry. He stomps, he snorts, he drools, he trumps and always-in Terry’s direction. Pigs don’t take very kindly to onions as, when cooked, they suffocate hot dogs on buns with their grease. Porker doesn’t like being made to cry in front of the other pigs either because of the onions toxic fumes. And so it goes, a battle between pork and onion. The pigs that share Porkers pen are too busy scratching their bums and bellies to pay much attention to Terry. Porker wants out of the pen instead of into the frying pan and doesn’t like to see this onion making better escape attempts.
One morning Terry awoke in the mud, a pig clumsily nudged him nearer to the edge of the pen and he started his daily slow journey of wading his root legs in and out of the thick, wet ground. Each heavy movement caused more flakes to fall and as he looked down at his round stomach he noticed a slightly concaved black patch. Cautiously running his twigs over this unwelcome sign of aging, Terry prodded slightly and to his horror the twig pierced all the way through. In panic, Terry knew he needed a frying pan, and it would have to be today.
Familiar sounds began to ring out, violent snorts and grumps followed by steady sighs. Porker was awaking from his slumber and Terry didn’t have much time. He lifted his weak roots as fast as he could; risking damage each time he took a new step forward. The edge of the pen was in sight, as were the beginnings of a hill, which would roll him directly towards the house at the top of the garden. Just. One. More. Step. Terry began to edge forward and immersed himself into a full roly-poly. Upon his descent he heard the snort and the clumsy galloping. Porker was on his way. As Terry rolled he bashed against stones and sticks, his twig arms slowly chipped away and his roots disjointed. Even at this speed, he could make out the kitchen window and the familiar sight of a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill. The sound of galloping was edging closer, the pigpen gate flew past as porker huffed and wheezed as he chased aggressively after Terry. The end was in sight and Terry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the layers of skin fast ripping away and the heavy breathing of Porker getting nearer and nearer. A bounce off a rock and flying into a back door was followed by a blackout.
Terry slowly opened his eyes, trying to make out the blurry shapes in the room. He felt warm and calm; was this the frying pan?! He could sense a strong fire emitting heat from the corner of the room and the sensation of being hugged. Maybe this was onion heaven Terry wondered, the thought bringing on a small but contented smile. As his eyes began to focus a sight directly in front of him made him jump. Was he hallucinating? There appeared to be another onion staring straight back at him…and what was that holding him? As his vision became clear and a true horror began to dawn, his stomach dropped.
Directly in front of Terry there was a large ornate mirror, framed by pearls and diamonds. In the reflection was Terry, a smaller, bruised and naked onion in the mouth of Porker. Porker was quiet, still and smelt a lot better than normal. Then came the next realisation, Porker had been roasted and Terry was merely the raw accompaniment, flavouring for this lavish meal. There was no frying pan, no sign of any heaven, not even a hot dog. After everything he had gone through, Terry was destined to slowly fade and rot away after all.
The pigs do their best to thwart his journey, pushing and shoving, clumsily forcing their snouts onto the poor onion. Despite the knocks and the scratches, Terry knows each push and shove moves him nearer to his goal.
One pig in particular, however, Terry cannot abide. Obnoxious, fat and with a hairy snout, Porker (as he is imaginatively named) enjoys goading Terry. He stomps, he snorts, he drools, he trumps and always-in Terry’s direction. Pigs don’t take very kindly to onions as, when cooked, they suffocate hot dogs on buns with their grease. Porker doesn’t like being made to cry in front of the other pigs either because of the onions toxic fumes. And so it goes, a battle between pork and onion. The pigs that share Porkers pen are too busy scratching their bums and bellies to pay much attention to Terry. Porker wants out of the pen instead of into the frying pan and doesn’t like to see this onion making better escape attempts.
One morning Terry awoke in the mud, a pig clumsily nudged him nearer to the edge of the pen and he started his daily slow journey of wading his root legs in and out of the thick, wet ground. Each heavy movement caused more flakes to fall and as he looked down at his round stomach he noticed a slightly concaved black patch. Cautiously running his twigs over this unwelcome sign of aging, Terry prodded slightly and to his horror the twig pierced all the way through. In panic, Terry knew he needed a frying pan, and it would have to be today.
Familiar sounds began to ring out, violent snorts and grumps followed by steady sighs. Porker was awaking from his slumber and Terry didn’t have much time. He lifted his weak roots as fast as he could; risking damage each time he took a new step forward. The edge of the pen was in sight, as were the beginnings of a hill, which would roll him directly towards the house at the top of the garden. Just. One. More. Step. Terry began to edge forward and immersed himself into a full roly-poly. Upon his descent he heard the snort and the clumsy galloping. Porker was on his way. As Terry rolled he bashed against stones and sticks, his twig arms slowly chipped away and his roots disjointed. Even at this speed, he could make out the kitchen window and the familiar sight of a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill. The sound of galloping was edging closer, the pigpen gate flew past as porker huffed and wheezed as he chased aggressively after Terry. The end was in sight and Terry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the layers of skin fast ripping away and the heavy breathing of Porker getting nearer and nearer. A bounce off a rock and flying into a back door was followed by a blackout.
Terry slowly opened his eyes, trying to make out the blurry shapes in the room. He felt warm and calm; was this the frying pan?! He could sense a strong fire emitting heat from the corner of the room and the sensation of being hugged. Maybe this was onion heaven Terry wondered, the thought bringing on a small but contented smile. As his eyes began to focus a sight directly in front of him made him jump. Was he hallucinating? There appeared to be another onion staring straight back at him…and what was that holding him? As his vision became clear and a true horror began to dawn, his stomach dropped.
Directly in front of Terry there was a large ornate mirror, framed by pearls and diamonds. In the reflection was Terry, a smaller, bruised and naked onion in the mouth of Porker. Porker was quiet, still and smelt a lot better than normal. Then came the next realisation, Porker had been roasted and Terry was merely the raw accompaniment, flavouring for this lavish meal. There was no frying pan, no sign of any heaven, not even a hot dog. After everything he had gone through, Terry was destined to slowly fade and rot away after all.
The Tiny Elephant
The Tiny Elephant
There was once a tiny elephant called George. His tiny stature was not due to any ailment, disease or accident at birth. George was the victim of a special curse. You see, as a baby, this elephant would throw sticks with his trunk at passing Weebles. Weebles (or Weebi) are the size of a healthy melon, covered in fur like that of a mammoth and have two pink eyeballs.
What is special about the Weebi are their eyes.
If poked or prodded with any kind of instrument, they explode in a mass of magenta goo. At 1 year of age, George was searching for sticks for his daily splat session. He stumbled across a silver tube, stars sparkling off the surface as the sun reflected off the glitter that covered it. Wrapping his trunk around this shiny object, he stopped suddenly when it made a noise - 'zoink!’. George was not deterred however and headed for the Weebi parade. Slowly but surely a bulbous Weeble bounced passed. George stayed silent and still until the right moment when ZOINK! - Magenta flew through the air and the Weeble rolled off in a benny.
George looked down at the silver glitter tube curiously. It was beginning to turn green, flashing pink and white like a firework. The lights got brighter and it began to shake until the tube shattered. George closed his eyes and on opening looked ahead of him, confused by a rather strange looking tree. After a few seconds, he realised this was not a tree but was in fact a plant. George was now the size of an eyeball. A human eyeball.On upsetting the Weebles for 1 whole year, they grew tired of George’s discrimination against their bulging magenta eyes. A decision was made to contact their home planet where a court date was held. The glitter tube was sent down to earth ready for George to use and in turn, shrink him for his crimes.
George now spends his days collecting coconuts for the Weebi. Once he has gathered enough to make beautiful covers for their sensitive eyes, he can return to normal size. The only problem is, when you are the size of a human eyeball, collecting coconuts can take a long, long, long time…
There was once a tiny elephant called George. His tiny stature was not due to any ailment, disease or accident at birth. George was the victim of a special curse. You see, as a baby, this elephant would throw sticks with his trunk at passing Weebles. Weebles (or Weebi) are the size of a healthy melon, covered in fur like that of a mammoth and have two pink eyeballs.
What is special about the Weebi are their eyes.
If poked or prodded with any kind of instrument, they explode in a mass of magenta goo. At 1 year of age, George was searching for sticks for his daily splat session. He stumbled across a silver tube, stars sparkling off the surface as the sun reflected off the glitter that covered it. Wrapping his trunk around this shiny object, he stopped suddenly when it made a noise - 'zoink!’. George was not deterred however and headed for the Weebi parade. Slowly but surely a bulbous Weeble bounced passed. George stayed silent and still until the right moment when ZOINK! - Magenta flew through the air and the Weeble rolled off in a benny.
George looked down at the silver glitter tube curiously. It was beginning to turn green, flashing pink and white like a firework. The lights got brighter and it began to shake until the tube shattered. George closed his eyes and on opening looked ahead of him, confused by a rather strange looking tree. After a few seconds, he realised this was not a tree but was in fact a plant. George was now the size of an eyeball. A human eyeball.On upsetting the Weebles for 1 whole year, they grew tired of George’s discrimination against their bulging magenta eyes. A decision was made to contact their home planet where a court date was held. The glitter tube was sent down to earth ready for George to use and in turn, shrink him for his crimes.
George now spends his days collecting coconuts for the Weebi. Once he has gathered enough to make beautiful covers for their sensitive eyes, he can return to normal size. The only problem is, when you are the size of a human eyeball, collecting coconuts can take a long, long, long time…
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