Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes
“My human choked to death on a gobstopper, of all things,” said Madi.
“Everyone always said my ladies pride would be the death of her,” grumbled Sam.
“And was it?” asked Madi.
“Yep,” sighed Sam. “She was eaten by her favourite lion.”
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“Isn’t it a funny feeling,” said Madi, “when you know you’re all that’s left of a humans hopes, dreams and fears.”
“I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it,” sighed Sam.
“I’m a hangover memory,” said Madi, “of fizzy sweets a lady loved making.”
“It must have been a strong memory,” remarked Sam.
“Well,” chuckled Madi, “not long before she died, she took a Refresher course.”
Shout out and thanks to Julia of Shattered Mind Space for buying me a cuppa on Ko-Fi yesterday.
Cheers to Kathy & Warren for the continued $10 Patronage. You can find me on Ko Fi, Patreon, Etsy, Amazon, Skillshare and Threadless.
“Why do you have so much bottled water?” asked Sam.
“My missus and I have a waterbed, and it’s pretty hard having sex on it,” sighed Yuri.
“Oh, I see,” said Sam. “So, you’re filling it with spring water?”
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“Sam,” said Jelly. “Are you OK?
“Yeah,” replied Sam.
“Is that a lie?” asked Jelly.
“Yeah,” replied Sam.
#MondayMelancholia?
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Story by Lady Black
The show at Theatre Spectaculation ensued with murder, blood and gore. The actors bowed and then sat down into chairs that had been placed behind them.
The stage and the actors were thrown into seizures as the electricity coursed through their bodies. After three minutes of the Friday night fry, smoke emanated from their lifeless bodies. The director, Thomas the Tintalator emerged and snarled, “a little pain for a little production, a little death for the day and the ultimate show is created.”
Story by Lady Black of Hope, Truth and Light. She’s been writing poetry since she was 15. Lady moved onto music, scriptwriting and now fiction. She’s not stopping there, with a t-shirt company, singing career and rock band in the works. Check out her blog at mentalhealthrecovery.home.blog
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Story by Sue
Seren woke feeling discombobulated. She recalled uncomfortable sensations of dry heat, crinkling popping noise and falling, dishevelled, broken.
She lay quite still assessing this situation: A soft voice murmuring, but only one voice. The rise and fall of the intonation soothed Seren. A silken blanket wrapped around her, lifting her.
Gentle expertise lowered her brokenness into a refreshing, warm bath. Perfumed aromas filled her spirit and she sighed.
Thoroughly relaxed, she focused on the voice until she was able, finally to hear; “After an accident Eastern Serendipity!”
Story by Sue of Connects.live Checkout Sues blog for her, almost, daily musings. Thanks for the tale, Sue!
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“How did you get to this island?” asked Spectre. “You didn’t come with me, and I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”
“I’m not sure,” pondered Sprite. “I remember waiting at a dirty bus stop next to a lobster with breast implants. One was a crusty bus station, and the other a busty crustacean.”
They chuckled together. Sprite squeezed Spectres shoulder. “Please, don’t walk up the road.”
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“It can’t be the road to the afterlife,” called Sprite as he chased after Spectre.
Spectre was already across the road and marching through a cornfield. “What the heck?”
As Sprite caught up, he saw Spectre standing on another road. Spectre was looking at a line of plastic dolls. They led to a pile of coal with an iron grate on top.
“Hey,” laughed Sprite, “it’s a Barbie queue!”
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As the trees cleared, Spectre sighed. “How did we come back to the road?”
“It must loop around the island,” pondered Sprite. “Is that a pyramid?”
“Looks like a car park in the shape of a pyramid,” replied Spectre.
“Well look at that,” said Sprite reading the sign outside. “Toot and come in.”
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“Books growing on trees,” noted Spectre. “That’s new.”
“Oh, hey,” said Sprite. “Did you hear, our old library’s ordered the new book on small willies.”
“Is it in yet?” asked Spectre.
“Yes,” said Sprite, “that’s the one!”
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Little Fears 