The Flat Season

Today I bought three pounds of coffee in a big brown cup and melted it down with a blowtorch. I then shared it with my closest friends (if you weren't there, you're not one of them*) and shattered the cup on the terrace below. Bucked principles prevented me from going on.

*Who's to say, though?

Worth Puppies

Perhaps four clerical spheres on my nose was overkill. I looked a fool.
"You look lacking," said a patient observer.
I swung my pained expression around to his and he swallowed nervously. Four fat flowers swayed in the breeze behind us.
"I know," I said aloud, arching my eyebrows to create an even more pained expression and allowing a stream of gunk to flow down from my left nostril.
"Would you like the key to my tissue factory?" asked the man sympathetically.
"I would," I said. "Thank you."

Being somewhat out of range of my mother's sleeves, I was forced to resort to messily wiping my nose on the right shoulder of my T-shirt, which was soon caked in a thin layer of mucus reminiscent of a snail trail and glinting controversially in the daylight. But despite this, I succeeded in arriving at the steel marble doors of the tissue factory and even managed to fulfill the key's potential. Inside I found box upon box of low to medium quality temporary sneeze sheets, an exposed wall of which I dived into nose first and relieved myself.

"Bless you," came a voice to the south.
I turned to face its maker.
"Thanks," I said.
"But why don't you just come out with it?" it asked.
"Come out with what?"
"Your meeting with the fingers you'll eventually ring."
"Because someone keeps trying to half-obscure it."

Yes, I found me some fingers.

Well I Wonder

This time there's but 15 between. And in my line of site is a green pipe. Things with feathers flutter in and out of low trees and bushes. A ladder divides the window. Such things, it could be argued, are mere decorations and are insignificant in the grand scheme of fings, but they do serve to provide a clear, if uninteresting, picture of the supposed habitat of the author. Yes, that's me. Author Lee. Shall I go on?

She Wore a Rasberry

The Thames was eaten up by two cackling witch banks this time last Thursday. I stood, glum as usual, on a pedestal made from four oak columns and watched the glorious bleak liquid wash away. It was an inspiring sight, I tell you! Immediately afterwards, I ran a forty-minute mile (as I was in England) and arrived by legs at Central Park™, where I stopped in for quickie and returned to the slippery and flat slopes of Thornbury with the aforementioned cup of steaming brown. Soon I found myself, after playing a brief game of solo hide and seek, in the black and white district and decided to stop in on my old. Opening the door a crack, I transformed back into a human to enter and pay my respects to the lumpy creature who will take over my body when I reach forty. It, however, was too busy juggling two wildlife channels to notice me, and I slipped quietly outside again. Picking myself up off the ground and cursing the bastard who spilt ten gallons of Pepsi Max™ on the stairs, I left, humbled, and made my way to the next paragraph.

As it was that time of the month, I headed across town to my estranged wife, who I ignored by pretending to be interested in my 8 year old daughter's blabberings about the oh-so interesting goings on of the passed few years, and gave her a letter. She sighed and put the "H" in the waste paper bin, from which a familiar stench was emanating, and I jogged out of sight.

Four years later, I decided to become a man in prison who liked birds.

Viva la Prince!

Pre-Easter Shuffle

These posts about ladder changes soon become redundant, so I'm not going to say anything. Except maybe "Oh how Step-head and Blankety eat alluring eggs in the palace".

Top of the Pile to Ya

What can I say? I respond well to bribery.

Woes from the Deep

"Somewhere out there in the big blue is the girl for you," I said neatly.
Harry crossed his arms and exhaled loudly through his nose.
"Can't you be more specific?" he moped.
"Nope," I answered flatly. "I'm no palm wrangler. All I know is that your current run of ducks will soon seem benign when you've swept them away to make room for the true Mrs. Harry, with whom you'll spawn and spend life."
I slid over to accommodate my wife on the thrown and we intwined.
"I wish I could believe you," said Harry.
"I wish you could too. But the proof is before your eyes."
"Oh, you mean the Es after the Cs?"
"No, I mean this wonderful creature nuzzled up against me. I used to think things were pretty dire on the vagina front, you see, but then, out of that big blue I mentioned earlier, came her and now life's a lovely peach."
"Wait, when was this? I don't remember seeing you with any girls in like... ever."
"Oh, well you haven't seen me with her yet. That won't be for a while. In fact, I haven't even met her yet. But she will be there."
"What, you just have an inkling then?"
"No, it's much more than that. I am completely confident. There's not a doubt in my head that it won't happen. And besides, she's here now."
I leaned over and kissed her left cheek.
"If you say so," said Harry.
"It's true," said my wife. "We will meet somewhere and begin living the wonderful life we're living now."
"Love at first sight, huh?" snapped Harry cynically.
"Something like that," I replied, ignoring his inflection. "And the same thing will happen to you."
"Well, I hope so," said Harry doubtfully, "but for now I'll have to be satisfied with a sniff of the waste paper bin."

And with that he left. I shrugged sympathetically and handed my love a spritz.

Hard Reign Fell

Once again I'm using a slightly altered top as an excuse to boast my rumoured roots. Once again I'm ridding thyself of prior peculiarities. But babe, I'm not lying. I'd quote current affairs, but it'd further lower the tone.

Mister Spot

Does this count? Good.

Harry's Spurt

Where's this sudden handful of consistency sprung from? Perhaps his failure to hit it off with the Misses has something to do with it. Or perhaps he's just found another use for his fingers. Whatever the reason, things are popping from his chords with peculiar regularity. Today, at least. Tomorrow the traffic will probably be a lot less clustered, as he and Billie are attending a Salvation Army™ sex education class at the public library. Still, we can at least look forward to a lengthy anecdote on how that turned out when he gets home.

A Dabble of Insecticide Behind the Index

And everything turns out well. Try it and you'll see. Great buildings will compliment your clothes. Feasts will all be doggy-bagged for your convenience. And Harry will show you his secret stash of contraceptives.

Things in Chairs

To keep my crust crisp, I had to move in with Ben and firmly abuse his hospitality.
"K'Edward wasn't the man to mess with," he said after I spilt my guts on his rug.
"I know, but I'm glad I don't work for that bastard no more," I retorted in a firm, masculine tone.
"Double negative," scolded Ben as he lit his pipe for kindling.

[The conclusion and beginning to this piece, which ranked among the very worst things I have written, have both been deleted. The beginning concerned the King and myself and was highly uninspired, while the conclusion revolved around Ben and I sandwiching a prostitute. That latter was the most notable offender, being both unfunny and off-putting. I hope Ben appreciates this censorship.]

A Greedy Moniker for Witchcraft and Such

Little by little he polished the kettle and varnished the buckles on his pilgrim shoes. In sixty minutes he was due to appear and switch into a competent, repetitive routine which would see him to the end of the week, but he looked ill-prepared and sickly sweet, as though he was mud-wrestling with an internal dilemma. A handful of minutes passed cautiously and left 25 before the trip. He cashed in the remaining time by looking out the window and squeezing ambitious plans into his leisure hours which would inevitably go unfulfilled.

As the day brightened, his mood sunk over the horizon and he saw B-grade stars. Eventually an overdue bell rung, and he was mildly enlightened to be reversing the morning's journey. Home was soon where his heart, along with the rest of his internal organs and his body, was, and he slunk like a washed out spring in a grand armchair and fell asleep. He awoke to the sound of something and punched himself in the leg.

And that, fortunately, was that.

Bedstop Noting

For considerate attire to launch a thousand spectacles, one must first consider which wardrobe to rustle, and which colour to shade. Personally, I'd go with something fetching.

Tuba Cheeks

People, I have noticed, are only truly alive when their hearts are beating and their brains work, otherwise they may as well be dead. But this distinction, for whatever reason, does not apply to the exempt, so you can't just use it as a casual aside without boring your audience with a lengthly footnote. Well, you can, but I'd advise against it.

Have you ever seen a flower vomit? That's 'cause they can't. But if they could, I envisage it resembling a myriad of off-white colours gushing from its weird genitals and glinting handsomely in the sun. Well, it's the same with people. Hearts + brains = people. Oh, and white = not really a colour. If this all seems a tad odd, it's because I'm writing this on a train, and spray paint coupled with the terror of being caught doesn't add up to the most coherent of thought brews. As a cover up, that's akin to urinating in a puddle, but I thought I should point it out anyway.

How cool are those books that end with "The Beginning"?

Timely Pledge

Quasimodo dreamt of me once. I was wearing a silk robe and I had softcore biceps. The wind kept revealing my bits. But no matter what position or garb he dreamt of me in, I was always rigidly sticking to the daily mail, so I've decided that it's once again time for me to break open the quota and slap its yellow reminder to the box. Once a day (or equivalent of).

200th Anniversary Special

Back when the bloat was but a breath, I chiselled my posts on stone tablets and mailed them off around the world in search of potential readers. Now that may be hard to swallow, but I assure you, it's more or less (in this case, less) true, and it will be quite beneficial in the long run. Of course, once it's dissolving in your belly, it's too late for you to dictate content or even ripple ideas through the sub-editors, so you pretty much have to hold on until you release — though it's still worth shoving a few fingers down your throat from time to time on the off-chance that the gag wears fat and heaves up the horrible stew once and for all. Either way.

A scruffy writer waltzed into my office with a proud piece of foolscap and said two words: "Cover story". Sceptical, I peered down at the handsome sheet, which was as follows:

Thanks to a baffling demotion, my boss was under me. I misread the instruction sheet that came with my shield, you see. Anyway, I was fretting about launching into the annual battlefield recreation event tomorrow when my phone ran. It made it as far as the market, where it was cornered by two adjoining walls and returned unharmed to my tenderloin hook.

I sighed and signalled his exit. The next wordsmith in my office was much more clinically groomed, and he handed in his piece with warm humility and even a touch of grace.

Life sickens me. I'm gonna go wank.

"Better," I said. "But no."

The last one was some jerky post-modern piece, but, having no better option, I went with it. And besides, two sentences is much too bloated for insightful social commentary.