A superb compendium of lust in a world of carpentry, vitriol in a soft gloved hand. An achievement of dolorous proportions, spiced with a refreshing lack of whimsy. Wholly imagined from a damp source of bundled diatribes. Completely effortless, windy with the pale sheen of smoke. Tasteful in a threatening manner. Not to be allowed to exist unread. Highest marks from an angry recluse hiding under a hill.
Today’s word is ‘javelin’. Yes, that’s right, ‘javelin’. Feel free to deal with this information in any way you deem appropriate. As for me, I deal with it thusly:
Whenever Dilbur went a travelin’
he carried with him a sturdy javelin.
Gloria’s prowess with a fly rod was that of an expert.
Gloria Stuart, pictured here in a script conference with Boris Karloff, before agreeing to act the part of elderly Rose in James Cameron’s film, Titanic, insisted on:
a. being allowed to bring a brace of ptarmigans onto the set.
b. showing Cameron her collection of glass eyes.
c. payment in uranium.
d. 2 weeks paid vacation fly fishing on the Amazon.
Write a story about Davy Crockett including the following words:
The last student trickled away, leaving the hoofed fiend alone in its classroom.
So that’s it then, thought the hoofed fiend. It’s over. Retirement. I’d almost like to go back and do it all again. But no, I suppose it’s time to burn my torch in other fields.
It looked around the classroom one final time. It then liquified itself and trickled away down the drain, following the last student.
The night is pierced by a shaft of light rising from the barren landscape of the moon. You suit up and leave the ship to investigate. Trudging over a rise, you arrive at the perfect circular hole in the ground from which the beam of light towers away into the black sky. Moving closer, you observe a spiral stairway winding down beyond sight into the depths. Without hesitation you make your way, cautious and hyper alert, down. After every three twists in the spiral, you discover dull metallic grey doors opening into perfect cube rooms, all of them empty. Deeper and deeper you go until you arrive at a shiny jet black door. Now we’re getting somewhere, you think. You open the door. There she is. You die.
‘If you don’t go to school, how will you ever become a fence post?’
She wrote tilt reminders in tiny letters on her left wrist.