My name is not something you buy in a store, Oh, Johnny Oatcake,
My name is not something you find on the floor, Oh, Johnny Oatcake,
Instead my name’s something found high in the sky, Oh, Johnny Oatcake,
Weather Satellite Remington Bligh, Oh,Johnny Oatcake.
‘Go along around about back up there to the hill. You’ll find the hermit’s cave on the other side beneath a little bluff. I always tell folks not to bother, but they don’t pay me much mind anyhow. So go along. I reckon everybody’s got to learn for their selves,’ said the gas station attendant in the lonely desert to the traveler.
The traveler nodded thanks and made his way through the low brush. The heat thrummed in waves. The traveler topped the hill and worked his way down the bluff. The cave beckoned. He slipped inside and squinted, waiting until he could clearly see the dim corner where the hermit sat facing the wall. The traveler cleared his throat. The hermit spoke.
‘I did something once, and I didn’t enjoy it. So I’m never doing anything ever again,’ said the hermit.
The traveler waited, then again cleared his throat.
‘I did something once, and I didn’t enjoy it. So I’m never doing anything ever again,’ repeated the hermit.
The traveler backed out of the cave and returned to the gas station.
‘Satisfied?’ asked the attendant, winking.
‘Some,’ said the traveler, and he stepped to his car, got in, and drove off.
The hermit sat motionless in the dim corner of the cave.
An encounter with Walter Brennan could be frightening.
Pageant officials discovered that Miss Representation was not all she claimed to be.
Spone Madagascar peeled the duct tape from his neck with care. He crumpled it into a lump of dull gray and dropped it out the window. Now able to turn his attention wholly to the surrounding cobras, he moved his hands in gentle sway, a mesmerizing rhythm. The cobras followed with dead lead eyes and wobbled in graceful harmony. Spone flashed to the window sill and leaped for freedom. Landing with a tuck and roll beyond the fence, he was up and running wild for the river. Over the hill and through the woods he dashed, ears perked to receive the slightest sound of pursuit. The river rolled into view. Swiftly he plunged in and down, transforming to great fish, glints of silver sparking from his writhing sides.
‘Dang, it got away,’ gasped the farmer’s daughter, arriving too late at the river’s bank.