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.
"Because I'd sooner die."
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!
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, and over the horizon he saw B-grade stars. Eventually an overdue bell rung, and he was relieved 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.