A Frog for Every OccasionThere's a frog for every occasion,
Not many, just one, it's said,
This gentleman frog rides a small Scotty dog,
And his name is most certainly Fred,
The frog that is, not the dog,
The dog is most certainly Jim,
He sleeps on a quilt and wears a small kilt,
And a hat that he bought on a whim,
I digress, I believe, from our frog,
For though Jim is a marvelous dog,
He just cannot compare to that frog debonair,
At whom ladies will stare all agog.
He's a frog for every occasion,
He does Christmas and Easter and balls,
He does Bar Mitzvahs and birthdays,
Independence and Earth Day,
He'll celebrate any and all,
He'll send cards to your Nan when she slips in the can,
And feast after fasting on old Ramadan,
He'll bounce and he'll groove when he helps you to move,
Anniversaries they say make his day,
He'll come christen all your babies,
And record all their school plays.
But weddings, it seems, are his favourite,
He'll le smooch both the bride and the groom,
Then he'll cat
Beware Beware The Teddy BearsCower brief mortals, be fearful,
Bolt all of your windows and doors,
For my army is marching towards you,
With cute button noses and fluffy pink paws,
It's a teddy bear army I tell you!
Your screams will fall upon deaf ears,
And when the teddy bears find you,
You'll feel the most terrible fear,
Don't be fooled by their cuddly exterior,
It's only a clever disguise,
There's evil mixed in with their stuffing,
And lasers come out of their eyes,
There's one thing the teddy bears hate,
And that's socks which are stripy and bright,
So lock up your socks somewhere safe,
And pray that the teddy bears don't come TONIGHT.........
Count BanananaculaCount Bananananacula is rather like Dracula,
Except that he’s yellow and curved,
He’ll suck out your blood,
And replace it with mud,
Which is more than you ever deserved,
He’ll rip off your head,
And wear it to bed,
So your parents will think that he’s you,
He’ll take over your life,
Cause chaos and strife,
As all good bananas should do.
Count Bananananacula has quite the vernacular,
He knows words that are longer than him!
Like Banananananified and justified homicide,
Count Bananananacula is really spectacular,
He can peel off his skin without fear,
Then he’ll lay it in place,
So you fall on your face,
And he’ll laugh as he bathes in your tears,
He waxes his moustache,
Before every bloodbath,
So you’re sure to get murdered in style,
He curvy, he’s bendy,
And ever so trendy,
It’s like you’ve been killed by a smile.
The Day My Tummy ExplodedOr What I had for Christmas Dinner
"Feed me!" cried my tummy,
"I'm hungry, give me food."
"I'll feed you," I replied,
"For I'm in a Christmas mood!
You shall have roast turkey-"
"With gravy?" asked my tummy,
"Of course, how else?" I said with glee,
"It will be super yummy!
We'll have mince pies and Christmas cake,
Then trifle in a bowl,
We'll have pigs in blankets, brussel sprouts,
And mini sausage rolls."
"Brussel sprouts!?" my tummy cried,
"How hideous, how cruel,
I want roast potatos,
Not horrid veggie gruel!"
"But there will be roast potatos,
With turkey gravy too,
I'll make sure all the crispy bits,
Are given straight to you."
My tummy went "Hurrah!
That's my kind of feast,
I'm going to eat a lot today,
Two helpings at the least."
So when Christmas dinner came,
I made sure my plate was loaded,
So it may come as no surprise,
That my greedy tum exploded!
SquiggyOutside my bedroom window,
There's something in the tree,
A piggywig with wings I say,
As cute as it can be,
I said to it "Oh Squiggy pig,
Oh Squiggy come and play",
But Squiggy just let out a 'sqoink',
And quickly flew away.
The SheepThe sheep, the sheep,
Disturb my sleep,
There's baaaing in my ears,
Those clouds with legs just won't shut up,
I wish I had some shears.
Those sheep, damn sheep,
Disturb my sleep,
One's chewing on my sleeve,
Invite them in to count them once,
And they will never leave.
Oh sheep, please sheep,
Just let me sleep,
For I am very tired,
The shepherd who has lost them here,
Most surely should be fired.
Oi sheep, you sheep,
I'm not Bo Peep,
So please leave me alone,
I think I'm starting to go mad,
It's like the Twilight Zone.
Pirates Go ArrrghThe pirates go 'arrgh',
And their parrots go 'squawk',
Except in the cases,
When Polly can talk
The ninjas go 'hyaa',
And their nunchucks go 'woosh',
Except for the times,
When they'd rather go 'swoosh'
The robots go 'beep',
And their lasers go 'phoom',
Unlike their cannons,
Which always go 'boom'
My noise of choice,
But the PandaCat thinks,
That I take it too far
Think"So. You started exhibiting abilities…?"
"Um… three years ago? Yeah, three years, and it was May I think. Fourteenth or maybe sixteenth, I don't remember exactly – I just remember that it was my last semester. Yeah, three years ago, May."
"Fourteenth or sixteenth?"
"Yeah, one or the other. I remember that because I has these huge goddamn exams, you know, one was on fourteenth and other on sixteenth and it was during one of them I heard it for the first time. Can't remember which one though, just remember being a nervous wreck. I studied of course, I mean, hello, you know? But test's a test."
"Right. It started during an exam then? In a large crowd."
"Well, large enough. I didn't go to a big school – hell you should know, you probably have my files and everything. Don't you? I mean, don't people like you have files on everything, even someone like me? Or should that be especially someone like me…"
"How large was the crowd?"
"I don't know. Twenty f
Like Only the Stars are WatchingMr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.
“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.
“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.
Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”
“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”
“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”
Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
Time Traveller's EngagementExactly ten years from tomorrow, we'll be married here. My wife doesn't know that, of course. In a certain sense, neither do I.
It's a beautiful spot, now. Now meaning today, when the sunlight is still pure, and the sky is still blue. The ivy still climbs in green snakes up the side of her father's chateau, the pennants of the House of Renard are snapping gaily over the towers.
I hear a lilting laugh that even now sends my heart into my throat. Euryale Renard. She is only a girl today, no older than my little sister is in the days I left behind. Even at twelve, my Ury's curls catch the sun like molten amber, with a flower basket flung wide as she runs. Behind her tumble the Twins, her best friends, their giggles almost as musical as my Ury's, their golden hair belying the poison in their hearts. I remember the snarl on Cassandra's lips as she spilled out her wine glass on the floor after Ury's father toasted our engagement. I remember wiping Chloe's spit from my eye on the same
The Doppelganger 2The book still sings to me, and that's when I pull it from under my bed and stroke the cover. But I never open it, because I know what happens if I do it wrong. It's still blank; but only of ink. I know the secret, you see. It's how I understand the songs, and know the melodies it echoes up to me, through time. There are impressions hidden in the pages- spilled mead and raucous laughter, summer sunshine and frost on dead leaves. The last time I tried feeling them from start to finish, I passed out from the sheer weight of knowledge, and it left my brain scrambled for ages.
I found out things about my past and my family's past. I have Irish on my dad's side of the family, stretching back generations. I'd have said I was surprised when I found out, but that would have been a lie.
People say I've changed since last spring. My face is thinner, my eyes are brighter, I've been "brought out of myself." What they don't know is that I've actually met myself. I've taken to wearing rich, d
Looking With Your HandsEveryone’s been there. As a child, your mom would take you to Wal-Mart, Target, or, if you lived near rich people as a kid, Toys-R-Us. Anywhere with toys. And being a child, you wanted to pick them up, play with them, put them in the buggy in hopes that your mom would buy them. Heck, at that age, you didn’t get the concept of money or buying things with money. You just wanted to play with it. And you wanted Mom to let you take it out of the store. If she said no, some of the braver ones among you would sneak it in the buggy anyway. Maybe mom didn’t notice. Maybe she did and bought it anyway.
But typically, what would happen? Your mom would catch your greedy hands and say what?
“No! You can look, but you don’t look with your hands!”
That phrase has always held a special kind of irony for me.
I can’t remember specifically when it started. Used to be just a feeling. I would pick up something and just have a feeling that it belonged to someone. Or
PilotI woke in a nest of wires, my arms pulled off to either side, my head back and my eyes fixed at the ceiling. There was a man standing above me, straddling my form, perched precariously at the mouth of the recess I was tucked away in, one hand gripping the frame, the other feeling around the back of my neck. He moved by touch alone, certain in his movements, and his fingers closed over the knot of the wires that resided at the base of my skull and pulled, steadily, drawing it out of the socket and I inhaled sharply at the sensation. Like something had been taken from me, or that I'd lost sight of something important. A piece of me gone. It was a keen sense of loss and my eyes went wet with moisture even as he dropped his hand lower along my neck, almost to the shoulders, and pulled out another plug. The wires by my eyes were thinner, and when he pulled these out my vision went black for a moment and when it returned I felt the world was less clear, like a gray haze had been pulled
Scales Of Life01010010 01001001 01010011 01000101 - We begin our quest on the scales of life
I- The newborn wolf cub: The first emotion reflected in his tired eyes is that of mystery; a
curious devotion to the enigma of the moonbeams that cut through the trees, reflecting in
his inexperienced gaze. He calls out to the blinding light, beckons for its shadowed silence,
and eventually finds comfort in the embrace of mother's love. In that moment, he hears no
cruel sound his purity can't contest. He shuts
out the light as he slowly drifts away to rest. // Perfection was a value whose worth /
//was queried due to Perfection's birth./
Fragile--FFM Day 7Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear
He screamed at me, his goggly eyes opened like a frog’s. His voice was funny, it made me want to laugh - but he also looked scary, so I didn't. I stopped singing and stared at him. I wasn't sure if I had to close my mouth or not so I left it half open.
“No! No! No! That was not a mi sharp!”
I thought it would be good to close my mouth now. The man looked at Papa and pointed his tiny finger at me. He was all tiny, only his head was huge, with a funny mustache and the goggly eyes.
“Why did you bring this to me? Are you trying to mock me? You’re wasting my time!”
Papa was all red by now and not looking at me. I didn't know what was going on but I think Papa wanted to be away from the huge room with the piano.
“He was in the church choir” Papa stuttered. “The choir master told us he was very good – he has a very high voice – good technique -”
“Good technique? Good techniq
Conversation"I am driving in a Hummer. I am on a two lane highway. I was listening to Counting Crows before panic threatened to cut off my air supply. Air supply is a band. I have no idea what they sing. I'm pretty sure they were a clue on Jeopardy once. I…I…have to pull over so I can breathe."
Omar put on his blinker and steered the over-compensation-mobile to the shoulder of the road. He fumbled with the lock on the door and his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest when he tried to get out of the car and couldn't. Seatbelt. It was just the seatbelt. His hands were slick with cold sweat by the time the belt whizzed cheerfully back into its place and he managed to slide out onto the shoulder of the road.
He was glad it was so late and glad that the highway was so deserted. He was trembling so hard that the change in his pockets rattled and he never would have been able to speak if someone had pulled up and offered to help. He hated for people to witness his panic.
FluffThe Diary of His Supreme and Condescending Majesty, King Stalwart Prettipaws, the One and Only
The housemaid has just given birth to a second child. It really is too much. So much noise. So much commotion. The footman appears to have forgotten I exist. I had to give the order twice this morning before I was fed.
However. I am the King - I must be gracious about the situation. They may be just servants but it is their home too. It would be cruel of me to expect them to leave at this stressful time. Perhaps I will go and stay in another palace for a while. My kingdom is certainly large enough for me to be able to find something to my liking.
Of course, there have been all those skirmishes with local pretenders to my throne recently. But I think the situation is now in paw. (No-one can yell and fluff themself up like I can.) It has undeniably been stressful though. And now with the staff reproducing… All in all it might be a good idea to get away for
Puddle-jumpingShe looks through a puddle to the hole on the other side.
Some dreams fell down there a while ago, and if she can just snag a little of the bright ribbon at their tails, perhaps she could follow them in there.
I mean, it looks quite nice, what with all the blue glowing back at her pigtails, and the
clouds seem quite friendly. I wonder if they know hide and seek?
So in she jumps, wellies and all, but somehow only manages a splash and a splutter, and a muddy pattern over her socks.
But it doesn't matter - there's always tomorrow. She'll try again then.
For it's sad, really, when others look into puddles and all they expect to see is the ground.
The Gentlemen's Alliance #1Mr Sensible
Mr Sensible likes his coffee flat and dark, the same tongue-searing temperature every single morning. He gets up before the birds do to have his shower, and thus always smells of a mix between roasted coffee beans and that strange almond stuff he uses for his hair. He is clean shaven, and his hair doesn't flop down over his face. He looks his age and acts his age.
When you first meet him, you don't like Mr. Sensible much. But he can carry good conversation and he admits he has a smile he saves just for you. He never has to chase you because unlike most men he can keep up. You go out together without the company of others as friends at first. He shows no romantic interest in you for ages, until one day someone tries to ask you out and he slips his warm hand into yours.
Mr Sensible always has time for everything because he's always a little bit early. He has time to zip up your dress and compliment you on your looks. He doesn't shower you with affection because he knows it si
damn that woman"You don't get it, do you? I'm dating your goddamn production, apparently!" She is a whirlwind of impeccably dressed, green-eyed fury. She is Juliet Smith, one of the most prominent artists of the twenty-first century, and she is tearing up their apartment and his emotional stability all at once.
She looks good, she always does. But standing in the doorway of their apartment in her trench coat God damn, she's never been so gorgeous. Anger does something to her, and he hates himself for loving it so much.
She watches him for a moment, looks him up and down clinically, likely trying to decide why he isn't begging.
"Where are you going?" he asks, finally.
"I don't know, and I sure as hell won't be telling you," she says calmly. "I'm going anywhere I goddamn please. I always planned to travel, and I never did, because I was so fucking happy with you." She pauses and the green of her eyes intensifies further. "So that's what I'm going to do now. Travel and make art. Maybe I'll
Jukebox Cafe A string of bells jingled obnoxiously against glass as Hugh entered the Jukebox Café. The first thing he noticed was the pepless fan rotating just enough to move hot air and the smell of grease from one side of the restaurant to the other. No one came for the food, or at least that’s what he assumed upon sight of the sticky red tablecloths and French fries that speckled the checkered floor. That and the fact that he was the only soul in sight.
He walked up to the bar and squinted at a sign asking customers to “Please seat yourself or ring for service.” What kind of café required its customers to ring a bell for service? Not sure if there was an employee in the place, he rang it despite the sheen applied by dirty hands, and the shrill sound barely cut through an old tune produced by the jukebox in the corner.
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.
Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protrudin
CarmenI met Carmen the day someone set the gym on fire. I’d known who she was before then—I’d heard the whispers of the tricks she pulled, and I’d seen her saunter up and down the clinic halls with a wicked glint in her eyes—but it wasn’t until I watched her drop an empty matchbox into a trashcan outside the smoldering gym that she let me into her incredible world.
“Mon dieu! I thought you were the nurse ready to bust me again!” she exclaimed. Then she took a moment to look me over. “Wait, I know you. Your name is Emma and you take your meds daily like a model patient. I am Carmen, by the way. Don’t believe the things you hear about me.” She smiled as though we shared a secret.
Carmen was one of those people who had an almost electric energy to her, a mixture of audacity and charm that attracted people like moths to a light. She’d barely introduced herself and I found her fascinating.
“Let’s not waste
The Stick PeopleIn a town called Rushing Water, there lived a woodcarver with no face.
When we were small, my brothers and I, Daddy would sometimes take us to visit her. We would sit there at her kitchen table, amazed, as this woman with no eyes – and indeed no nose or mouth – would pour out our tea without spilling a drop.
I was frightened of her because she looked so strange, so grotesque. All the other days of my life, I encountered people with faces – square faces, oval faces, faces round and smiling like the moon with slanted eyes or big dark ones or little beady bird eyes. Snub noses, Romans or long, thin, birdlike ones like mine. Yet here was a woman with none of that or any of the faculties that come with those organs.
As a little girl, I dreaded our visits to the faceless woodcarver. But now that I've grown up I miss most all the memories of my childhood, even the somewhat unpleasant ones, so I sometimes let them wander through my mind even when they aren't invited. So I remember the woodcarv