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Sleepless – A Waking Nightmare. With Bananaman, a leopard, and Mustaine.

27 Sep


I have been depriving myself of sleep lately. Brain say make posty click on Pressword. Better to write for a brief time typing tittle-tattle, than much more time blanking empty MS Word pages, shunning my creative duty like a diseased aunt.

Hence the following.


 Sleepless – A Waking Nightmare


With hornet-stung eyes I plunge my face into a large plastic bowl of fresh coffee. Burn. Honestly, I feel better now. The shapes are making sense, talking even. Like a chatty leopard.

Wait, I don’t own a leopard. Oh, this is my blanket, it just looks kinda leopardy from where I’m standing…wait, crouching…actually I should just lie here.

There are snakes under my sofa. Ah yes, now I remember. The cobra party, on…I think it was Sunday? No. Not snakes. Amp leads! For the noisings of ill-conceived tequila stunts through electric pickups, with too much…Disdain? Sustain? Mustaine?

Does that make sense to you? Mirror-man has pretty eyes, but an ugly mirror. Get a new mirror and toastie maker! Consciousness streaming wet like mayonnaise angels smeared onto the side of a parallel-parked DeLorean.

Word of the day! – Parallelogram. Lellolellolellogram. The word stretches into the far-flung future like a banananana-man. I remember Banana Man.

Do you?

Make way for Prince Ali!

So tired.



‘Who Says Necrophilia’s Dead?’ An Undead Dating Show, for ‘Five Sentence Fiction.’

22 Sep

Lillie McFerrin: Five Sentence Fiction

“Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.”

If zombie-based fiction were a steak brought to my table at a restaurant, I would not complain that,  ‘It’s a little on the over-done side,’ rather I would say, ‘Garçon, from which infernal pit did you dig up this abominable lump of carbon and why has it been set on fire?’ Or something not remotely like that sentence at all.

The point being, zombie fiction has been done and done to the extent that it often comes across as burnt steak to me.
However, steak being delicious, and all, sometimes the hunger just proves too much to bear and you just have to dig in and ravenously savour the succulent morsels. Um, yeah…right. So. To the fiction-mobile!

Who Say’s Necrophilia’s Dead?

Welcome to ‘Who Says Necrophilia’s Dead?’ – the smash-hit undead dating show that everybody’s moaning about.

Today, our love-bones from last week, Mordecai and Rottie, tell us how what started with an innocent buffet breakfast at the local shopping mall turned into a romantic flesh-eating hunt for two at the hospital.

“Well Die-Anne, it was as sweet as the flesh of the newborn; Mordecai was such a gentleman, he even let me chase down the patients from the geriatric unit while they hobbled over to the escape chopper where he waited for them with a bunch of “Get well soon” begonias.

.”That sounds mortifyingly magical, Rottie, but I know that what our shamblers in attendance today and the hordes watching at home really want to sink their teeth into is the juicy gossip on what happened in the crypt that night.”

“As a man no longer in the flesh of his prime, I’m not sure if what I did to Rottie that dark stormy night can described as sex anymore, it’s more a case of rubbing together and seeing what comes off, I guess, but mark my words there were moans and groans from Mordecai’s Mausoleum fit to raise the dead.”

Mitt Romney is a fell dragonbeast born in Krakatoa.

14 Sep

Mitt Romney‘s true form.

Mitt Romney was born in the bubbling bowels of Krakatoa‘s molten-hot caldera, following the earth-shaking 1883 eruption of that very volcano, ripples from which were felt all the way in the English channel. This explosion resulted from the climax of the unholy coupling of Romney’s mother, Scylla Black, the monstrous six-headed sea beast of ancient Greek legend , and Surtr, the Norse fire Giant of wrath.

As we can see, his coming was foretold in old Norse poem, theVǫluspá:

Surtr comes from the south
with the scathe of branches:
there shines from his sword
the sun of Gods of the Slain.

One of six heads shown.

So, Surtr ‘comes’ (ejaculates) ‘from the south’ (Krakatoa, Indonesia) with the ‘scathe of branches’ (a metaphor for Scylla Black’s forked tongues); there ‘shines from his sword’ (his penis) the ‘sun’ (read, ‘son’) of ‘Gods of the Slain’ (Romneysaurus’ fell demonic parents themselves, or possibly the Republican party).

Thus has it been written, and so it shall be. In modern times, Scylla Black, having disguised herself in human form to enjoy a lengthy run as the host of a popular TV dating show, now resides in her nest beneath the murky brown depths of the River Mersey.

The volcanic colossus, Surtr, may well be Brian Blessed. As it is, we just don’t know.

Ragnarok is upon us, friends. It is surely all too plain to see, now, why Mitt Romney proudly boasts that Nobody has ever asked to see his birth certificate. He is mocking America, defying mankind to challenge his human credentials because he knows that anyone foolhardy enough to do so will spend eternity in a boiling vat of their own bone marrow.

People of America, take heed of this incontrovertible evidence that voting for Mitt ‘Romneysaurus’ Romney will result in the entire world being engulfed in apocalyptic flame.