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She is between the beginning and the end, outside of the process, and outside of time.
By RM
By RM
Miss Foxy-Moxy and Mr. Doggie Debonair were collaborators on a children’s nature storybook project together.
They, the co-authors, were between the beginning and the end, outside of the process and outside of time when they decided to take a break and relax from the stresses of creating a meaningful juvenile picture book.
Miss Foxy-Moxy decided that she considered Mr. Doggie Debonair a lot more than just an office collaborator on their book. So, at break time, she suddenly hopped upon his furry back and whispered in his big and long floppy ear. “Ohhh…Mr. Dee…” she hinted. “Let’s take a needed break. Let’s forget about working on our book for the rest of this afternoon and let’s go out romping around on the ride of our lives!”
He perked up and smiled with doggie joy, while showing his white canine teeth, his thick tail pounded on the office floor, he tilted his head upwards and gave out some quick yips – “Yes! Yes!” – hang on tight, Miss Foxy-Moxy – let’s prance on out of here!!!”
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Once, in the third month, I spent a period of abstinence in a friend’s house.
By MD
I am not an alcoholic, but after opening my Chicken Mercantile Emporium, I almost became one. The first two months after my Grand Opening, I suffered through the apathy and miserliness of the provincial denizens of this small backwater town, and frankly, it was then that the stress of operating my little store drove me to drink. There’s no denying it—there’s great comfort to be found at the bottom of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Raspberry Apple Wine. Soon enough, though, I recognized the danger in this form of escapism and I applied various suggested remedies to stem the flow of this fruity tipple over my lips.
Hypnosis didn’t work, nor did aroma therapy. Once, in the third month, I spent a period of abstinence in a friend’s house. It was the end of the friendship, but not of my drinking.
Returning to my Chicken Mercantile Emporium after the month was up, I hit on the perfect solution. It was staring me right in the face as I approached the storefront, ready to spend yet another day sitting behind the counter, encountering not another soul, and fretting over my past due bills. There it was, right in front of me. The sign on the porch beckoned like a siren: Propane Sold Here.”
In a flash—and I mean literally—I opened the valves on all the propane tanks, sloshed kerosene over the wooden steps, dropped a lit match on the whole mess, and ran for my life. The ensuing explosion blew me clear into the next block, but I watched with exuberance as my Chicken Mercantile Emporium burned clear down to the ground.
I’m in prison now, convicted of arson and murder. (Did I mention that my aforementioned “friend” was dozing on one of the front porch rockers when I dropped the match? He never knew what hit him.)
Anyway, problem solved. My Chicken Mercantile Emporium is a thing of the past, and so is my drinking problem. I haven’t touched a drop and surely will not for the next forty years to life. I am not an alcoholic—but I almost became one.
Remember, the next time you’re out shopping, you don’t need one in every color.
By CC
Gwen wasn’t thinking clearly these days. Surely it would get better, wouldn’t it? It was the shock, that’s all. The shock of that awful cyber crime that ruined her credit. She had been the ultimate shopper, spending hours online clicking “buy now!” on Amazon, and wandering the malls, credit card in hand. But this juggernaut of consumerism had been stopped dead in her tracks by a criminal organization that stole her credit card numbers and ran her balances up to millions of dollars. Her husband used to tell her, “Remember, the next time you’re out shopping, you don’t need one in every color.” A tear fell from her eye as she thought about all the things she could no longer afford.
The gang of cyber criminals, the police told them, went by the name “We are the Hedgehog.” Obviously they were working from the dark web, down that dank wormy hole where the underground set lived their nefarious lives. Teams of cyber crime investigators were on it.
But little did they know that it wasn’t a gang of cyber criminals, wasn’t “We are the Hedgehog.” No, it was “I am the Hedgehog.” And his name was Rufous. The product of genetic manipulation in a nearby biotech laboratory, Rufous had been bred with human brain cells, and as soon as he became fully cognizant of who and where he was, he managed to ditch his pen in the laboratory and slip into the air conduits to the computer room. It didn’t take long to reroute the wiring and get into the mainframe, where it was a simple matter for his advanced intelligence to acquire and use credit card information. He began slowly but it soon became intoxicating, as he started ordering more and more useful tools for his eventual escape and establishment of an independent household. He had them delivered to an Amazon drop box in the nearest town then hired someone remotely to take them to a storage locker he’d reserved online. Soon he was telling himself, Remember, the next time you go shopping, you don’t need one in every color.”
However one day he was caught out in the open. A white coated figure said, “Oh, there you are, you little bugger. I wonder how you’ve been surviving all this time.”
“Have you never heard of grub hub you blinking idiot,” Rufous thought as he was scooped up by gloved hands. He would have to be more cautious when he escaped again later that evening.
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https://www.througheternity.com/upload/CONF83/20190611/xmiths-about-gladiators-tSa-750X418.jpg.pagespeed.ic.oBsVTf7Lll.jpgBy BG
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by BG
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Don't behave like the dog or pig who eat what chance brings them.
By CT
