Aussie selfie. G’day.
Only in Australia.
Aussie selfie. G’day.
Only in Australia.
I saw a lone figure, a shadowy sight,
While walking the woods one dark wintry night,
So I quickened my pace and hurried my step,
To escape its attention and forget we had met.
The mysterious figure following my route,
Shadowing my steps, copying my truth,
Never let up despite my great pains,
To escape its attention and break free of its reign.
Minutes passed, hours and then days,
Weeks followed by months and years deathly grey,
Until one dark wintry night while walking the same wood,
I confronted the thing that held onto my truth.
Having prevailed over fear, I could see what it was,
An angel, a guardian angel, sent down from above,
Then it opened its wings, showing me the light of my life,
And I welcomed it into my soul with delight.
My name is Slimy and, like my best friend Sluggy, I am a slug. Sluggy is older than I am by three full days. Moreover, he is famous. Everyone in the garden, including the lowly snails, knows Sluggy, and everyone one of us aspires to be just like him when we grow up.
With his twenty-first birthday fast approaching (twenty-one days, that is), Sluggy wanted a party, a big party. Because we like him so much, it was no problem, no problem at all to honour his wish. We set about organising it, the party of the week, the party to beat all others, the celebrity slug party that soon had the whole garden buzzing with excitement…
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My story begins one sunny summer’s afternoon, with Croaky the fog sitting on his favourite lily pad, enjoying the sun while lying in wait for a dainty morsel to catch. Watching the flies buzzing to and fro across the pond, hoping that one of them landed nearby, or at least slowed down enough, to allow him an opportunity to secure his next meal, Croaky sat perfectly still. But there were so many flies flitting around, Croaky didn’t know which of them to watch let alone catch. Then he heard a sound, a low droning buzz, quite different to the usual insect sounds that he had become accustomed to hearing. This new one was an altogether more courser sound. Tilting his head over to one side, Croaky tried to hear it clearer. It was a fly, he was quite certain of that, but so different from any that he had up until then heard. The sound grew louder and louder, so loud Croaky imagined it must be the mother of all flies coming his way. His stomach growled in anticipation of the wonderful meal heading towards him…
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A family of shiny black beetles were living a happy, peaceful and contented life, underground in their burrow. Their wonderful life, however, came to an abrupt and untimely end one wild, stormy and exceptionally wet night, when a tremendously loud noise – a roaring, rushing, gushing watery type of sound – awoke them from their peaceful slumbers.
Getting up from her bed – a comfortable dry leaf – the mother beetle, rubbing her sleepy eyes, said, “I wonder what that can be?”
The father beetle, rolling over on the leaf, mumbled, “It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”
The mother beetle, believing his words, returned to their leaf and settled down beside him.
The noise, however, did not go away.
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The Circus of Grotesques: it will change your life FOREVER.An odd, bizarre and definitely STRANGE short story. Moreover, it’s absolutely and utterly free!
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He was mad, I tell you, stark, raving mad!
A funny thing happened to me the other day… At the time, though, the car, the car-thing with its elusive, concealed driver that was following us, my trusty old beetle and I, along a lonely country road, was anything but funny.
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Bertie the beetle was a happy fellow, contentedly gnawing away, for hours on end, on plants, flowers and all kinds of vegetables, just about anything he came across that was edible, he was in world of his own. When I call him Bertie, it is perhaps doing him an injustice, for, in truth, he was a king, Bertie, the king of the black beetles, was the master of all he surveyed, and he ruled it with an iron fist.
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courtesy of the Crazymad Writer
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