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Sluggy, the Slug

07 Jan
Sluggy, the Slug

To a creature only two inches long, a backyard isn’t just a yard—it’s a continent. For Sluggy, a lime-green gastropod with a thirst for adventure and a silver trail of ambition, the edge of the patio was the edge of the known world.

The Great Concrete Desert

Sluggy began his journey at dawn, while the dew still clung to the hostas like liquid diamonds. His goal: The Great Wooden Gate, a towering monolith that promised a world beyond the rosebushes.

The first obstacle was the Patio. To a slug, sun-baked stone is a treacherous wasteland.

  • The Risk: Drying out before reaching the shade.
  • The Strategy: Constant production of high-grade slime.
  • The Close Call: A giant, rubber-soled “Human Boot” thundered down inches from his eyestalks, vibrating the very earth.

Sluggy didn’t retreat. He tucked his stalks, waited for the earthquake to pass, and soldiered on.

The Jungle of Long Grass

Beyond the patio lay the Unmown Realm. Here, the blades of grass were like emerald skyscrapers swaying in the wind.

Sluggy met a Cricket named Kip, who was tuning his legs for the evening performance.

“You’re going to the Outside?” Kip chirped, incredulous. “It takes me three jumps to reach the gate. It’ll take you… well, a lifetime.”

“It’s not about the speed,” Sluggy replied with a rhythmic ripple of his foot. “It’s about the detail. I bet you’ve never seen the patterns on the underside of a dandelion leaf.”

The Summit of the Threshold

By sunset, Sluggy reached the base of the gate. He didn’t go under it; he chose to go over. The climb was vertical and grueling. Every inch was a battle against gravity, his body glistening under the rising moon.

As he reached the top of the wooden slat, the world finally opened up. He didn’t see a backyard anymore. He saw:

  1. The Black River: A shimmering asphalt road stretching to infinity.
  2. The Fireflies of the Sky: Distant streetlamps and stars that mirrored his own silver trail.
  3. The Unknown: A forest of oaks across the street, whispering secrets in the breeze.

The Horizon Awaits

Sluggy looked back at his garden—a small, safe circle of green. Then he looked forward. He was the first of his kind to reach the Summit of the Gate. He wasn’t just a slug; he was an explorer.

With a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, he began his descent into the new world. He had nowhere to be, and all the time in the universe to get there.

To continue reading this story, click HERE and enjoy.

 
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Posted by on January 7, 2026 in adventure story

 

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December 27th

27 Dec
December 27th
**December 27th Refuses to Behave**
December 27th woke up late.
This was unusual, because dates normally wake up exactly on time, neatly stacked between their neighbours like polite slices of bread. December 26th had yawned, brushed the tinsel out of its hair, and shuffled off without complaint. December 28th was already standing impatiently in the corridor, tapping its foot and checking its watch.
But December 27th lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling wrong.
The ceiling was covered in faint glitter that would not come off, no matter how much one scrubbed. A half-deflated balloon drifted past the window. Somewhere in the distance, a turkey sighed.
“Not yet,” muttered December 27th. “I’m not ready.”
When it finally stood up, something slipped out of its pocket and clattered onto the floor. It was a receipt. No shop name, no date, just the words:
**YOU HAVE ALREADY PAID FOR THIS, WHATEVER IT IS.**
December 27th did not remember buying anything.
Outside, the world had lost its edges. People wandered the streets clutching boxes of chocolates they no longer wanted but felt morally obliged to finish. Children tried out new toys that already seemed faintly disappointing. Adults stared into cupboards, searching for something they were sure they had bought but could not now locate.
Time behaved oddly. It was both too fast and too slow. Morning lasted forever, while afternoon disappeared entirely. Evening arrived early, dragging a chair behind it and asking awkward questions.
“Was this a good year?” Evening asked.
No one answered.
In Ballykillduff, the church bell rang once and then stopped, as though it had forgotten what came next. A man named Seamus swore he heard it cough apologetically. The postman delivered yesterday’s letters again, insisting they looked surprised to see him.
Meanwhile, December 27th wandered about, rearranging things when no one was looking.
It moved a sock from one drawer to another.
It hid the scissors.
It put a memory where a worry used to be, just to see what would happen.
People felt unsettled but could not say why. They stood in doorways, convinced they had meant to go somewhere, though the idea of where had evaporated. Dogs barked at nothing in particular. Cats stared at corners where something might have been yesterday.
At lunchtime, December 27th sat down heavily on the calendar and caused a small temporal dent. This made everyone feel mildly tired, as though they had eaten too much pudding and not enough meaning.
“I don’t want to be just the leftovers day,” December 27th said to no one.
“I want to be… something.”
So it tried a few things.
It briefly became a Monday. This upset people enormously.
It tried being a holiday, but forgot to provide instructions.
It flirted with being New Year’s Eve, but was told politely not to rush.
Eventually, December 27th did something reckless.
It paused.
Just for a moment, everything stopped. Not dramatically. No clocks exploded. No one screamed. The kettle simply hovered halfway to boiling. A thought remained unfinished. A yawn never quite closed.
In that pause, December 27th looked around and noticed something surprising.
Everyone was still here.
Not celebrating. Not regretting. Just… existing. Sitting in jumpers that smelled faintly of smoke and sugar. Thinking about things they might do differently, or not at all.
December 27th smiled. A strange, crooked smile, like a date that had learned something important.
Then it nudged time forward again.
Evening finished its questions. Night tucked the world in. December 28th finally got its turn, huffing and smoothing its pages.
As December 27th left, it slipped the receipt back into its pocket.
This time, new words had appeared underneath:
**NO REFUNDS. NO EXCHANGES. BUT YOU MAY KEEP WHAT YOU NOTICED.**
And for the rest of the year, people occasionally felt an odd sensation — a quiet moment between moments — and thought, without knowing why:
*Ah. That must have been December 27th.*
 
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Posted by on December 27, 2025 in fantasy, fantasy story, Short story

 

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Old Elf and the Dragon

11 Dec
Old Elf and the Dragon

Fle and the Obsidian Sky-Weaver

The air tasted like crushed silver and distant thunder. Below them, the valley of the Winding River was painted in the soft, bruised colours of twilight, where mushroom-capped towers and luminous flora dotted the emerald cliffs.

Fle, the Old Elf, sat tall upon Kaelen, the Sky-Weaver, his emerald robes catching the last amber rays of the setting sun. Fle’s face was a map of ages, his eyes holding the patient light of a thousand moons, but his grip on the dragon’s jeweled harness was firm. He was guiding Kaelen through the Veil of the Shifting Dusk, the narrow passage between the mortal realm and the High Dreaming.

Kaelen, whose scales were an armour of deep, shimmering teal and night-sky black, did not flap his colossal wings with brute force. He moved with a mystical grace, riding the invisible currents that flowed from the Rainbow of Eld arching high above them—a phenomenon that only appears when a creature of pure elemental magic and a being of profound age travel together.

“The Gem of Constant Dawn,” Kaelen’s thought resonated, deep and guttural, in Fle’s mind, “lies just beyond that cloud-bank, where the river meets the mist. But the Silence has claimed it.”

“The Silence,” Fle murmured, pulling his hood closer, “is fear, Kaelen. It is the dread that paralyzes creativity. And it has used the Gem to still the music of the World-Heart.”

Their mission was perilous: The Gem of Constant Dawn, which normally sang the world into existence every morning, had been stolen and wrapped in the Web of the Soul-Moths, creatures of pure, paralyzing inertia. If the Gem was not freed by midnight, the sun would rise only as a suggestion, and the world would remain perpetually quiet, perpetually grey.

As they flew past the floating, crystalline peaks, Fle reached into a hidden pouch woven into his sash and withdrew three small items:

  1. A feather from a thought-bird, which allowed him to hear the whispers of possibility.
  2. A shard of frozen laughter, which could break the densest concentration of sorrow.
  3. A single, petrified tear of a nymph, which held the warmth of summer.

They broke through the last cloud layer. There, floating motionless above the swirling mist, was the Gem—a sphere of blinding, imprisoned light, tightly encased in thick, silvery cobwebs. And hovering around it were the Soul-Moths, silent, dark insects whose flapping wings emitted a negative sound that drained the air of hope.

Kaelen stopped, hanging suspended in the air. “I cannot approach, Old Friend,” he admitted. “My fire is too loud, my being too grand. The Silence would snuff me out like a candle.”

“Then we shall be quiet,” Fle replied, his voice barely a breath.

He slipped off Kaelen’s back and, rather than falling, began to descend slowly on a column of shimmering, green energy—the focused memory of every happy song he had ever heard.

As he neared the Gem, the cold of the Silence hit him. His memories felt heavy, his purpose uncertain. He could feel the Soul-Moths trying to wrap his own thoughts in their numbing web.

Fle raised his hand and opened his palm. He did not cast a spell; he simply released the shard of frozen laughter.

The laughter shard—the captured echo of a thousand innocent giggles—didn’t explode. It simply melted, forming a thin, high chime. The sound was so unexpected, so pure and non-serious, that the Soul-Moths paused, momentarily confused.

In that fraction of a moment, Fle used his second item: he took the thought-bird feather and gently tickled the Web of the Soul-Moths. The Moths, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of chaotic and funny possibilities, flew away in disarray, unable to process the illogical joy.

The Gem of Constant Dawn was now free, but still cold and muted. Fle pressed the petrified tear of the nymph against the crystalline sphere. Instantly, the warmth of all past summers infused the Gem. It flared, shining with a light that pushed back the twilight and sent a vibrant, resonant thrum through the entire valley.

Above, Kaelen roared—a sound that was now one of pure, unrestrained elemental joy. The Rainbow of Eld above them deepened in colour, and the Winding River below seemed to sing as the music of the World-Heart returned.

Fle rose back to Kaelen’s side, weary but successful. “The Silence is broken, my friend. Let us fly home. It’s been a long age.”

Kaelen dipped his great head in agreement. With a powerful beat of his massive wings, he turned toward the dawn, carrying Fle, the keeper of memory and laughter, out of the high, mystical air and back toward the newly singing world.

 
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Posted by on December 11, 2025 in children's stories, elf, fle, Magic, magical, mystical, Stories for children

 

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There Once was a Slug called Slimy

15 Oct

There Once was a Slug called Slimy

The Great Lettuce Heist

Slimy’s ambition far exceeded his speed, or his girth. His dream was to cross the unforgiving expanse of Mrs. Higgins’s back garden to reach The Sacred Head of Romaine, a prize of such size and crispness it was practically a monument.

The year was 1968, the height of summer, and Slimy had a plan. He wasn’t going to crawl. Crawing was for amateurs.

He was going to surf.

His partner in crime was Pip, a beetle whose main function in life was complaining.

“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this during the hottest part of the day,” Pip muttered, clinging precariously to Slimy’s shell-less back.

“Silence, Pip!” Slimy yelled, his eyestalks twitching with maniacal focus. “The sun bakes my trail! It creates a slick, semi-solid layer of… of pure velocity!”

In reality, the heat was just evaporating the water in his mucus, leaving behind a sticky, awful film.

Slimy pushed off from the edge of the shed, aiming for the first patch of damp shade fifty feet away. Immediately, his undercarriage seized up. He wasn’t sliding; he was sticking. Every micro-millimeter of progress was achieved through pure, agonizing abdominal contraction, a motion less like surfing and more like peeling a sticker off a varnished tabletop.

“Velocity, you said,” Pip wheezed, adjusting his tiny sunglasses. “I believe the current rate of travel is approximately one Planck length per fortnight.”

Slimy ignored him. “I just need a better… launch!”

With a burst of desperation, Slimy secreted a volume of mucus that, had it been liquid, would have drowned Pip. The result was not speed, but a magnificent, sticky dome that enveloped them both. They slid three inches, then stopped dead, firmly glued to the concrete path.

 

The Unlikely Rescue

 

Just then, Kevin, a nine-year-old boy and resident Terror of the garden, came skipping out the back door, singing a song about “Groovy, Groovy Caterpillars.” Kevin was known for two things: an unnerving love of brightly coloured wellington boots, and an innate talent for accidentally stepping on invertebrates.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Pip whispered, knowing their sticky situation meant a lack of escape options.

As Kevin’s neon green boot descended toward their mucus-prison, Slimy had a flash of inspiration. The glue!

He expanded the sticky dome, coating the bottom of the approaching boot just before impact. Kevin’s foot landed, missed Slimy by a hair, and then… stuck.

Kevin lifted his foot, and the entire surface layer of the concrete path, along with Slimy and Pip, came up with it. Slimy found himself traveling higher and faster than he ever had, clinging to the sole of the enormous boot.

“We’re airborne, Pip!” Slimy cried out, ecstatic. “We’re surfing the very winds of fate!”

“We are adhered to the sole of a rapidly moving, oversized rubber shoe!” Pip screamed back.

Kevin, oblivious, took a giant, stomping step right over the prize.

THWUMP!

Slimy, Pip, and the sticky patch of concrete landed squarely on top of The Sacred Head of Romaine.

 

The Victory

 

The impact shattered the lettuce, but left Slimy and Pip relatively unscathed. The surrounding slugs, who had spent the morning methodically nibbling the lower leaves, looked up in astonished, mucous-covered silence.

Slimy, covered in concrete dust and Romaine flakes, raised his eyestalks in triumph.

“See, Pip? Pure velocity!”

Pip merely shook his head, scraped himself off the sticky wreckage, and began eating the debris.

“Just call me King Slimy from now on,” Slimy declared.

“I’ll stick with Slimy,” Pip mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce, “but I’ll grant you this: you are the only slug in the county who has ever been rescued by his own failed adhesive technology.”

And that was the story of how Slimy, through utter incompetence and a staggering quantity of glue, successfully completed the greatest lettuce heist in garden history. Though, for the rest of his life, he was forced to peel himself off various surfaces using his tail.

 
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Posted by on October 15, 2025 in children's stories, fantasy, fantasy story, funny story, Slug

 

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Fle, an ancient old elf

11 Sep

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fle, an elf so ancient he remembered when the stars were new, had dedicated his incredibly long life to a singular, earthly purpose: fertilizer. For over 1,700 years, his world had been the quiet, luminescent depths of his subterranean mine. His greatest achievement was the “Black Gold”, a powerful, slow-release compost brewed from a secret recipe of volcanic ash, enchanted mushroom spores, and the finest river silt. It was his masterpiece, stored in dozens of perfectly stacked bags.

One morning, the serene hum of his mine was replaced by a jarring, hollow silence. A large, clumsy wheelbarrow track led from the mine’s entrance, and the tell-tale scent of stolen goods hung in the air. A quick count confirmed the damage: twenty-three bags of his precious Black Gold were gone. Fle’s fury was a cold, quiet thing, a force that had been dormant for centuries.

Cursing in a dialect older than the mountains themselves, Fle dusted off his tracking cloak and followed the trail. The thief, a human, was leaving a trail of astonishing carelessness—a dropped coin, a ripped piece of burlap, and the occasional, rogue sprig of basil from the surface world. Fle expected a short pursuit, but the thief was surprisingly cunning, ducking through thickets and wading through streams to break the trail. This wasn’t a simple robbery; it was a determined escape.

The chase stretched across leagues, a game of cat-and-mouse between ancient wisdom and youthful desperation. Fle, unused to the chaos of the overworld, was bewildered by its noise and frantic pace. He navigated bustling market towns and sprawling farms, his frustration mounting. Finally, by the light of a pale moon, he cornered the thief in a field of withered, black stalks.

The thief, a young woman named Elara, was collapsed beside a makeshift cart. Her face was smudged with dirt and streaked with tears. Fle saw not defiance in her eyes, but a profound, bone-deep sorrow. “It was the only thing I could do,” she whispered, her voice raw. “The blight… it took everything. I just needed enough to save what’s left.”

Fle’s anger faltered. He saw the truth in her eyes. Her village was starving, and she, a thief driven by love, had taken the only thing that could save them. He looked at the twenty-three bags of Black Gold, now scattered around the barren field. The fertilizer’s magic was already weakening, its slow-release potency starting to leak into the polluted soil.

With a heavy sigh, Fle made a decision that astonished even himself. “The fertilizer is worthless to you now,” he said, his voice softer than she expected. “You handled it incorrectly. But… I can show you how to use it. And you can work to pay your debt.” He pointed at a few stalks that had resisted the blight. “I will teach you to tend the earth, but in return, you will help me tend my mine. From this day forward, you will be my apprentice.”

Elara’s tears flowed freely, not from sadness, but from overwhelming relief. Her gaze met the old elf’s, and for the first time, she saw not a terrifying creature of legend, but an unexpected, and incredibly grumpy, ally. Fle, for his part, looked at the ruined field and felt a twinge of something new: a purpose beyond his mine, a responsibility to a world he had long since left behind.

Want to read more?

Click on the link, below, and enjoy.

The Origins of Black Gold

 
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Posted by on September 11, 2025 in Uncategorized

 

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The World’s Gone Bonkers (Since We All Went Online)

01 Aug
The World’s Gone Bonkers (Since We All Went Online)

The World’s Gone Bonkers (Since We All Went Online)
A Crazymad Poem by Someone Who’s Had Enough Wi-Fi

Once upon a saner time,
We’d write with pens—imagine the crime!
Now thumbs do tap and fingers swipe,
And talking’s swapped for “liking” hype.

The dog has TikTok, Mum’s on Zoom,
Dad live-streams himself in the loo.
Gran’s gone viral doing squats,
With hashtags like #KnitYourOwnTeaPots.

The fridge has Wi-Fi, the toaster too,
It knows your name, and your blood type too.
The mirror tells you you look sad—
(“Apply more blush, you silly lad!”)

Ding! goes the phone.
Ping! goes the watch.
Beep! says the toaster.
Snap! goes your crotch—
Because your smart jeans now detect
Too many pies? That gets a text.

People walk while texting fast,
Right into bins and duck ponds, SPLASH!
They film themselves while falling in,
Then cry, “Oh wow, I’ll post again!”

The baby’s named @Lil_Snacc,
He’s got a filter, six-pack abs.
The cat’s an influencer now,
With brand deals for organic chow.

We used to talk. We used to think.
Now Siri tells us when to blink.
“Alexa, what’s the point of life?”
She answers, “Please repeat your wife.”

Our minds are now a cloud-based mess,
We Google every minor stress.
Can’t sleep? There’s apps! Can’t cry? There’s bots!
Can’t love? Just swipe until it rots.

AI writes your granny’s will.
A drone drops off your sleeping pill.
We’ve screens for eyes, and wires for veins,
And autocorrect rewrites our brains.

Oh world, oh world, you pixelated freak!
You’ve swapped the meadow for a selfie streak.
The birds don’t tweet, the bees don’t hum—
They’re on Threads now, posting “Here we come!”

So switch it off—go out, get lost!
Climb a tree, no signal cost.
But if you fall—don’t dare complain…
Just film it, post it, dance again!

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2025 in humor, humour, internet, online, poems

 

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Peg and the Missing Sock

20 Jul
Peg and the Missing Sock

Peg and the Missing Sock

On the edge of a sleepy village nestled between rolling green hills, there lived a clever border collie named Peg. With a black and white coat as neat as a checkerboard and eyes that sparkled with mischief, Peg wasn’t just any dog—she was the queen of the household, the boss of the back garden, and the undisputed ruler of laundry day.

Every morning, Peg would sit faithfully by the back door, watching the world wake up. She knew the routine by heart: kettle on, toast in, socks missing. Without fail, every day began with a sock gone rogue.

One breezy Wednesday, the mystery deepened. “I put them both in the basket,” Dad muttered, holding up a lonely blue sock. “I’m sure I did.”

Peg tilted her head. Did you, though?

With a happy bark, Peg sprang into action. She darted past the washing machine, through the flap in the door, and into the garden like a furry bullet. Tail high, nose twitching, she sniffed the air. Something smelt of cotton and adventure.

Under the rose bush—nothing. Behind the shed—just an old tennis ball. Then, finally, near the compost bin, Peg stopped. She pawed gently at the ground… and there it was. The blue sock, slightly muddy but otherwise unharmed.

Triumphantly, Peg trotted back into the kitchen and dropped the sock at Dad’s feet. He stared. “Peg, you little genius!” he laughed, rubbing her ears.

Peg gave a smug little wag. Of course she found it. She always found it. She was Peg the Sock Seeker, the Great Sniffer, the garden’s noble protector.

And the next day, when the left sock mysteriously disappeared again, Peg just gave them all a look that said: Don’t worry. I’ve got this.

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2025 in border collie, collie dog

 

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Sir Slugalot’s Quest

15 Jul
Sir Slugalot’s Quest

“Sir Slugalot’s Quest”
(A Slightly Sticky Saga)

Sir Slugalot slid from his mossy old bed,
A helmet of thimble plonked on his head.
He dreamed of great glory, of dragons and fame—
Though moving an inch took a whole hour’s aim.

“I’m off!” cried the slug with a gallantish squeak,
“I’ll conquer the mountain by the end of the week!”
His mum packed him lettuce and two soggy scones,
And warned him to not poke the garden gnomes.

He slithered through puddles, past beetles and bees,
Got stuck in a boot, and then lost both his knees—
(Not literally gone, but he wasn’t quite sure,
For slugs are a mystery with legs that obscure.)

He battled a breeze and a leaf with sharp corners,
Outwitted a gang of snail-brained marauders.
He tamed a wild worm with a licorice whip,
And performed CPR when a toad did a flip.

At last, he arrived at the great garden gate,
Just moments behind…a much faster snail mate.
The crowd gave a cheer! (Or perhaps it was yawns.)
They crowned him with dandelions and knitted pompons.

So if ever you think that you’re sluggish or slow,
Just think of Sir Slugalot, hero of woe.
He might not be speedy or terribly bright—
But he did win the joust with a glow-in-the-dark kite.

 
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Posted by on July 15, 2025 in funny story, slug story

 

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The Mad Hatter Story

24 Jun

The town square bustled with the usual midday activities. Vendors called out, children played, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. It was a typical day in a place where the clocks had long ago forgotten to tick. Above the cobblestone streets, the sky remained a constant gray, as if painted on by an unenthusiastic artist who had abandoned their canvas.

In a quiet corner of the square, an old woman sat on a rickety chair. She had a table before her, laden with various odds and ends: a few dusty books, a jar of buttons that hadn’t seen use in decades, and a single, sad-looking hat. Her eyes squinted behind thick spectacles as she meticulously sewed a patch onto the hat’s tattered brim.

“Look at this,” she murmured to herself, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “Once it was a thing of beauty, and now…” Her words trailed off as she sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping.

Suddenly, the square grew eerily still. A shadow fell over the old woman, and she looked up to see a tall, lanky figure standing before her. His face was a ghastly pallor, and his eyes burned with a fiery madness that seemed to illuminate the dullness around them. He wore a wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle, adorned with a single red rose. The townsfolk had learned to fear this man, for his laughter was said to echo through their nightmares.

“Madam,” he spoke, his voice a chilling caress. “Your work is quite… intriguing.”

The woman peered up at him, curiosity piqued by the interruption. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

He leaned closer, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “I’ve been searching for a hat, you see,” he began, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry on the wind. “One that speaks to me, calls to me, whispers secrets of wonderlands long forgotten…”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned back, eyeing him warily. “What makes you think I’d sell to the likes of you?”

The Mad Hatter’s grin grew wider, revealing teeth that looked more like the sharpened edges of a butterfly knife than anything natural. “Ah,” he said, “but I’m not just anyone, am I? I am the keeper of the hats, the teller of tales that make the very fabric of reality tremble. And I have need of one such as this.”

The woman studied the hat in her hands, her thoughts racing. It was just a simple, worn-out piece of headwear, yet the way he talked about it made it seem as if it held the power to change the course of the world.

“What’s so special about this hat?” she demanded, holding it up protectively.

The Mad Hatter leaned even closer, his breath a cold draft on her cheek. “This hat,” he whispered, “once belonged to a very important person. It’s seen things, felt things, that no ordinary hat could ever dream of. It’s a gateway to a realm of madness and beauty, where the only rule is that there are no rules at all.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. What could this madman possibly want with such a mundane object? And what secrets did it truly hold?

To be continued

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story

 

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I am not quite sane

09 Nov

I am not quite sane; not that sort of man,
I am not quite sane; it’s not a part of my plan,
I am bonkers, for sure, as mad as can be,
I am the Craymad Writer; it’s true, hee hee.

a free eBook especially for you

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2015 in funny story

 

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