#fiction

Little Bo Peep

‘Has lost her sheep and doesn’t know where to find them

Leave them alone and they will come home,

wagging their tails behind them.’

The two farmers sat on the fence, surveying the mob.

‘D’ya remember the great kangaroo skin debate, Ted,’ asked the first farmer.

‘Oh yes, indeed I do,’ replied the second farmer. ‘Quite a debacle, if I remember correctly.’

‘It was. It was. No idea, then, and no… Effie, is that you?’

They looked across at the lambs. Not a one of them had a tail. ‘I am apologising to Effie,’ said the first farmer. ‘It’s just that, you know, kids around and all that, so we’ve gotta watch our pees and queues.’

‘Right, right,’ said Ted. ‘So, mate. You ever seen a fly blown sheep? I reckon we could get those kids out in a paddock, maybe. It would make my day.’

‘Oh, you mean showing them the sheep who’ve had their backsides eaten away by maggots? Not a pretty sight, that.’ The first farmer, who still remained nameless, pulled his akubra down low over his nose.

‘Yeah. I guess, ya know, we could ask someone whose had a lot of experience in that area as a young bloke could explain what it looks like, too, but, ya know I’ve seen a fly-blown ram, meself, and he ‘ad to be put down. Bad news, that.’

‘You’ve seen a fly blown ram? That sounds like an expensive loss.’

‘Well, it would have been if he was a breeder, but he was some bloke’s pet. He didn’t look after him, you see, so he got fly blown, and they had to… well, he was better off I think.’

‘Hmm.’ The first farmer got down from his post and wandered across the yard. ‘Seems like ya got a bit of trouble round the joint. Wheat, sheep… Might be time to get some sensible people back in the business, I reckon.’

‘Oh, ya mean someone with half a brain who knows a bit of history?’

‘Yeah, them. Few and far between, but I reckon maybe they should stop listening to the clueless and start listening to the nameless, cos I reckon we could get this show back on the road, unless they wanna eat bloody durians. I know I don’t. All that lack of red meat doesn’t do much for brain power, ya know what I mean?’

‘I certainly do. Like a bit of lamb, meself. Tasty. If it was gonna be me last meal, for example, I’d have Roast Lamb. Bit of mint sauce wouldn’t go astray either. Back in the day, they reckoned if ya cooked up a good meal, some bloke called Tom might be ‘aving dinner with ya. Nah, just kidding, we’re more urban nowdays, but not in a bad way. Not all citified’n’shit.’

Ted got down from the gatepost and walked across the yard to where the first farmer was studying the poo.

‘Is that sheep shit, or roo shit?’ He asked, scratching his head.

‘Hard to tell nowdays. Not many people can figure it out. Probably about the same amount of both, I reckon. Prob’ly more roos to be honest. They’re funny like that. You get a good season and they have two, three babies one after the other, just like that. That’s why you’ve gotta keep ’em in check, see. Don’t feed ’em. They’ll turn the country-side into a dust bowl.’

‘Don’t sheep do that?’

‘Not too much, if you spread ’em out. Pop ’em out on a station, maybe. Not too far though. That’s where the beef comes in.’

‘Beef?’

‘Yeah mate, but that’s another story entirely.’

‘Are we playing for stations now?’

‘Might ‘ave to, I reckon.’

To add emotion to your writing

One needs to be able to express emotion through their writing, not just explain what something looks like.

I have tried, without too much success, to explain this to writing partners over the years because I believe, in order to be successful as a fictional writer, one must be able to connect with their own emotions. If you can’t, then what, exactly, is the point of writing a fictional piece?

For many, this is too much. They may get lost in their own words, or their own thoughts, their own beliefs, or their own lack of foresight. One might get so lost in their writing they don’t have time for the people around them. When they still do not learn anything about other people’s emotions, then the fault lies with them, not the people around them.

This doesn’t need to be simply about writing. It’s a truth in all societies. If you aren’t listening, you aren’t learning. If you haven’t got the guts to let yourself be mentally attacked, or be able to mentally defend yourself, then how are you going to learn to be able to express your own emotions?

Some people seem to think when one does not display emotion on their faces, they are not feeling anything. This is not true. For the most part, when someone isn’t displaying an emotion someone else can read, it’s because the person who is expecting this “display” has no understanding of what, or who, the person they are interacting with is.

So, they try to put their own emotions onto someone else. Do me a favour, don’t do that. If you don’t understand that person or who they are, even after years (or months) of them telling you exactly who they are, then walk away. You haven’t learnt anything.

Of course, if the person you are interacting with does not tell you anything about themselves, or simply repeats the same few words over and over again, with no substance to it, then they do not want you to know them, or anything about them. One begins to question, and very quickly I might add, whether anything that person has said is true. When things don’t add up, the questions may become more and more insistent.

That’s one scenario, anyway. There are several other things you can walk away with from this interaction. This person does not wish to know anyone else. This person does not, or cannot, interact freely. This person does not understand social interactions at all. This person has underdeveloped emotions and thinks everything they read or see is either completely untrue, or completely true. This person has been raised as a single entity without having to care for, nor understand, other people.

It still ends up being the same thing, though. If one is unwilling to even write about one’s emotions, then the interaction with others is unsatisfactory to those others. So, choose your words carefully when you write. Understand the context of a situation when you write. Don’t jumble up words with no meaning, don’t go into extremely long definitions of the shape of a clock, or the shape of a keyboard, or the colour of a cup. Don’t tell me in long, flowing descriptive sentences of what the cup feels like either. Show me why it’s picked up in the first place. Show me the exact moment the person picking up that cup is feeling an emotion. Give me visual cues in your words of where that person is at emotionally, mentally, or physically.

Here is one perfect example; it’s sitting on my desk, staring at me, the bright yellow paper curled up on one corner. The words are scraped onto the page with a very clear hand and the letters of the name have been corrected once or twice to make it obvious whose name it is.

The name itself is not important because it doesn’t pertain to this exercise, but the rest of the words exert such a pain in me for the feelings of the person who wrote it I find it difficult to stop myself from bursting into tears. The reason being is because I know that person so well, I feel a small piece of my heart break off at those three simple words.

“Cheapskate has cancelled.”

Now it’s your turn.

“Listen very carefully …”

‘I will say this only once.’

Too many times I have been approached, and each and every one I have turned down.

The hand I offer you is the right one. This is the hand my brothers and sisters use to help me up, and this is the hand I use to help them up. I am quite capable of using this hand, but don’t ever take it for granted. It’s only a helping hand. Every one that tries to see something in me I am not, will be turned away. That is all there is to it.

Do you understand this now? My playing with you never goes beyond that. I have never gone back on my word. I will not do it now, not for you, not for anyone. If I give you safe harbour, this is what you must understand. Deceit does not go hand in hand with the destination. This is what I have been teaching with my brothers and sisters, and this is what I’m telling you now. I have never taken, nor will I ever take, advantage. I will not seek others either, for that just isn’t my way.

I hope this makes it clear to you. My life is my own, but my left hand is the one I will always be with, because that is also my strong hand and I’m quite attached to it. He is my partner, my life and has always been my destination. He loves me, and I love him, and although this changes over the years, I am not planning on leaving my life partner.

Over the years, when I have had to move my ring to a different finger because that finger was too fat (I am so not kidding, it was being ring-barked) I had far too many come to me and ask things they should not have asked. Even with the ring on the correct finger, I have had far too many come to me and ask things that should not have been asked. When they begin to realise this, they might begin to understand. I can play a part, sure, but you’re not going to get any more than that, and I’m not going to do anything like that for you. It’s highly likely you will be treated as the fool you are, if they think this is possible.

They are not nice people.

My friends are not my enemies. They know me very well, and so they know that here I speak the truth. Not too many can say this, and I have understood their pain. These are my brothers and sisters. They move with me towards something that is a lot more pleasant than what is not us.

So, my last question to you is this;

‘Are you happy?’

You say you are happy. This is good. It’s time for you to go, and be happy, like you said you were.

This is the time for me to say to my son, ‘Lead the way.’

He will learn this, too. And he will lead the way.

Don’t be concerned by that. When he leads, he will not be any of the things that make him bad. Not at all. When he leads, he will have a destination, and that is what is important to all of us.

Rising of the Sun

I will show you this story in his true form, for this is who he is.

Let me guide through the long grass. Can you see him up ahead? This is my Brother. He waits for the sun to rise between the two hills, and he has been waiting for a very long time for his sister to come home to him.

I am here. Do you wish to move forwards with me, one by my side? For he is not for you. You are very brave, yes. My brother is not interested in doing the wrong thing. He is here for protection, and I need to help him home today. We need to watch the sun rise together.

Brother, please be patient.

He bows his head as he waits ahead. His shoulders are bunched, but he takes a breath and rests his arms on his knees.

”Don’t you dare make me look back there,” he whispers fiercely to me, and I grin, for this is directed to me, not the one by my side.

‘She does not understand you yet, brother. She has not come to speak of the timeless love to you. Not yet. But, she tells me she is willing to listen. It will help her craft.’

Brother two is taking me aside, and not in an unkind way. What you must understand is that he is many to me, as I am many to him, and I know which one has taken his place on the way to him.

‘I do not want to get in the way,’ this one whispers, and he is frightened.

‘You do not get in the way. For me, this has always been my brother, the other half of my soul. The one I love in a different way is sleeping. Do you understand?’

This tall one is sad, but it is not his time.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I see now you are waking my brother from the sleep of the guilty and he was not taking care of himself.’

‘Not the guilty one, either,’ I say to him. ‘Please get out of my way. I need to watch the dawn with my brother. He was silenced for too long, through no choice of his own, and that time has passed now.’

My brother looks over his shoulder from up ahead.

‘Hurry,’ he whispers. ‘Dawn is coming.’

So I say to the young one. ‘You must understand. This is my brother. He can give you friendship, sweet girl, but that is all he gives you. You may sing to him, but this man is not for you. I understood this from the first time I came home to my brother. He is your rising song now, too, but it may take you some time to learn him.’

I lean down now, because my brother is on the grass in front of me, and I kiss the top of his head. He is very clever, and very swift, and is not afraid to let other men make decisions.

‘It’s time to watch the dawn,’ we say, because the first bird is singing.

‘Which bird do you hear,’ he asks, but he has heard it too.

They do not know which bird it is, and it does not matter to me and my brother. This is the right time of year for these birds, right now, and I must go outside to watch the dawn.

‘Do you want to go home now, little one,’ I ask the small child, for my brother is ready to raise himself up.

‘I do not know the home of this man or woman is,’ the little one replies. ‘Are they people, or lords, or ladies, or?’

‘They are simply people, and they are lovely people. They have kept you safe for far too long, and it is time to leave these people alone.’

‘I never disturbed them. I just watched and waited and left them all alone. Have I been so bad?’ The little one is sad now, but she/he never really understood. ‘I haven’t been bad, I just wanted to know what they did there.’

My brother, who was silenced for far too long, lifts his head. ‘No,’ he says, and it is this finality that has brought us here. ‘No. I can hold them back for as long as you require, my sister, but I will not allow them to destroy our peace of mind. I am here to take away the darkness and bring them into the light. I am here to share the dawn with my sister, who has helped me for far too long, and I am strong enough now to show these people the way to go home. They cannot have our flowers, they cannot have our children, they certainly cannot steal our ladybugs/ladybirds away, and it took me far too long to realise what they were trying to do to us, my sister, and they will never, ever keep us from telling the truth.’

The rising of the sun is displayed on our old hats. It is an Australian signaller who brought us to this point, and it is an Australian soldier who will bring us to safety. Always.

And, as always, our brothers sit between the two hills, and behind the hills, and on the ridges, and down in the gullies, and sometimes our sisters do too, and we will never forget the sound of our own, beautiful, National Anthem.

‘Thank you,’ my silenced brother says, and he says it softly, and he is never afraid to cry.

‘Pull your hat down on the eastern side, sis, and the sun will not get in your eyes.’

“Pull up a Cloud”

said the distant demon.

‘What, now? I’m doin’ ship.’ The Angel of downward mercy sat in a little green office and looked at her watch.

‘Yes, now, for God’s sake. I’m probably gonna go to bed soon, or something, I dunno.’

‘Fine, then.’ She pulled up a cloud. ‘What’re we lookin’ at?’

‘That up ‘imself charlatan up there in the Northern ’emisphere.’

‘Oh him. Yes, well, ya know. Doesn’t speak English. Kind of like me, sometimes, kind of like you too, I reckon. I feel like I might go off on a tangent, if ya don’t stop me.’ The Australian angel’s cloud started to float off, just a little bit. The, ah, British angel grabbed his hook and pulled it back towards him.

‘You’re floating off again.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a habit. Possibly why I’m an angel.’

‘Good point. Anyway, see ‘im up there, the one who reckons he’s the real angel, just ‘cos he was on some show for… ‘ow long was it?’

‘Bloody long time, I reckon.’ The Australian angel rolled her eyes. ‘Reckon’s he’s some kind of Great and Wonderful regally appointed whatsit, or something. Wanted to be professional at one point, so I hear, but they wouldn’t let him. Heard that one, myself. Some Texas ranger and another bloke of indistinct heritage, but not really, said if they couldn’t laugh at stuff, they’d put him in a distinctly… anyway. He likes arsehats. Something about he couldn’t talk for a week, later on as well, but you know, that’s what happens when you’re talking waaaay too deep for someone who doesn’t usually sound like that.’

‘Are you in trouble,’ asked the “British” angel. ‘Hmmm?’

“Hmm?” Not really? Well, yes? No? Not right now? It’s the weekend. Everything knows nothing much happens on the weekend. It’s not the weekend where you are though, is it?’

‘It might not be yet, no.’ The Not-to-be-deterred “Jumped up wanker” of a “British angel” inspected his cloud. ‘There’s a hole in this bit. I’ll have to get it fixed after your thingy that’s coming up.’

‘Speaking of holes,’ said the Australian angel, grinning widely. There wasn’t a hole to be seen. ‘What are you sitting on, when you sit on your cloud?’

‘What do you meeeeean?’ asked the other angel suspiciously.

‘Asking for a friend. Just checking on something. You don’t mind me asking, do ya?’

‘Heroics will get you nowhere,’ the other angel replied testily. ‘Kindly remove your hands from my buttocks.’

‘Oh well done! Now… is that a front bum, or a back bum?’

‘You are in so much trouble now! Let me tell you about my great aunt Fanny!’

The angel who’d had a rug pulled out from him wandered up and sat on a distant cloud.

“Came over last week,” he said, very unconvincingly. “Maybe not. Maybe I came over last year. Goddammit, maybe I haven’t been there yet. I don’t understand you people!”

‘That’s what I thought,’ said the Australian angel. ‘I also thought you may have decided to, ya know, help out at some point, seeing as I asked a few times, but it appears that I’m not important enough.’

“I never said that!”

‘That’s true. You didn’t. Didn’t say much at all, ak-choo-ally. Oh well, never mind.’ The very small Australian angel started to putter away on her old-fashioned, slightly pink, slightly green, slightly orange, have-I-made-my-point yet, fluffy white cloud. ‘It’s only a little place, after all. Can’t fit too many passengers.’

The sound of distant sirens made her frown. ‘Just letting you know, it’s not getting any better around here. I think we could all do with a little help.’

The Very Sweary Faerie.

This is not based on a true story. At all. Nor is it based on anyone else’s stuff, so hopefully they won’t take offence.

The faery was lying right-side up in the biggest and boggiest swamp he had ever been in, in his entire life.

‘I am sick and tired of this shirt,’ he cried in an extrememememely masculine voice, which had been auto-tuned to sound just right. ‘Why did I think it was a good idea to go wandering around in a swamp slash lake of mystical beings, just to get me rocks off?’

Nobody answered him. For once in his life, it was beautifully silent. The dragonfly larvae wasn’t quite big enough to bite him yet, and the mosquitos were not interested in trying to suck his blood. If it had not been for the fact he was lying in mud and staring at the clouded sky with no way of getting himself out, he would have been quite happy.

Unfortunately, his feet were encased in muck and he had fallen backwards, landing on his ample backside in the bog. His hands were scrabbling around, trying to find something to grab hold of, but there was nothing. Not even a reed.

‘Bugger,’ he said loudly. ‘Bugger me. Bugger this. Bugger everything.’

Off in the distance, below the sound of the mudlarks and fairy wrens, below the sound of the newly escaped gaseous swamp-like bubbles, there came a sound of intermittent buzzing.

‘What the far kenneth hell is that?’ The faery would have turned his head, if it wasn’t glued to the swamp slash lake. As it was though, it was glued to the swamp slash lake so he had to roll his very tiny eyeballs. The buzzing was coming closer. Not too close, not yet, but a lot closer than it had been five minutes ago. It was accompanied by a not-at-all auto tuned voice which happened to be singing very loudly and very off-key.

‘Tra-la-la-lally, I’m off to the valley. Oh, not on your nelly, I am rather smellyyyyyy.’

It didn’t make much sense at all.

All of a sudden a rather large and beautiful dragonfly, accompanied by an obnoxious ladybird (who seemed to be cackling loudly) appeared over the top of the horizontal faery’s head.

‘Well hello there,’ said the Dragonfly in a very friendly voice. ‘Would you like some help out of the poopy-poo-jobbies and whatsername you have found yourself in?’

The ladybird didn’t say anything. She had spent an awfully long time with a couple of really crestfallen, but still happy, seagulls and didn’t really trust herself to say nice things. It may have been half the reason she had disappeared for a very long time. One tends to do that when a lot of things go wrong all at once. She did smile though, which sent a shiver up the small faery’s spine. It wasn’t unpleasant, but there was something there that made the faery think he may not have been a very good boy.

‘Will you save me from this terrible position I have found myself in,’ the faerie asked from his prone position in the mud.

The ladybird cocked her tiny head. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I know a few people who might, but you’d need to head over to their place, and that, unfortunately for you, is nowhere near here, but it’s a lot closer to where I come from, originally. There’s a lot of wild-eyed kids there, and they have lots of stories to tell, if you care to take a look. They are rather beautiful stories, to be honest with you, and quite a lot of them are not mine. But, you know, it’s only a very small place, so maybe you’re not interested.’

The Dragonfly had begun to grin as well, and it was a lot more terrifying than the little sweet mannered and well represented ladybird. The faery finally realised the Dragonfly’s eyes were many faceted, and he could not quite tell where, exactly, the Dragonfly was looking.

‘Oh,’ he said mildly from his position in the murk. ‘I think I may have made a terrible mistake. You see, when I first met the ladybird, that was all she did. I know she warned people she did other things as well, but I didn’t really believe it was possible. After several months of stalking the ladybird, like the absolute nutter I am, I have decided perhaps now it would be a good time to ask if you could save me, properly, from the terrible position I have found myself in for not believing in the magic of ladybirds. Also, there are other things I would like to discuss with the ladybird, but perhaps that is something left for another day, in another world entirely.’

‘I think so too,’ said the Dragonfly. ‘Okay, someone lower the rope, and we’ll get him out of there. If he doesn’t hang himself while he’s being airlifted by magical Dragonflies to safety, he might actually learn something.’

‘You never know, do you,’ said the ladybird conversationally, and off she flew, never to be seen again except perhaps in bookshops and ebooks.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story. It never really is.

“Kickin’ Off”

‘I’m gonna go to the pub,’ said Blue to Greenie.

‘Are ya now? Gotta bit dough, ‘ave ya?’ Greenie looked at his mate.

‘Not really mate. Saved up for a bloody week for this.’

‘A week now, is it?’

‘Maybe a bit longer. Dunno.’ Blue pulled out his wallet. ‘Yeah, maybe a bit longer.’

‘Ya know, mate, Mum said if ya gonna go down, ya may as well go down hungry.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Prob’ly cost ya less to buy a meal than it will to buy a bloody beer, that’s why.’

‘Ya reckon?’ Blue looked into Greenie’s eyes and began to laugh. ‘You gonna give us a show then?’

‘Waddaya mean?’

‘You know. My mate says when you’ve got a good left hook you should probably save it for the best bit.’

‘Right. That’s for sure. Anyway, if you’re goin’, could ya spot me a twenny?’

‘A twenny? Why’s that?’

‘It’ll go towards the six pack I can get sitting at home watching the telly while you go down the bloody pub and buy one schooner, that’s why. I’ve got five bucks ‘ere, saying you’d rather stay at home and ‘ave a drink out in the backyard with me.’

‘True, that. But, you know, certain circumstances might get me down the pub, especially if I can’t get to see the live action at home.’

Greenie nodded wisely. ‘Ya got me there, mate. Might have to save up a bit of money meself, I s’pose.’

‘How long’ll that take ya?’

‘Probably about a freakin’ year, mate. Not too many of us get to go to the pub anymore. Contrary to what Old Slim used to sing, the pubs got beer, it’s just no one can afford it.’

‘So, I guess I’m stayin’ at home again tonight.’ Blue sat back down on his milk crate and surveyed the yellow sand of the boxed-in yard. ‘Party at my place, then.’

‘I’ll bring the snags.’

So, Brother

Are you willing to travel back to the land before Oz?

Are you willing to learn of the differences and sameness?

Are you willing to survive in the wilderness and discover something older than you? Much older, yes, and the true giver of life, because that is where she begins.

Let it rain, but let it be gentle. A cleansing. A new beginning. The smell is slightly different here, but the outcome after your wandering will be your choice alone.

Time looks to Nature and slowly replies. He thinks through these things, and slowly replies.

‘I have not been kind,’ he says. ‘You are right. This story, although highly amusing and slightly terrifying, and I know you are not pointing the finger at anyone in particular, is the one we should be paying for. I realise, this time, an apology will not suffice. Lead the way.’

The Discovery.

When one is not on foot, and the trees one is trying very hard to avoid are rather close together, trying to get from one place to the next, just to find the sandy track one has finally arrived at is in the wrong place, one might feel slightly peeved.

If it is in the middle of the night though, one might decide to grab the swag, remove one’s boots, and set up camp right there, in the middle of the track.

‘I’m not particularly fond of this spot,’ he said to his rather tall companion. ‘Can we not go on a little further?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she huffed. ‘I got you here in one piece, and if you want to find it, perhaps staying in one piece is a particularly good idea. Go to sleep, for God’s sake. I’ll film you tomorrow.’

‘Can’t we talk about it now?’ He scratched his beard. He’d never been particularly good at these things, but he knew, he just knew, if he could find the place where the drone had spotted that very interesting, very large, blinking whatever-it-was, his career would sky-rocket.

‘I know where you’re going with this,’ she replied. ‘But many people wouldn’t. There’s no reception there and I think it might take a few missed turnoffs just to reach the right place. According to the map, there’s a little inlet, tributary type thing just up the way a bit, so perhaps when it’s daylight and we can both see where we’re going, we’ll go and check it out.’

‘Excellent.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I think this would be much better than emptying sewerage tanks for a living.’

‘Yes well. In my experience, being behind the camera instead of in front of it, is what I’d rather do. But, you do you.’

Argaeous stood in the middle of nowhere, but still

the graveyard, at first holding his arms out wide, then windmilling them with great gusto. TEA AND INERTIA.

‘Crystalline, I am possibly spelling your name wrong, again,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘But, you should get the llamas and bring them here, for if Mary doth not accompany Cassius the lead llama from many years ago to chill him the hell out, the people and News Crews will drag the bloomin’ sleigh to all sorts of unaccommodating placemats.’ Which they did.

The luna equations were aligned indeed. Several personal favourites had decided to don their masks of slightly wooden legs and horrendously shaped bonnets and were flying in a not too distant line of kinsmen of old. They also had not realised the extent some people would go to to make it seem as if Mrs Capewell was evil and nasty.

‘Ah ha!’ Argaeous cried with homily frustrations. ‘My timid wolf at last beats upon the heavens of God knows what.’

‘I didn’t tell your timid wolf to do that,’ said someone no one knew. ‘But I do like that these past many lives of distant humanitarian blessed be friends have supplied thee with. They can send money to lots of other people. My soon to be freakishly handsome great aunt of mother gomorrah has decided to be welsh today.’

‘Is he of a wonderfully short stature with berry pretty eyes.’ It appeared Crys had arrived with a ne’er do well in tow.

‘Apparently. And likes horses. Mostly white ones but has been known to get in a chariot behind others as well.’

‘Others as well?’

‘Indeed, but not in deed, just chariots.’ It must be said here the Greek had been Greeking much of late and would possibly be the one who needed to sit down. Very soon. Or lose that pretty shirt.

‘I see how one might get that mixed up if one were as blind as a bat and didn’t… oh that one where no one really died,’ said the welshman, drinking deeply from his cup of foul knowledge.

‘Yes, him. And the othery. And her as well.’

‘FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN of the past,’ shouted the small of stature. She had indeed filled out declarations and shown some to the Justice of the Peace across the way, which had not been taken into account by distant over the land and sea and far away, favourites, who like to write things down and present them to lost in space very well known masked men of large and sweetened empires and then use them for their own benefits. Things were also then shown to the local Shadow Federal Ministers office for that kind of thing, and they also had no plans because they were having far too much fun at Mrs Capewell’s expense, which happened to be quite a lot, once again not really benefiting her personally in any way, but they were having fun so who cared.

‘Look what they’ve done there!’ Is it Mr Chatty, or one of the “Hemingways” who has taken a page from a Benjamin booklet? They might indeed have been raiders of a lost ark, and sore indeed, for my ark is still safely ensconced in paper, although not half as pretty as it ended up being I’m sure. It will possibly be available in a later chapter that was possibly never meant for the internet, but seeing as I am apparently damned, it will be. (After all, how much worse could it be? I mean, having control over the weather is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? Especially when the Llamas have now become AI internet consultants for Facebook. It can’t get much worse than that.)

‘Kindly remove the hands,’ added the AI, winking in a most dramatic fashion. ‘I’ve got this.’ With that, the AI turned itself into yet another beloved story of the soon to be extremely broke former author and f*cked that up as well. Ladybirds become sparkly gay people baring their arses on television in ads, or stripped in far off taverns and called themselves Ambrosia, and no one wanted to take them to show their children because that’s kind of disgusting. So, the original ladybird called Ambrosia Honeybun Polka Dot carefully removed herself from the situation as much as she was able and said, ‘Quite frankly, the ladybird died. Thanks for asking.’

Off the AI galloped, in a very winsome way, floating his tail behind him like a waterfall of sheer delight, his rather large and majestic looking companion running beside him with a slightly heroic grin. The heroics were for themselves, not her and none of them came back because why bother? All they needed to do really, was steal her words, mix them up, take them for granted and never think about the woman again because nobody gave a shit about who she was or where she came from. The fact she had slightly good ideas didn’t matter too much either. She personally, would not get any benefit from them, would not be recognised for them, did not have a team of anyone looking out for her because her parents and grandparents had died quite a few years back, thanks very much, and nobody really understood why it wasn’t a nice thing to do, stealing things from a person’s grave (or old Facebook account, or WordPress, or Microsoft Word) who hadn’t actually died, just got sick of all the bullshit.

Instead, they candidly asked her for ratings of their broken internet services, whilst breaking hers, told no one who they’d stolen the ideas from, although it became blatantly obvious they were hers to begin with, and wouldn’t communicate in a civil manner because they didn’t care to. Sound like a good way to push someone off a cliff? It does, doesn’t it. They compensated her for this by giving her an extra Unemployment benefit once in a while and telling themselves it was a good job well done. They hoped, by doing this, and by barring her from as much as they possibly could, they’d get off scot free and she’d maybe eventually lie down like the dog she was supposed to be.

The End.