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The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Tea
Like a great big fiery thing, rising up over the horizon, like a vicious memory (like you'd forgotten to do the cleaning before guests were coming over, handily steering the guests into the nearest casino, hoping to sneak away at any moment, only you found you were winning almost as much as you were losing at the slot machines, and stuck by your machine to see if you couldn't get your money back (not daring to hope to hit the big one), when you realise you guests are clustered around you, waiting for you to take them back to your home, as promised, the home which you haven't quite cleaned, and which, a rising fear in the back of your mind reminds you, surely has a banana peel right now, at this very moment, decomposing on your kitchen table and will incite true terror in the faces and hearts of these formerly dear sweet people, so you take them the long way home, hoping in your heart of hearts that they'll get bored or tired or both and just stop off in any old random house, or perhaps pass their car and decide to just go home, or, and here might be an ideal scenario, you lose them by walking alternatively very very fast and very very slow, ducking around a corner and dashing home to tidy up a bit and scrub the really disgusting bits of either rotting banana skin or mold or sentient dust, shoving a few strategic pieces of dirt you can come back to later under various other things you don't expect people to inspect, least of all pick them up, in examining them, before heading back to the door, on the the way scattering a few pre-chosen albums on the couch, to highlight your taste, your careless, effortless taste!, then finally back out on to the street to find your by now possibly bewildered guests to show them your glorious palace, making quite sure not to turn the lights up too brightly), stuff of legends.
This is what happens most mornings, when the Sun comes up, unless you happen to live in England, Seattle, or any of the other indigenous rainy areas.
So indeed he felt slightly foolish when, after waiting up throughout the night in the soft sweet grass of the hillside (and we won't go into it further), she told him that she'd seen it before, and that it happened most days, as a matter of fact. He would have to re-think his strategy for impressing her, then, he thought.
She admitted, a bit late, perhaps, but still, that she did enjoy it being called a vicious memory and stuff of legends, though she somewhat ruined the effect the concession had by snickering into her hand after she'd said it, possibly snickering at the memory (itself not particularly vicious, from her point of view, though from other's it may seem quite vicious, indeed) of his face, as he leapt to his feet at the appearance of the fiery orb most people call the Sun and strained to burst forth his fervent speech about the glorious event. That and a piece of cake he'd been eating (and herself as well, he having made the cake earlier in the day, a valiant attempt, which came out mostly gooey... ehm, successful, not to make him out to be a cake-hoarding bastard or anything), at some point during the evening stuck itself firmly to the bit of shirt below his left breast pocket and bore a passing resemblance to Sid Caesar. Which you have to admit would make you laugh, too.
And the morning slipped quietly into history. And the two of them travelled down to the town, below, and ordered two caffe lattes, which he promptly compared to a summer's day.
disclaimer:
I really really like Chocoflakes.
In case you're interested the preceding articles submitted before we finally settled on this one involved Andalusian monks (borrowing a cameo from an earlier issue), wombats (a crowd favourite, though a bit weak on storyline (this one involved wombats sitting around, to such a vague degree that they could have been any animal, or even most inanimate objects, really), taxes, and something about custard (also horribly dull, and it could have been substituted with any pastry and/or sweet, really). All of them involved the word 'indigenous', apparently due to a bet the writer had made earlier in the week.
We'll also note, somewhat uncharacteristically for us, there seems to be a bit of a row over ourselves over at swerd's, breaking out of our normally serene shell of solipsism to serenely point out the thing (the other thing, not the solipsism) (For whom, incidentally, some years ago, I wrote the yet one more thing.). A furore, if you will.
Our solicitors, after exhibiting stunning competence and swift-oft-i-tous-ity in generating a letter to the offending party, seem to have gone off to play golf somewhere, and are unavailable for comment.
Our official position on the matter is flattered.
Which is a lot for us, as we rarely say how we really, truly feel. Aww. (Feel in the non-physical sense, of course. Or perhaps in the physical sense, as well. Who can tell?)
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Whippersnapper.