“You should try to write more neatly,” Miss Gillian said to Little Joey. “I can’t read what you wrote!”
“It’s a secret language!” said Little Joey. “I call it Scribblinglish! I just scribble something, and it turns real!”
“Very imaginative,” said Miss Gillian.
Teacher-eating flying killer whale, wrote Little Joey.
After the incident, they told him riding the merry-go-round would give him some needed perspective, but so far the only discovery he’d made was that yes, you can throw up when your stomach is empty. (He’d also discovered he kind of liked the taste of bile, but that’s another story.)
Grampa rolled his rocking chair back and forth, back and forth.
He rubbed the twin barrels of his shotgun with the polishing rag, up and down, up and down.
He spit a wad of chewing tobacco into a jar, stood, and said,
“Missy, don’t you never–ever–kiss no boys.”
When the smoke cleared, she felt… different, somehow. Her skin tingled, her biceps bulged, and when she squinted at her hand she saw right through it!
“Wow,” she thought. “I should choose a name for myself. Glory Girl? The Menacer? Peace Defender? Hot Commodity?”
She decided to stick with Melanie.
“Ow! Oooooow!! Ouch! Ooh… Aah… Huuuaaaah… OH!! Woooow… Whoa! Aaaah! It burns! Eeeeek! Aaaaargh! Nyyyuuuurrgh… WWWAAAAAAAAUUGHH!! Hoooly mother of painburgersssss… GRROOOOAARGH IT HURTS SO BAAAAD!! No, why, why!?!? Ooow!! Never again! I swear on your grandmother’s grave if you ever even BHAAAAAUGH!!! OW OW OW!!”
“…I said I was sorry.”
It was Jasmine’s birthday.
“It’s my birthday!” said Jasmine.
She had been born seventeen years before.
“I was born exactly seventeen years ago!” said Jasmine.
Jasmine wanted to have a party.
“Yay!” said Jasmine.
“Darling,” said Jasmine’s mother, “your birthday is tomorrow. Go back to bed.”
“Oh,” said Jasmine. “Whoops.”
“We have to whack the President,” said Evan Edgelow.
“What?” said Timothy Thicke. “Barack Obama, the President of the United States?”
“No. The President of the Miley Cyrus Unofficial Fan Club. We have to hit him with a rolled up newspaper.”
“Huh? Why?”
“I don’t ask questions. Publicity stunt, probably.”
The first day of school was like a nightmare for Billington Washburn Crabcakes. He tried to make friends, but everyone wanted to know what his name was, and he knew that if he told them he’d be made fun of for always.
So he kept to himself and ate crayons.
He flourished like a magician, his red cape brilliantly catching the light.
She looked up, and he thought he saw the briefest of smiles before she hid again behind her coloured fan.
His heart swelled, his soul soared, and his lungs collapsed under the hooves of the unusually aggressive bull.
“Oh, come on, you’re pulling my leg…”
“I am not. It’s true!”
“If gasoline is really flammable, then why doesn’t my stomach explode? I’ve been drinking that stuff for years.”
“Well you’d need a spark to set it off.”
“Here, I’ll swallow a lit match to prove it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
This story was inspired by a title supplied by @gameking128 on Twitter.