It’s Time to Refill Edward


Refill, flat cap?


“Your health, nipperty-tipperty” said Grover Fontenot, slopping his drink. “Your health, milk-testing” they all replied, eyeing the stains on his lab coat.

“Your health, nurse frog” croaked Gonzalo Darling, turning in his chair to face the ancient woman beside him. “Your health, old-field lark” she warbled back. The militant army of God swept meddlers up stairs mumbling the ritual of the unseeing infected wavelength, but in the pub lounge they ignored the sudden shift of air and continued raising their glasses.

Linda Circumflex, her perpetually raised eyebrow pointing into the wind, turned to her neighbour and bellowed “Your future, narrow-chested”. “Your future, music-panting” replied a small man in a plastic raincoat, his outfit glistening with good cheer.


Cocktail time

The theatre buffs, ladled out another round by the dazzling Amaryllis Courtney, began to glow a little brighter still. “Proscenium do you feel the energy! swingy…” babbled Thracius Pritchard. He had seldom spoken a word in the last seven years or so.

“Future, whiting brush,” said the glossy and overgroomed Heath Sprague to his snowy-haired companions. “Irony and buffoonery are, in times of catastrophe, like free travel in paradise,” intoned Johnathon Insouciant, so they all knew he didn’t mean it.

“Better future, yellow-gloved” yelped Rigoberto Fontenot, brother of the discoloured Grover. Somebody mumbled “I hope you don’t expect us to wash up”.

Their collective laughter creaked across the room. “Better success, wicker-woven” they all seemed to say at once. “Better Success, wave guide” quipped clever ButterFly Abdominales, rippling with amusement.

Kermit Lamb stared vaguely into the mirror behind the bar. “Better Success, yellow cheeked” said his reflection. Then he splashed down. Frogs are very annoying! And on it went, the superficial emptiness filled for a while by the irrevocable scrawl trailing from their elegy biplane.

“Better Life, white-churned!”

“Better Life, wind signal!”

“Better Life, wood widgeon!”

“Better Life, wine-bright!”

The world is blurry


In a bonging without warning the face of annoy grew sullen, as the licensee tinkled his little bell. It was time to settle up and leave. “Your money, moon-browed,” sighed Scarves O. Lurched. Afloat on his own breath, he rocked and smiled at nobody in particular. “Your money, night-cart!” bellowed Urinary U. Auditorium, who projected his voice into large spaces for a living. “Your money, one-pope” murmured a small woman who was passing the hat around. “Loraine haven’t I done enough?” pleaded Depleted H. Glasgow. “Your cash, musket arrow?” enquired a polite fellow to the right of Thursdays L. Projectile.

Before he could answer, asceticism jangled hideously out of crones. It was the sound of Gertrude Dowdy, Minnie D. Huff and Guadalupe Cornett emptying their coin jars. They’d meant to feed the poker machines, but had sunken too far into their chairs. “Your cash, morning-colored!” The publican stretched out an arm grown sturdy from opening the till. As he ushered them out the door, he decided he quite liked these bubble bath taxidermists. “Much less trouble than the pig pen ruffians inside 63,” he thought, glancing across the road at Snakebite B. Acetone’s rank little establishment.

The door closed behind them, but there was one last toast to make.

“Trust, mingle-mangle!” said Flux J. Oops as he spilled out into the street and began to roll downhill, safe in the knowledge that they’d pick him up when he finally reached the bottom.


Table lamp in a breeze




This story was constructed from recycled spam and a little wood glue.