English: Panthera tigris sumatran subspecies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Their terrace is touched with the taint of their terrible taste. Tacky terracotta tigers tread between tiny tepees in the tulip boxes. These are tightly packed on the edge of the toffee coloured tiles which should only be found in toilets from twenty to thirty years ago and then only because people did not know better at the time.
Their thousand times enlarged game of tiddly-wink might tickle the fancy a trifle, but it would hardly tease forth tears if the terrace in its totality was terminated.
I’ve tried to tell them tons of times, but apparently to add to their lack of tact, they have trashed their telephone, and I don’t do telegraphs which seems to be the only other type of telecommunication they receive.
It seems that I just have to try to make my trees grow taller, before I am tempted to tear it all to shreds or worse tip off a tabloid.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on June 19, 2013
Grand Inquisitor Tomás de Torquemada (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Seeing her sang-froid during the sacrilege of the Sister’s Shrine started his suspicions that several things about her might be as serpentine as her curls. Alternatively, he speculated, the scene had shaken her sanity.
She might be scarred beyond salvaging, but to satisfy the Good Samaritan in him he had to search for signs which supported his suspicions before settling on a conclusion and save her if she was a sinner.
So far, not a single solid fact had shown itself that could sever him from his indecision, but her sickly sweet smile sent shivers down his spine.
And that soon sapped his sorrow and sparked something stronger which strangled his senses and sent him into a frenzy.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on June 14, 2013
Rice pudding to read relatives’ fortunes in (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The only revelations I ever receive are
Of how to:
Read relatives’ fortunes in rice pudding
How rats rotate in zero gravity.
With the risk of being ridiculed,
I admit that I only
That I have a role in this world
When I’m running.
Which I realize is ridiculous.
I’m not like Richard the third
Who ripped his way through all his rivals and even
The road to the throne.
Not that I’m ravenous to rupture any organs, but
I need a goal to relinquish this thirst.
I cannot rest
Until I have some sort of quest
To relieve my shattered nerves and
That my ramblings on this earth is
Or at least will be
In some way
Posted by W. R. Woolf on June 12, 2013
English: The “Darnley Portrait” of Elizabeth I of England. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
After some comments from the querulous queen, the quack quipped that maybe they should dance their quadrille in the quagmire so as not to dirty her floor. The queen then questioned if the quack happened to have quilts enough to cover the quagmire completely or if he simply wished to be quenched in the silence of the bog and be granted a final quietus.
This made the quack quail and he quitted his queries.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on June 8, 2013
Person in Palanquin (Photo credit: Cornell University Library)
As he carried a pail to the pagoda, he peered at a passing palanquin and wondered what palatable pleasures the person within would prefer. Potatoes were probably far from what a person with such perks and privileges could purchase.
People he met always postulated that every new day at the pagoda was pristine. That in its primitiveness the pagoda preserved a picturesque piece of history that he should be proud of. Also, the priests pontificated on behalf of the place practically every day. They were positive towards his silence, so he pretended to listen and pondered palindromes in his head.
If he could pick and choose, it would be easy as a pianola; he would not be the person in the pagoda.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on June 5, 2013
The “Overlady” through their eyes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My whole organism objects when I observe these obscenely obedient officers being all obsequious to their overlord, or rather their overlady. Them with their offending odours which are oppressive in the omnibus and occasional Oedipus worthy ogles at their mistress, and the mistress with her ostentation of her bodily ornaments, it’s obnoxious!
Not that I oppose the operation, of course, but I think the ordeal would be overcome easier if I could be onymous or at least have other agents on my side as I am not omnipresent and the information oozes from them slowly. Oh, how I long to obliterate them!
Although all my organs cry out at the outrage, I look outwardly ordinary to our opponents.
We will outmanoeuvre and ostracize them yet.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 31, 2013
Belladonna (Atropa Belladonna) (Deadly Nightshade) (Photo credit: Plbmak)
Necromancy is the nefarious negotiation with the not natural or no longer alive. No one normal could ever nourish this nympholepsy of knowing what needs to be not known about the never ending night, but if some numbskull should think it nifty to natter with the deceased, he or she should be made negligible by nudging the nitwit with napalm or neurotoxin if necessary.
Anyone who does not do what needs to be done, shall be named a niddering and a nuisance, will have his or her nose nicked in a not nice way, and be asked to enjoy his or her newfangled nyctalopia induced by Deadly Nightshade.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 30, 2013
Laboratory mice (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As much a megalomaniac as any master magician, the man mused that the meretricious musicians might be made to mute their monotonous music and assist him with his mutated mice.
Many of the mice had become mildewed and most were meandering beyond the moat.
The mildew could simply be merged with the mice; the meandering was more of a predicament.
Maybe a mesh of metal wires would be the best method of catching them. There might, however, still be mermaids left in the moat from the last time he meddled with the mythos tome, and mermaids might make matters more complicated.
Maybe they could be made more merciful if he presented them with merchandise?
A “Merry Mutated Mouse Mug” maybe?
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 25, 2013
Oryctolagus cuniculus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Lethargic longears lounge on the lawn in Luna’s light, the Lord Leaf leading them in their languid leisure.
They look less alive after the laboratory. They left it last month. How long will the effects last, I wonder? Little Lovage has become lanky and the Lord Leaf lumpish.
Are these lackadaisical lads and ladies all that are left of the loving, laborious and limber companions that I lost?
What lunacy could let this lamentable lycanthropy change them? Alas, there is a large lacuna in my knowledge of the laboratory, and its labyrinthine corridors do not allow me to find the Lucifer who did it.
Were it not for my lisp I would loudly let them know that my loyalty is still strong.
But for how long I cannot tell.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 22, 2013
Genghis Khan (source: planetforward.ca)
Since he came to the kindergarten kicking and screaming, the kernel of his being was a Khan. Of course, he could not get away with killing anyone, but he could call his kleptomania tribute and none of the other kids complained to the grown-ups.
Then one day, he kissed the Korean kid’s teddy Koala and said it was a girl. This made the Korean kid discover the kobold in his belly. At first it seemed like a crow combating a komodo dragon, but then the Korean kid found a kris and they turned into Kilkenny cats.
Kyrie eleison was sung over both their corpses in the church.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 17, 2013