The Librarian's Revenge ©

The Librarian's Revenge ©

An Odyssey Into The Wonderful World Of Words

This community is dedicated to C.W. Hewett's epic masterpiece

Borderline Smut and Debauchery

EXERCISESPosted by Geoffrey Bunting 14 Aug, 2009 10:43PM

For these excercises we were given two phrases and two objects from which to make stories:

Objects: Unisex toilets, Desk tidy

Phrases: "Not now, maybe next week, Sandra.", "Fire in the disco."

I walked into the unisex toilets as Elvis Costello and the Attractions blared from the speakers- surrounding me with "Armed Forces." I had initially wondered how exactly a unisex toilet would work- whether there would just be row upon row of cubicles standing at attention read for their unisex prey. I was disappointed to find it was just a toilet- a single toilet with no real defining features to set it apart from other toilets, not ever a name.

I stared intently at the pale seat. This toilet is far too special not to have a name I thought. I decided I would call it Sandra as she began to beckon me- reaching out for me- wanting me. Craving. She wanted me to give her something. "Not now, maybe next week, Sandra." I whispered soothingly as I stroked her porcelain bowl. I gave Sandra a quick peck and left.

The disco felt empty without her, the coolness of her breath and her sweet cinnamon scent. I had not appetite for dancing now, I just sat in the corner and sulked- determined to stay there and leave for no one, not even a fire in the disco could have shifted me. I checked in my bag for my lucky desk tidy and felt relieved to feel it’s knobbly goodness against my clumsy, clammy hand. Running my fingers down its length and into the diverts at the bottom- for rubbers or something… And I was lost in sensuality.

Objects: Spatula, Encyclopaedia

Phrases: "I’m going to have to be a communist again.", "You’ve got to give him credit for style."

I stared across the table at myself. My eyes looked weary and hungry. It wasn’t often I came to visit but it was always a sobering affair. I laid the spatula down on the counter and poured the pasta I had cooked into two bowls; one for me and one for me. I had only made enough for me but I couldn’t let myself starve. "Oh well- I’m going to have to be a communist again." I thought as I poured I looked over at me again and saw myself staring at my centrepiece. An old encyclopaedia- for lack of anything better to use. My tired eyes burning through the cover with their intensity. I brought the past to myself at the table.

"Well, how am I?" I asked myself.

"I’m fine." I replied.

"Have I seen Chris, recently?"

"No, she’s off with this fellow." I showed myself a photo.

"You’ve got to give him credit for style." I said

"Mm." I replied.

a poem i wrote the leif liked :D

EXERCISESPosted by Michael Howe 14 Jul, 2009 08:58PM

When we joined lips for the foremost instance I plunged
Into the midst of winter, on mantles of snow
Frozen, white, intense and velvety, making me descend
It was a site of splendour and perfect for a moment

When we held hands for the foremost instance I plunged
Into the midst of spring, in a pasture of flowers
Stroking each one not distressing any part of them
It was humid and rewarded me the sensation of belonging

When we laid together for the foremost instance I plunged
Into the midst of summer, onto a sandy shoreline
With fine blue skies and the echo of children’s laughter
The ascend of the sun granted me with the uplifting flash of glee

When I had to depart from you for the final instance I plunged
Into the midst of autumn, in a forest of inflamed trees
Murkiness, darkness were in tow, the clatter of croaking crows
The first vision of frost made me pine for the former seasons

And then the cycle begins once more.

When you kissed me again for the final instance I plunged

Into the midst of winter, on a bitter fleet of snow

It was cold and bleak, I couldn’t see the path

I shivered and fell giving up all faith of a purpose

When you held my hand for the final instance I plunged

Into the midst of spring, into a congested room

The heat made me pass out and gasp for tone

It was too hot and I sensed I needed to breakout

As the year changed so did the seasons upon which I endured

From anguish to ecstasy I touched each emotion to the complete

But promptly I must leave with haste because autumn is a foot

So give pleasure to begin again and turn the succession once more

Without me

Drive-by typing

EXERCISESPosted by Martin Oakshaft 18 Jun, 2009 11:03PM
um... not sure if this should go here....

its a kind of possible character introduction that was suggested to me earlier. the character in question is simply called The Caretaker (his job speaks for itself, really).
i havnt really gone into much detail about his looks and past as i thought that it might be something to develop later.

also... the thing is, all of you produce such exceptional work that im not sure if this comes up to scratch. i call it a "drive-by typing" because it was basically shot out quickly without me thinking about it too much. or editing it much, for that matter.

if i stop to think about what im actually *doing* my mind goes blank.

im still not sure if i am doing this "right", but i hope that you have a good read. feel free to comment and critique too!

(PS.. apologies if its a bit of an epic...i have yet to get the hang of writing short stuff!)


With a rattle of keys and a decisive clunk, the Caretaker locked another door. He was halfway through the nightly lockdown of the site with only an hour to. The site was huge and he faced yet another corridor. It stretched before him, an endless supply it seemed. Flicking the light switch, the Caretaker was instantly plunged into gloom; only the dim moonlight was left, leaving the Caretaker as a shadowy form.

The faint jingle of the Caretakers keys and the squeaking of his shoes made a strange counterpoint to the eerie sounds of the building settling for the night. Lights that had been on all day creaked and ticked as they cooled, the slow, archaic heating system grumbled and moaned through the pipes. Sometimes it sounded as if there was someone there. Hiding in the darkness. Even though the Caretaker recognised the sounds for what they were, they still sometimes disturbed him. His imagination was sometimes too vivid for his liking.

The lockdown was always simple. All the Caretaker had to do was to go from one end of the site to the other and lock all the doors as he passed them, and turning off the lights as he went. The important thing was to make sure that he had not locked anyone in, and also making sure that nobody could break in either. Intruders were always a faint possibility, either thieves or bored troublemakers. The Caretaker took his job seriously, although he was not quite sure what he would do if he ever found someone lurking. What he *did* know was that he wouldn’t and couldn’t back down if challenged, no matter what the odds. The Caretaker had been through some dark times in the past and now he simply refused to let anyone dominate him ever again.

As he walked down the corridor he could see his next destination. Another set of double doors lay ahead of him, the light from the corridor beyond glowed through the window panel of the door. The Caretaker felt a strange trepidation as he approached. The two squares of light, surrounded by near darkness seemed to him to look like demonic eyes. He thought it odd that the prospect of leaving the darkness and stepping into the light should make him feel nervous.

Shaking off such irrational thoughts, the Caretaker strode through the doors. As he selected the key from the bunch clipped to his belt, the doors swung shut and slammed with a loud boom that echoed down the corridor. One more section of the old building was secured. Only the theatre and Library to go.

The Caretakers route was such that he entered the theatre from the rear of the stage. There always seemed to be something very powerful in the air when he entered the theatre at night. It wasn’t just the primordial nervousness that darkness brings. It was almost like the stage was a funnel that sucked in and stored all the emotions wrought within such a place. For years, hundreds of people laughed and cried here; almost daily the actors put their souls into their chosen parts, willing themselves and the audience into realms of imagination and disbelief.

The Caretaker, wreathed in darkness and silence, stood centre-stage, he could almost feel the walls of the theatre projecting all the past feelings at him. Standing there, with a shivering tingle racing through his body he could almost believe that the theatre was alive. His vivid imagination was awash with the emotions that were brought forth from the actors of the past. He could almost see the wraithlike figures, translucent, and shimmering, eternally acting out their scenes upon the very stage which he stood.

It was the sharp jab of fear that brought him out of his reverie. Feeling nervous but shaking his head ruefully at his thoughts, the Caretaker started walking again. His last location, the Library was just ahead.

Strangely, the Library at night never bothered the Caretaker. It always seemed to him a place of introspection and solitude. A place of peace and safety. The eternal stillness of the place made him realise just how lonely he was. Not just lonely, but alone. Away from the routines of his job he was adrift. No lover to comfort him, no companion, no real friends that he could call upon. Just himself, the Caretaker. It seemed to him that at times he was as visible in the daytime as he was while he was locking up in the dark, that he only noticed when there was something menial, or something “sticky” to clear up.

It was a very rueful and melancholy Caretaker that finally arrived at the library entrance. He was used to ruminating over such thoughts and was not averse to “facing his demons”. He also knew that some positive thinking would bring him round. Stepping quietly through the library doors the Caretaker paused for a moment. He always felt like a welcome stranger here. Although the Librarian practically lived in the library, he was very rarely seen by the Caretaker. When seen, he was usually busy with his books. The Caretaker was used to being on the outside of social circles and he felt certain empathy for this quiet, unassuming person. The Caretaker also suspected that the Librarian had more depth than he showed, and that if his books or Library was threatened in any way, he would defend them with ferocity.

Quietly leaving the Library, the Caretaker went back to his quarters, resolutely thinking that no harm will come to that library. At least not on *his* watch………


EXERCISESPosted by Kirsty Hoath 17 Jun, 2009 09:32PM

Describe a food or drink


The clear liquid sat in the small glass that was held delicately between my fore finger and thumb. The glass and liquid were cool to the touch yet warmed my body when ingested. I wafted the glass under my nose and smelt nothing. I downed the contents quickly. The strange drink felt like it was burning the back of my throat. Burning, yet pleasant. Two more glasses of the same mixture sat slightly to my right. I downed them both and stood. The room started to spin slightly as my eyes struggled to focus and I felt light-headed. I regained my seat and refused to take another sip of the unknown substance; the after effects were unpleasant.

Do Not Trust Strangers

EXERCISESPosted by Kirsty Hoath 17 Jun, 2009 09:30PM

Write a story including 3 pre-chosen characters, whilst knowing only their name, gender and age.

Fred - female - 6

Steve - man - 98

Alice - female - 25


A camera’s light flashed. A child’s laughter echoed through the near empty park. An elderly gentleman sat, keeping watch over his great-great-granddaughter. A camera flashed again, hidden from view behind the thick rows of bushes. A near-middle-aged female stepped out from behind where she was hidden, clutching a camera. The child, a six year old girl, ran up to the newcomer.

"Fred, come back sweetheart!" The gentleman called to the little girl.

Fred threw her arms around the mid-twenty year old woman’s leg. The woman flushed slightly as her blood started to race around her body.

The man walked up the woman and removed the young girl from wrapped around her calf.

"I apologise for that. My name’s Steve by the way. And this is Fred." The elderly man indicated to the girl he had just untangled from the young woman and held out his hand in introduction.

The woman took his hand gratefully and smiled. "I’m Alice."

"What you taking pictures of?" The question was asked purely in curiosity.

"Scenery." The reply was slightly abrupt and her breathing was slightly laboured.

"I’m sorry, but we must dash. Come along Fred." Fred and Steve left the park, leaving Alice clutching her camera. She walked over to the park bench and flicked through the carefully taken shots. She stopped upon the picture of Fred. She stopped upon the picture of her little angel. She sighed, knowing that she would never really be hers.

Cruel Affair

EXERCISESPosted by Kirsty Hoath 17 Jun, 2009 09:23PM

Choose at random, an exercise from the 'Block Block'

Describe the first person who broke your heart.If you had the chance to take revenge on them, would you?

I haven't included the last part within this part of my story as I like how I ended it, and so did not wish to change the ending by including the question.


So many years ago, love struck me down in my stride. He was tall, dark and handsome, well, in my eyes at least. Dark, twinkling eyes, almost as black as night, yet they looked kind, supportive, caring. His eyes described his personality well. There was always apart of him though that was mysterious, secretive, hidden.

Tall I described him as, 1 foot 3 inches taller than me to be precise.

Handsome says it all really.


February 14th - Valentines day. The most romantic day of the year. We had agreed to meet, time date, place. It was going to be perfect. I turned the corner and froze in my tracks. He was bent over slightly, locking lips with another guy.

I was in shock. I matched over to him and wrenched him away from his affair, slapping him hard. So many emotions flittered across his face at that exact moment.

Initially surprise, followed by anger, realisation and then a combination of saying sorry with his eyes and a burning longing. Longing for me or longing for him, I didn’t know and to be honest, I didn’t care.

I turned sharply and walked away. His voice sounding mile in the distance, as he called me, wanting to explain. Tears streamed down my checks as I gathered speed, starting at a walk, finishing at a full out sprint.

I had no destination, I just ran to free my mind.

The Debt

EXERCISESPosted by Geoffrey Bunting 05 Jun, 2009 01:16AM

The Debt

Task: Create a story from a verse or poem.

A loose try at a bit of horror/ dark-fiction.

There was a rasping breeze scraping it's long, icy fingers across the windows. A wicked screeching sound emanated from the pane and a whistling pierced my ears. A rapping on oak had me moving for the door. It was a bitterly cold night, and I had been woken from my troubled sleep and brought from the safe warmth of my bed by a harsh whisper on the wind. As if I was beckoned from my sheets to receive something all the more sinister. I felt the cold clench it's sharp teeth about my toes, and felt a shiver up my spine and through my aching body. For all the inconvenience that my late-night caller caused me, I was somewhat grateful. My dreams and sleep were haunted, marred by visions of my guilt. From my actions years ago i had lost friend, lovers; everything. I had never let it go, I had never recovered. My actions led to so many deaths, so many dreams.

I vacantly let my door swing open, rubbing the sleep from my weary eyes whilst trying to hide myself from the cold. Then I saw him, standing upon my doorstep like the day I had left him. He was still soaked through, arms wrapped around his torn neck. His hollow, sunken eye-sockets stared into my soul and his skeletal smile grinned a deathly grin. I was frozen in shock as it all came back to me. How I had leapt from the ship into the swell below, leaving him behind as the corpse of our captain reanimated and wrestled with him. We had run into a storm of the horn of Africa, pirates had appeared on the port and instead of steering straight for them as ordered I had swerved fearful of the treacherous tide and weight of their cannon. But I had given them the wind, and they made short work of our stern in the tumultuous rain. Out aft section was blown to smithereens and out mast all but toppled. Four score and three crew died that night. But I had jumped overboard and after the sheer luck of survival had been picked up by a supply ship off the horn.

But the guilt had never left me, and now somehow I gazed into the empty eyes of my fellows. All of them resurrected by something arcane and foreboding, come to claim a debt of bones of me. Briggs the bosun’s mate, Maitland the Quartermaster whom I had won sixpence off that very night in cards. They had all come, four hundred and three sailors. To claim the life that should have been lost with theirs. Eight hundred and six empty sockets all gazed at me gleefully, if such a thing came naturally to the undead, and my fellow gave a croaking chuckle. His grin widened, causing flakes of his pallid, rotting skin to fall from his face. I knew there was nothing I could do, nothing that would spare me from my fate. I did not want to be spared. I felt their hot breath upon my face, collectively they heaved and groaned. I closed my eyes and let the dead take me. The dead had come to claim a debt from my and so they had. I was damned.

Turkish Song of the Damned

Shane McGowan

I come old friend from hell tonight
Across the rotting sea
Not the nails of the cross
Nor the blood of christ
Can bring you help this eve
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee
They stand outside your door
Four score and three

Did you keep a watch for the dead mans wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the turkish song of the damned

You remember when the ship went down
You left me on the deck
The captains corpse jumped up
And threw his arms around my neck
For all these years Ive had him on my back
This debt cannot be paid with all your jack

Did you keep a watch for the dead mans wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the turkish song of the damned

And as I sit and talk to you I see your face go white
This shadow hanging over me
Is no trick of the light
The spectre on my back will soon be free
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee

Did you keep a watch for the dead mans wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the turkish song of the damned


Take my Hands

EXERCISESPosted by Geoffrey Bunting 05 Jun, 2009 12:37AM

Take my Hands

Task: Describe a glass of water

This is a heavily re-edited version of my excercise. I'm still not happy with it. I seem to be writing a lot of stories in which characters do not communicate properly with each other, this generally means I'm on the way to writing some sort of speech based play.

The glass was still, horridly so, following suit with my frozen body. A shock had come over me and my body now seemed unwilling to shift position at the sight of her. A position and angle that allowed light to pass through the prism-like glass and into my bleary eyes, the fogginess of the vessel no deterrent to the ever-persistent sunlight. But my blindness was of no import. Through my squinting blindness I saw the silhouette of a shadowy figure I had never wanted to see again. I snapped out of my reverie just as the light faded and I felt the glass shift position, downwards! I clasped it just in time, such a cliché as dropping a glass in shock was not allowed. Not now, not ever!

Her black hair stirred slightly in the wintry wind, the tried to feign a smile but her reddened cheeks faltered in their effort to grin; possibly because of the cold, possibly because she simply didn’t have the will to smile at the likes of me, and why should she smile? Here I was greeting her at my door dressed in nought but my bed clothes, covered in stains and rips. I looked down in shame, so many months had been spent trying to inadvertently see her, trying to look decent constantly just in case and when she sees me I’m a mess. This is typical of her. If I had been fore-warned I might have tried to seem less bear like, got rid of the sea gull nest that called itself my hair, shaved away my cat scratching post of a beard and dressed according to the manual I was given at birth: ‘How to appear human’ or, alternatively I could have snuck out without her seeing. Or simply, not answered the door. The latter was simple, but my mind wandered into the intricacies of my escape. How, upon hearing the knocking, I would jump quickly (but stealthily) from my bed and rush to the window. It would open with a slight creak, threatening to give me away. But she wouldn’t hear. Instead I would bound onto the ground and run to my freedom. However, it hadn’t quite worked out like that. I wasn’t a ninja, and she was growing impatient.

I knew I had to let her in, a combination of the thick snow on the fields and stiles about my home and her pleading smiles between shivers told me this. She had her "Can we talk?" look on, but no words were passed between us; just a knowing stare. We hadn’t spoken in months, indeed I wouldn’t have known what to say to her if we had. I don’t know that I had anything to say to her. But now she turned up at my door in the middle of nowhere. I felt the familiar painful lift in my heart, a feeling that was generally linked with thoughts of her and then intolerable sadness. The fact that she was here could mean one of three things: She was in trouble with one of the many boys she was likely bunking up with, she was drunk, or I was in trouble. I saw sense in her eyes, and she didn’t look any different. So I was probably in trouble.

I assumed the defensive position, arms open inviting embrace. I felt hate and gratitude as she stepped over the threshold of the doorway into my arms. She was cold, she shivered, she cried. I felt the glass dig into her back and decided it was encumbering me. I didn’t want to be in this position again, not with her. She brushed a black strand of hair from her face and shot me her "I’ve missed you" look, a look I’d missed. I placed my empty glass on a shelf, abandoning my last means of defence against her. It gave a dull thud as I placed it down too hard, yet somehow reluctant to leave my grasp as if it knew what was coming. She gave me her Puck "Take my hand if we be friends" look and offered a meek smile. I didn’t return the favour. With all my will, and against much better judgement that shouted for attention within my head I shut my door and with my un-laden hands I took both of hers, that were icy to the touch, and tried to smile. She smiled, this one was real. She gave me her "Kiss me" look, she had achieved her goal, she was inside and I was in trouble.

Billy's Bones

EXERCISESPosted by Geoffrey Bunting 04 Jun, 2009 11:58PM

Billy's Bones

Task: Describe a glass of water.

This is a pathetic attempt at poetry I made in order to create an example for my excercise, written in ten minutes and with no editing as it's late, and i'm ever so lazy. This is the first poem I've ever written, that isn't under the pretence of being lyrics at least. Rhyming couplets and alliteration abound, they should be split into two line stanzas but the blog won't let me... But imagine...

The parting glass shakes at his trembling lips,

Equally met by ashen fingertips.

Tentatively quivering in his hands,

As his mind wanders to North African sands.

He lets the smoky glass lazily slip;

Smashing on the floor, beyond his grip.

As he imagines the whistling of the freight trains

Bearing him away from where poor Billy still remains

Not one will know, not one,

Nor will they care when he is done.

Never have old soldiers been missed, he thinks

As a shattered shard meets his wrist.

So he imagines the dusty regimental coats,

And the soldiers with bloody scarves about their throats.

So many had died, so many un-found ;

Just left behind on the dusty desert ground.

So ‘ere he moves beyond earthly sight and sound,

To the land where Billy’s bones are resting now.


EXERCISESPosted by Alicia Beavis 04 Jun, 2009 10:10PM

Create a story using a poem for inspiration. The parts in bold were the parts that were CLEARY influenced by the poem.

Poem used:

- Hugo Williams - Tides

The evening advances, then withdraws again
Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor.
We are drifting, you and I,
As far from another as the young heroes
Of these two novels we have just laid down.
For that is happiness: to wander alone
Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves,
Our distances, and what we leave behind.
The lamp left on, the curtains letting in the light.
These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them.

Evening came back around again. Us sitting here, lonely, living our lives unfulifilled, as distant from eachother as a man and woman could be. It hadn't even been a year since we got married and already it felt like it was falling apart, failing pittifully. Every evening was the same, me and her sitting in silent solitude, engrossed in the seperate novels we were reading, they also seeming to reflect our differences. No longer were we two, young, happy lovers. Just two people living in their own worlds, but in the same house.

After I'd finished reading I glanced out of the window to watch the sea, watch the tides going out and coming back in. The moonlight shone back from the seas surface. She wandered out of the room into the bedroom, the lamp left on and all the curtains left open letting in the gentle light originating from the moon. In that moment memories from the past crept into my thoughts, a happier time in our lives. The day we first bought this little house by the sea, we thought it would be the beginning.

I picked up my book and tossed it through to the bedroom, it landed with a muffled thud on the bed. Then I quickly made two cups of tea, because although we hardly spoke to eachother we acted civil and polite. She drank with her usual speed and placed the cup on the floor and eventually put the book there too. I did the same. We slept in our usual silence, leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor.

Choose a poem and write a story around it

EXERCISESPosted by Kirsty Hoath 04 Jun, 2009 07:32PM

The part that is in Italics is Italian and the text in bold is the lines of the last verse of a peom. Unfortunatly, I cannnot remember the name of the poem, nor the poet. But once I find out, I'll post the name and author.


The ringing sound of explosions filled the night sky. Christmas eve was supposed to be a night of celebration and carolling. That night however, there was so little cause for carolings or celebration. Overhead noises of such ecstatic sound were heard as bomber planes flew to their destinations. Victims lay next to the words of death: Your Country Needs You! These words were written on terrestrial things. To some, this paper was sent from the devil himself, inviting loved ones to risk their lives for a helpless cause.

Now husbands and sons were afar or nigh around. Wives and daughters mourned every day at the dreaded news that their loved ones were not returning, ever, from war.

A lone line of beautiful words travelled through the air: Che io potevo pensare li, brividava attraverso. The translation though didn’t quite have the same effect: That I could think there trembled though.

Many prayers were sent at this time. Night time was normally the best time of the day this year. Prayers of thanksgiving were sent to the Lord about His happy good-night air. Bombs were not realised at night; even the English need to sleep. Some prayed for Hope though some blessed Hope, where of he knew or he thought he did. He believed with all his heart that I would win this war. The Second Great War. And out of victory, comes the perfect race. And I was unaware that those Americans would join there side. They changed every thing and destroyed my perfect plan.

marvin the monkey part1

EXERCISESPosted by Mary D. 01 Jun, 2009 05:41PM

other stupid animals shouted "now jump monkey!" over and over again, marvin was about to jump from into a 50 foot gorge, he was an ace adventurer and explorerand this was his latest feat of extreme courage. His best friend dotty the dogwas cheering and so was his secretery emily the meerkat, but someone wasn't so impressed. glowering at him with small black eyes was andrew the sausage.

to be contiued......................

What I want is Facts

EXERCISESPosted by Alex Daniels 21 May, 2009 10:20AM

“Now what I want is, facts...”

The doctor seemed somewhat confused by what Yuikiko had told her, the symptoms that she had described seemed to be referring to some form of poisoning.

“Now is there any reason why anyone would want you dead..?”

“Recently I have found out of my husbands... antics... It is because of this that we are divorcing, I assume that he laced my meal with something in the night.”

“But why..? Why would he do that?”

Yukiko knew deep down why he had done it, he must have found out her plans, the facts... That word, facts... It’s a word that no longer seemed to make any sense.

“... Yukiko, can you hear me?”

“Sorry doc, it just seems... Well maybe he found out what I want to do, how I shall take his empire out from underneath him, strip him of his power and leave him in the gutter!”

“I see... Well obviously the police will have to be informed, and I can prescribe something to ensure you’ll stay alive to see your plans come to fruition.”

“Thank you doc, I could ask for no more.”

Yukiko returned to the train station, intent to get home and prepare the next stage of her revenge, show her husband she was strong. She got the train from twenty-fifth street and sat down ready to return to her home.

She sat on the train thinking, first about her husband, then about the other woman. Suddenly she began feeling ill again. Yukiko’s diahrrea persisted through the twenty-sixth, and was a problem on the way to Tokyo.

Exercise 18/5

EXERCISESPosted by Georgina Harris 19 May, 2009 04:41PM

Choose the first line and the last line of two famous novels (preferably ones you've never read.) Tie them together in a short story.

We were in study hall when the headmaster entered followed by a new boy not yet in school uniform and by the handyman carrying a large desk.*

He placed it down, tearing up an old strip of newspaper to support one of the legs which was evidently slightly shorter than the other. Turning towards the door the handyman left, leaving the rather glum-faced boy alone in the presence of the headmaster and a few hundred young pairs of eyes staring in his direction.

"Here you are, Matthews," the headmaster pointed. "Think of this as your new home." Without giving him so much as a friendly pat on the head he, too, retreated. The boy glanced around furtively before sinking into the angular chair. One by one, like faint candle flames, the eyes about him flickered away. Several moments passed.

"Psst," he whispered. I looked up. Nothing. "Psst," again. There he was, attempting to signal Roscoe Jenkins, the lizard-eyed prefect of 9G, with a small lateness card. "Psst,' he whispered, furiously wafting the petal-pink slip beneath his nose. Roscoe remained unmoved.

"Oi," he trembled. To my surprise it was this time directed at me. "Who do you give this to?" I stared blankly, trying to understand the urgency tattooed upon his beetling brows.

"To whom do I give this," snarled Roscoe, "To whom?"

In the large expanse of the hall, the "oom" reverberated around, its sinister "doom" like echo loitering above us. We both of us looked at him, the new boy and I, with a collective disdain.

"Give it to Phelps," I said, motioning with my pencil. "At the front. Give it to him." The new boy pushed his chair back with a sudden squeak. "Not now," I sighed. "This is study hall. Wait 'til later.

"Until later," came the faint murmurings of Roscoe.

At that moment, two more figures entered the room. Pausing, they surveyed it like ravenous owls scanning for mice. Then they turned on their heels and approached the house master at the lectern.

"It seems," said the First Supreme Prefect, deliberately stroking her honey hair, "that a fundamental rule has been broken." She spoke up for our benefit. She and her Second, a rat-faced Year Eleven, raised up the book they gripped together. They both looked at it, as if it were their lover.

And it seemed that the book in their hands knew what they were feeling, and gave it their support and confirmation.*^

* Madame Bovary

*^ Dr. Zhivago

Living Nightmare

EXERCISESPosted by Kirsty Hoath 15 May, 2009 05:28PM


· Choose an opening sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Choose an ending sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Write a short story in thirty minutes using these two sentences as the beginning and ending

(opening) - Call me Ishmael

(ending) - Sorry I forgot the mayonaise


Call me Ishmael. All of my friends do. It’s been a long time since I was called anything else. Ishmael is actually my middle name. A few years ago, an old family friend, a trusted and loved family friend, dropped by for tea, so she said, but she had one thing on her mind: Murder.

Her small, yet expensive handbag contained a regular, if not blood-stained, kitchen knife.

Needless to say, our newly decorated living room, was yet again, newly decorated. Only this time, with an interestingly unique pattern of blood splatter. On the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor.

There was no where that you could look where that ghastly red was not within your vision.

I fear that woman still. And even to this day, I will not speak her name, which is why I loathe people using my first name, mine and hers, they are the same.

I hoped, I prayed, I wished that I would never see her again. But as usual, my prayers were not answered.

I was a normal day at school, it was a normal beginning of the day, a normal middle, but it was not to be a normal end.

That thing that haunted my nightmares was to come into my reality once again.


I was quietly chatting and giggling to my friends when I heard the door open. I ignored it. Just another late student. The newcomer was quietly speaking to my teacher.

"Suzanne Wright?" Even the teachers don’t, well didn’t, know my true first name.

My face visibly paled as my name was called out. I glanced up and caught sight of that peroxide blonde hair. It was her, that woman, that recurring nightmare. I wanted to throw up. She even had that same handbag. She noticed me and walked over.

"Hello Suzanne," she put so much emphasise on that name. "Oh wait, I understand that it’s Ishmael now." She smirked, I only just managed to stop myself passing out with fear.

I stood, shaking, willing to try and face her.

I heard one sentence of the comment made from a madwoman before taking my last breathe as the same knife that killed my parents slashed across my own throat.

"Sorry that I forgot the mayonnaise."

Knives & Onions

EXERCISESPosted by Alicia B. 14 May, 2009 06:57PM

The exercise was to include 3 things you couldn't live without and also include the word onion.

My 3 words were:




Her iPod laid in a pool of it's own broken screen on the wooden floor, blearing out 'Wonderwall' by Oasis. The noise of someone constantly sending messages through MSN, and getting annoyed and demanding a response, something which they weren't going to get, came at almost every second now, as her laptop sat of her large chest-of-drawers. The duvet, once white, was now blood stained by the lifeless body that rested there. It was her, Isabelle Watts.

A large kitchen knife was stuck in her, and oddly enough, an onion was the only thing seperating the knifes handle from her chest; just where her heart was. Her face was frozen in horror; her dark brown eyes were open wide and still bright. Trickles of blood oozed from her mouth and her long blonde hair was swimming in a pool of blood. Her body was twisted in her last contortion of pain. A hand reached for the knife and wrenched it out. Spurts of blood went everywhere.

"Damn, that was the last onion. I was looking forward to eating that. Well maybe if I wash it?"

He was rambling on. What a lunatic he was.

EX - Slaughterhouse Rainbows

EXERCISESPosted by Joe Pearson 13 May, 2009 01:38PM

· Choose an opening sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Choose an ending sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Write a short story in thirty minutes using these two sentences as the beginning and ending.

Opening - "A screaming comes across the sky" - Gravity's Rainbow

Closing - "One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, 'Poo-tee-weet?'" - Slaughterhouse Five

(Corrections/changes in Bold)

A screaming comes across the sky
What goes will come around
A lonely man, doomed soon to die
As One Bird curse him down

And One Bird curse you down

It was a rhyme he had heard a thousand times. He had been told it by his mother since he was nothing more than a babe in the crib, taught it in school with his alphabet and sums, preached it in church with his Sunday Prayers.

It was a warning, but Billy Pilgrim had never been one to take heed of warnings.

The story was told a little something like this, long ago Pilgrim’s village had been visited upon by an old ‘injun medicine man. The townsfolk, being mainly men of the ranches, had been terrified of him, even though he was old and sick, and only asking for a little sustenance before his long walk home.

The folks of the town locked themselves inside their homes, and sent out the sheriff with his gun. Needless to say, the worst occurred, and the sheriff needed no encouragement to exercise his itchy trigger finger. As the old man fell to the ground, it was said that his scream echoed through the very skies themselves, and from his open wounds burst a single little bird, which followed the scream away beyond the horizon.

So the townsfolk buried the old man, and named him One Bird, and invented the rhyme to scare children. They warned that One Bird the madman would curse children who ran away from the village, with his nonsense babbling magic words, “Poo-tee-weet, Poo-tee-weet, Poo-tee-weet.”

Of course, this was just a story.

So as Billy rode his horse away from the little town he was born in for the first time, he had no fear in his heart, only the anticipation of the new life he could now lead, away from his Mama, his school and his church.

The horse and rider turned the bend in the road and could not continue. The path was blocked by a crooked old man.

“Aside!” cried Billy, making no attempt to slow his horse.

“Good Sir, can you spare a little of your provisions for an old man with a long journey ahead of him?” The old man pleaded. But still the horse thundered on.

“Old man, I spare nothing for the likes of you! If you do not move I shall strike you down! You are between me and my destiny!”

“You should’ve listened to the warnings,” the old man croaked, his voice changing from one of desperation to one of malice and hate.

But once again, the cocky young Pilgrim would not listen.

So One Bird said to Billy Pilgrim, “Poo-tee-weet?”

The towncrier yelled "22 Caught in Kafka's Hell - Read all about it!!"

EXERCISESPosted by Leif Ahnland 12 May, 2009 04:49PM


· Choose an opening sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Choose an ending sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Write a short story in thirty minutes using these two sentences as the beginning and ending.

“Someone must have slandered Josef K, for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.” - From The Trial by Franz Kafka

“The knife came down missing him by inches, and he took off.” - From Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Revised draft - Additions or changes are in bold (Note: Everything after That prospect held no attraction whatsoever is added to the original draft.)

Someone must have slandered Josef K, for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. It was not the first time it had happened though. In fact, he was getting so used to being stopped in the street having large men in grey trenchcoats, hats and sunglasses ask him "Are you Josef K?" that he barely raised an eyebrow any more. Or when, in the middle of the night, he would be roused from sleep by the sound of leatherclad knuckles knocking on the wood of his door and he would spend the following day in a windowless interrogation room. Once they must have been frustrated by his deep sleep because he was woken up by someone shining a flashlight in his eyes. In his pajamas he was then shoved through the hole where his door used to be and the only thing he was wondering was how much it would cost to replace it. The protests and the "Whys?" and the "what's happening, where are you taking me, who are you, what have I done, I'm innocent!" had all been found useless so he had just stopped saying anything. He would only answer "Yes, I am Josef K" and hold out his hands so that they could put the handcuffs on properly. It hurt less that way.

By now, the burly men in trenchcoats knew him rather well. A lot of rides in cars with blackened windows can be quite the catalyst for intimacy as many diplomats and call girls would have you know. He could tell the difference between them too. A birthmark on the cheek or a slight limp would distinguish one from another but as far as he knew they had no names. So he had secretly baptised them, naming them after famous prisons. George Folsom. Albert Spandau. Michael Tower. John Kumla. Saint Quentin. On sundays, when he would take his habitual stroll in the park to read the Sunday Supplement of the paper by the duckpond, he would see some of them. They were quite easy to spot. Recently, the city had suffered a heat wave of cataclysmic proportions and while everyone who could not afford to go to the seaside would be wearing as little as possible without being obscene, the large grey men would faithfully stick to their trenchcoats and their hats. Of course, it was anyone's guess what they were wearing underneath. There could even be tubing of an elaborate and portable cooling machinery for all he knew. A heavy rainfall would make them a little less conspicuous but then the sunglasses would make them easy enough to pick out. In short, they were a secretive as an elephant in a warehouse full if bohemian crystal. Josef K used to nod or wave in their direction and they would return his salute.

He wondered why they they would ask him for his name since by now they must know it. He put it down to habit. His recurring arrests had turned into a sort of ritual and if they would stop asking for his name he would probably feel a bit... cheated. Once, he had not been arrested for three months at the very least and he had grown impatient and nervous; and, when they finally came to pick him up, he had felt relieved and even let a small sigh of pleasure escape him as the reassuringly cold steel of the handcuffs was pressed upon his skin.

But this time it was annoying. He had caught the tramcar, line 22, and was quietly sitting on the tram on his way back to work after an unsatisfying lunch over at Le Grand Cru when he heard "Are you Josef K?" It would have been all right if he had not already been irritated by the stubborn sliver of chicken stuck between his teeth. It is possible that everything would have been just another routine session of FAQs in the bunker if he had not been wound up by a small mouthful of badly cooked poultry. He had been picking at it with his penknife for the last fifteen minutes and was just about to pry it loose when he looked up into the black bulbs of a pair of sunglasses. They would take the penknife away and he would be condemned to sitting with that piece of rotting chicken teasing him, for who knows how many hours with a lamp shining in his face answering the same meaningless questions. That prospect held no attraction whatsoever.

Perhaps that is the reason for why he thrust the penknife through the temple of George Folsom in one surprisingly smooth movement; instead of nicely playing along and say "Yes, I am Josef K" whilst nodding in recognition to his captors. The struck man fell over with his mouth open, literally crushing the old lady who had been sitting on the seat in front of Josef K. She had seemed nice but shortsighted and not very bright. It was still a shame. John Kumla and Albert Spandau must have been highly trained agents but this was the first time anyone had ever resisted violently, shedding blood. That can be the only explanation for why they stood still, watching their fallen collegue, when the clerk shaped man in front of them roared "YES!" And after an ever so brief pause, the clerk shaped man added through gritted teeth, "I AM JOSEF K." And then, Josef K charged. John Kumla looked up just in time to have an umbrella splinter the glass covering his left eye. The steelcapped tip of the umbrella came to a stop halfway through his brain and that was the end of him. Albert Spandau finally reacted but by grabbing his comrade in his arms instead of repelling the following attack and was therefore unable to protect his knee from Josef K's briefcase. It was an old model made of leather coated hardwood weighing the three kilogram briefcase and containing almost four kilograms worth of paperwork. Propelled through the air at 45 kilometres per hour on the wings of pure fury it connected with the officer's kneecap and the crunch was indeed gruesome. The pain made Albert Spandau pass out and both the trenchcoats collapsed, falling to the floor. Two thuds that sounded like one.

The tramcar had stopped, standing still on the Brass Bridge, and the absence of rattling metal was suddenly deafinening. The sound of the traffic was carried away by the wind. No screams escaped the other twenty-two passengers caught in the fray. Below, the green waters of the river seemed to be the only thing still in motion in the whole city. The driver had opened the doors but no one was thinking clearly enough to get out and not a single one of the persons aboard the tramcar moved a muscle.

Apart from Josef K. He was panting lightly as he stuck his hand in his breifcase and grabbed a heavy book. This particular book had been slightly altered as it threatened to fall apart. Josef K had never managed to finish it, for some reason he kept losing track and had to start over, again and again. It was as repetitive as his arrests. But he was determined to finish that cursed book and while it would probably had cost less to buy a new copy, he had grown fond of the one he had carried around all these years. Therefore he had gone to a specialist shoemaker who had made a leather cover with reinforced edges made of folded brass sheets, adding both weight and sturdiness to an already thick volume. He pulled it out. He held it up menacingly, ready to throw it. And then he threw it.

Michael Tower had been standing by the exit, guarding it according to procedure; but since no one ever tried to run away he too had been caught off guard by the one man uprising. Stranded in the middle of a mental nomansland, too stunned to produce an initiative, he just closed his eyes in panic when the hardback copy of The Trial came hurtling towards him. An ordinary Josef K could hardly have thrown the book at anywhere near dangerous speeds but Josef K in this particular moment of his life was filled up with a force which burned like fire. Had it hit Micheal Tower in the head as was intended, it would have knocked him senseless. Only Josef K's innately faulty aim and a miscalculated muscle strength versus book weight equation saved Michael Tower. A literary gem sailed harmlessly through the opened door and far into the river. There must have been a splash but this was a high bridge and if it made a sound no one heard it. Realising what he had just thrown away, Josef K shuddered into action again and everything blurred for an instant when Josef K took two leaps towards Michael Tower and after the book at the same time as the only remaining agent finally sprang to life. While pulling a long, thin knife from under his trenchcoat, he braced himself for the impact. But the third leap took Josef K past the tower of a man and through the door, barely eschewing the curved blade that was slicing the air in an arc upwards and then, with a jump, he landed on the granite railing of the Brass Bridge. He was by now oblivious of everything else than the vision of the ink smearing between the pages and the paper dissolving on the bottom of the river. Desperation took hold and he felt like his wrists were slit open and his life draining out of him. He had to save it. Not his life. The Book. He scanned the surface for a sign of where it had sunk, giving Michael Tower the time to turn around and steady himself enough to stab again. Josef K bent his knees as if to jump. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.


EXERCISESPosted by Alicia B. 07 May, 2009 10:21PM


· Choose an opening sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Choose an ending sentence from a book (unknown when choosing).

· Write a short story in thirty minutes using these two sentences as the beginning and ending.

“Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice, down by the frozen lake.”

“don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

A really short story :D

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice, down by the frozen lake, situated not far from his house. The large, isolated house was layered with dense snow, smothering the old wooden logs that screamed their untold stories of days gone by. The air was crisp and refreshing as it whipped past his face.
His six year old self was walking, hand in hand, with his father, two piercing blue eyes stared back at the child giving him a sense of security and protection. Then they reached the lake that was covered in a thick blanket of ice. Snow began to fall landing in his thick brown hair. A shiver ran down his spine as warmth began to escape his body, and leave nothing but coldness travelling through his body.
In that moment he snapped back to the present, back to his predicament. Suddenly, as a tear for his beloved father began to fall, the words his father once told him, before he died, entered his mind 'don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody'.

Survival Guide

EXERCISESPosted by Geoffrey Bunting 07 May, 2009 02:29AM

I vaguely remember something about an excercise involving genres. I also recall being given fantasy but also something about self-help. So it being 2.15 and me being the bored type I decided to re-write an old mock exam piece about surviving at home alone. As I said, it's early morning, don't judge. I apologise for the lack of bold and italics. The blog won't let me use them.

A Survival Guide: Surviving without your parents

It is quite a frequent occurrence that, in the course of your life, you will be left alone in your family home for longer a couple of days- or longer! It is necessary in this sort of situation to have a plan for survival, which is not as easy a task as you first may think. There are many factors to consider. Should I buy anything? Is there anything I really need to consider? Are there preparation to make? The answer to all these questions is a resounding yes. This guide will serve to take you through this process with minimal harm. Or at least give you some advice as to issues that may pop up. Let’s begin.

Why are your parents leaving?

There will come a moment when you will think: Why are my parents going away? The answer is this- they are sick of you and want some well earned rest, relaxation and dirty Welsh sex. This of course depends on two conditions a) that they have chosen Wales as a destination (which the probably have) and b) they have exhausted the novelty of having sex in your room every time you go out. But I assure you, sex is first on foremost on their minds. Rest and relaxation are an afterthought, literally!Should I have a party?

This may seem a minor thing, but it is not. Your decision as to this question affects other areas. The answer is simple: It’s up to you. Parties are fun, everyone likes a good shindig. Bit of alcohol, recreational drug use, yobbish friends- just a bit of fun? No? No. Whilst parties suit a lot of people and are can be ever so jovial. The stark truth is that the chances are you’ll spend a ridiculous amount of money on food and alcohol (most likely of the Russian variety) and then end up waking up the next morning with no real recollection of what went on the night before, possibly waking up next to someone you’ve never met (or worse someone you know well and only really viewed as a friend before the whole genital docking took place) you’ll then become aware of the corpse-like bodies littered around your house all still half-drunk from the night before. You will then be required to clean up, get everyone out- after they’ve done nothing to help, thrown away a copious amount of condoms and beer cans, possibly disposed of the body of a former friend who had an unfortunate dealing with those fun drugs from the night before in the river down the road and then have a lengthy conversation with your friend cum lover (mind the unintended pun) about how you’d like to remain just friends. All of this has to be achieved with an aching head.

In light of this a party is probably a bad idea, especially as you’re looking to just survive. Extravagancies are unnecessary but still remain optional. Inviting a couple of friends over for a ‘quiet one’ may be more desirable though a lot of the results may be the same. Careful with disposing bodies around a concentrated group of people ie a couple of friends, it may be necessary to murder them all and then go into hiding to stop it getting out.

Of course if you’re a social outcast none of this will be a problem, even if you do plan a party, as no one will turn up at your home. Though the risk of you murdering someone is threefold (See Controlling the rage)What should I buy?

Here is a list of items you will need to survive, other luxuries are up to you. It all depends on how rich you are and prices at your local shop. Multiply these by two every two days you are alone:

You will need:A loaf of bread x1

2 pints of milk

Packet of rice x2

A bottle of wine of your choice (for recreational use only)

Some form of Deli meat (of your choice)

Drinks of your choosing (non alcoholic)Any other supplies such as meat, butter, water et cetera should be available at your house. If they are not, make sure you have made your parents stock up or that they have left you’re the correct currency to buy them.

If you have decided to fall in line with social conformities and have a party you will need to stock up on alcohol of various types, crisps and varying forms of contraception. You do not after all, want children running around your house after an astonishingly speedy unplanned pregnancy, do you? Some form of house/dance music will be necessary to keep the masses amused as you play the likely host.

Rice and sandwiches are, as you all know, the natural diet of the human in the wild so they shall provide all the nourishment you need through the wintry days you are alone in your home.I’m scared…

Don’t be! Unless you have something severely wrong mentally (in which case a party is out of the question, and your parents really shouldn’t leave you alone) then you really have nothing to fear. Keep in mind, that despite your parents not being there, this is still your home. You are for all intents safe in your home, the only person that could get to you is Santa Claus. And the caught him in 1986! That is of course, providing you follow these steps.Protecting your home.

It is possible that with your parents gone that a foul-hearted rake of a man may try to take advantage of your home’s weakened state. There are simple ways to deal with this. During the day you have little to fear, as you should be at home ready to defend your house in the unlikely event of a break in. But at night you should.

Lock all doors and windows

Leave a light on to make it look like people are around

Place pets or garden gnomes on high alert mode

Be prepared to switch to kung-fu mode at a moment notice

Keep masturbation to a minimum

Strategically place volatile weapons about the house.

Alternatively, for those of a weak constitution:

Leave the door open, with a polite note saying ‘rob here’

Lay down in readiness of impending murder/rape by what the TV will refer to as an unidentified man of an undisclosed minority.

If you are aware that a robbery will occur, without any doubt. Then it is highly advised that you research heavily. The best place to see the mastery of this defensive offence in the home is in the actions of McCauley Culkin in the Home Alone Documentaries. In these he demonstrates a mastery of all the necessary survival skill, much more than you will learn in this brochure. Preparation is essential, and those certain films are perfect.

There are of course other extremes that need to be prepared for. These are worst case scenarios.1. Zombies

Zombies have inherited the Earth. Barricade yourself in your house with your supplies with a clear escape plan and read up (preferably beforehand) on this sort of event. Max Brooks’ texts are the best reference points for this eventuality.2. Ninjas

Your house is assailed by ninjas, hell-bent on killing you. The chances are if this is the case, you will not be aware until the very last moment. It is important to be a master of ninjitsu before you consider letting your parents leave, that way you may have a chance of defending yourself. Watching Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai does not count as research. He is a scientologist, the ninja’s natural predator as they are just far too un-righteous for the ninja, and thus far more adept at dealing with that threat.3. ZE GERMANS!!!

In the eventuality of Ze Germans invading, again. There is really only one course of action- and to any self respecting Briton it is an unsatisfactory one. One must, unfortunately (and for the first and last time) one must follow the example of The French and give up. Given that you are one person, you cannot fight them. So in a doleful manner place a bag over your head, lay on the floor and cry like a girl. Of course, historically, there was more than one person in France at the time of the last time Ze Germans invaded.Dealing with THE RAGE!

THE RAGE! Something you don’t hear about often from those left alone for an extended period of time is THE RAGE! This is because few survive THE RAGE! and if they do they are more than often irreparably damaged. THE RAGE! can occur at any moment and there is no way to prepare for it other than simply trying to avoid the causes of THE RAGE!

THE RAGE! is caused by boredom, straight and simple. Boredom. Being stuck on your own for a long period of time can lead to an onset of THE RAGE! and cause you to shout RAGE! at the top of your voice involuntarily. THE RAGE! causes murderous tendencies and/or violent attitudes towards snails. Both of which are awful traits. More than one person has succumbed to THE RAGE! and ended up murdering everyone in their street/road/estate.

There are several ways to avoid the tedium that leads to THE RAGE! It is important to keep busy during your long hours in solitude, especially during the day when only the dregs of society will start watching The Jeremy Kyle Show or Loose Women. It is fact that shows like these can serve a catalyst to the onset of THE RAGE! Instead try and engage in activities that amuse you: films, video games, the occasional prostitute. All these and more can help slow down effects of THE RAGE! It is a good idea, when at home alone, and worried about THE RAGE! That you should invent a personality or ‘imaginary friend’ in order to discuss the pressing matter of the days such as pandemics, hats and Ze Germans. At no point should you discuss THE RAGE! That is how it gets you. One example of an imaginary friend serving as a proverbial wall to THE RAGE! Was in the ‘Noland incident’ when an anonymous male was stuck on a deserted island but was saved by a volleyball by the name of WILSON! An anthropomorphised imaginary friend that eventually met his doom in aiding his friend. A friend who briefly showed glimpse of THE RAGE! However, it is a perfect example of an imaginary friend staving off THE RAGE!Dealing with Jehovah’s Witnesses

It is possible that if you are alone on a Sunday, that you may be unrepentantly preyed upon by Jehovah’s Witnesses. They of course have never seen Jehovah, they’re not that old. But they will try and persuade you of this. The best way to deal with them is a quick but strong blow to the head, though if you are in the grips of THE RAGE! Then this will be an easy task.

Hopefully, with this information (and some instinct and ingenuity of your own) you should be able to survive the days of solitude within your home. Then when your parents get home (providing THE RAGE! Doesn’t drive you to killing them) you will welcome them, hug them and ignore the muffled noises coming through the wall at night.

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