Category Archives: @feliciacago


It arrived. Finally.

It rode in atop a silver snake-train behemoth, clinging to its scales like a virus, headed for…

…the Mexico border. This package had been through a lot already, but it finally made it to Tijuana.

It sat now propped up against the ticket agent’s dusty kiosk, a corner bent up as if someone had peeked at its loathsome contents.

But what was inside?

A small compass, a map, a train pass that was one zone short of its destination and a note.

But not just any note. It was written in…

Sanskrit, in gold ink. Parts of the ink had flaked off during the parcel’s journey.

Paolo recognized the large flourishes and was able to intercept it before Lester, the world’s preeminent Sanskrit translator, did.

Paolo had to move fast. He’d seen Lester making his way through the terminal. Now that the parcel was safe, he’d have to leave.

Lester, having arrived at the baggage claim, was outwardly serene when he saw the parcel was gone. Inside, his temper flared.

Flanked by his cronies, he strode over to the phone bank and called M. “Elvis has left the building, M. It’ll be a Blue Christmas.”

Mesmerized by the parcel in his hands, Paolo absently twirled the package and silently mouthed, “All things must pass.”

Lester was a huge fan of The King. Rumor had it the two used to party together back in the day. Elvis’ death left him all shook up.

Paolo ducked into a nearby restroom, silenced his iPhone and took 3 photographs of the flaking note, then emailed them to himself.

Meanwhile, M hung up the phone & sprung into action. First, he called N. Then N called O, who dialed P & Q. Paolo wouldn’t get far.

He knew he had to contact Sarf. She would know what to do next. She was the Chosen One, so he trusted her. Or so he thought?

Paolo put the note and the phone in his breast pocket, flushed and washed, then left the station on a wave of oblivious travelers.

But the Alphabet Crew were hot on his trail. They knew he’d go to Sarf next. How? She called O and told him. She said, “…

“…O, Paolo is coming to me.” O thanked her for the intel, then dialed Lester. He was in the middle of translating Sanskrit.

Lester headed to Sarf and waited for Paolo. The parcel, and its contents, were about to be his.

If only the package wasn’t set to implode upon itself at


POW! BANG! BAMMO! The package imploded upon itself. The contents wiped out the entire world.


Until suddenly the package implosion exploded, then re-imploded and re-wiped out the wiped out world. THE END, again.

Wow – lots of fireworks at the end of this story. Dramatic ending. But would you really expect anything else with the Alphabet Crew involved? I definitely wouldn’t. Poor Paolo, Sarf and Lester – they all died when the world was wiped out. Although I guess everyone did. So poor everyone.

Thanks to @rookiephenom for supplying the photo, as well as for jumping in and adding a line in the story. And glad to have a couple of new writers – @MojoEnvy and @ShesAllWrite – hope you both had fun and you join me again. And last, but not least, the stories wouldn’t be the same without my stable of regulars who write on every story. For this one, that was @FeliciaCago, @MusicAdamT, @hwtibbs, who pulled out the triple-tweet, @nella22 and @swanieson. Thanks all.

Addendum – @talkingmonkey contributed with a late line, which I’ve added to the end of the story. It completely changes things.


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John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

He was banished to the corner. Again. Seems to be the story of his life.

But he refused to wear pants, and they couldn’t force him, even with…

…bacon on the brain. Thoughts not wavering and with a skillet in tow…

…he stuck his finger up his nose and lamented his sad state of affairs.

Since being banished John Jacob had been trying to figure out

just where his life was headed.

At the same time, upon attempting to find bacon and pants…he heard a sound. Or a bang.

Or even possibly, a clang. It had a distinct ring, but not like a bell had rang. It was definitely not a ding.

The source revealed itself as the chef-shaped kitchen timer, which had fallen onto the floor as its time expired.

John Jacob was relieved. He thought it was his German half-brother, Jingleheimer Schmidt, coming back to finish what he started.

You see, Jingleheimer was a big confectioner. And John Jacob preferred savory. So he shuddered whenever his brother baked.

It’s not that he was bad – no, wait. It was. He put Aleppo Pepper in everything. Including the Chocolate-Dipped Spice Twists

that were ready to be taken out of the oven. The timer had been ringing for 22 minutes. But Jingleheimer was still on his run.

“Let the baking BURN!” said John.

And it did. John cackled, then coughed, in the corner, watching the smoke billow out of the oven. But where was Jingleheimer?

And why, pray tell, did he not put on pants before entering the kitchen this morning? The Inpsectors™ were coming by!

He wasn’t the baker in the family, and the last time he took something out of the oven, it was a disaster. His scars proved it…

John reinserted his finger in his nose, his go-to posture for deep thinking.

John probed his sinus cavity for ideas, trudging through lost notions and manic whims before striking a subterranean concept.

“What if Jingleheimer’s hurt?” John thought. He pulled his pants up and made his way through the smoke to go find his brother.

He found him passed out on the floor overcome by the aroma of burnt buns still clutching plans for Jingle’s Bacon Bun Food Truck.

John grabbed Saran Wrap, put it over Jingleheimer’s mouth, poked a hole, and began CPR. (You never know where a Schmidt has been)

While Schmidt was a terrible baker, he was a masterful flirt. It seemed no woman could resist him.

…and into the black Lincoln Town Car he had been using for his burgeoning limo service.

En route to the hospital, Schmidt stirred from the back seat, a low chortle reverberating in his smoke-filled lungs…

“Who’s this freak?” asked the rich lady with the long black veil that John had forgotten was his fare in the back seat.

“And why’d we stop in that driveway?” she continued. “And now where are we going?” John rolled his eyes, then raised the partition.

“Terribly sorry, ma’am, but we’ll have to make one more stop before taking you to the opera. I’m sure we won’t be…”

Saved by the partition. Jingleheimer would have to deal with the lady’s nagging. John turned the radio up. His favorite jam was on

…the dashboard – strawberry, what was left of his lunch. And now it was nearly dawn. “Man, I’m hungry. Wish I had a…

…piece of toast. Or one of Jingleheimer’s Chocolate Dipped Spice Twists.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the partition.

It was Schmidt. He surreptitiously pulled something from his pocket and flung it at john while the lady was on the phone.

John ducked instinctively, and when he did, he yanked the wheel left, crashing into the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in the next lane.

The Weinermobile immediately burst into flames. “One dog, well done,” muttered John. He could hear Schmidt & the lady yelling…

…in excitement over the prospect of free hot dogs. John Jacob quickly realized his good fortune as well, and he started yelling.

Everyone was yelling happily. John Jacob, Jingleheimer Schmidt and the old lady went in for a group hug. Then for hot dogs.



“John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, Schmidt.” I used to love that song growing up. So I was psyched at the possibilities for where a story about these two brothers could go. And despite their differences, when it came down to it, John Jacob had his brother’s best interests in mind. And they ended up with hot dogs! So lucky!

Lots of new contributors on this one. Thanks to @swcouture for the photo. And to new writers @rookiephenom, @MusicAdamT, @swcouture and @martinbihl. And of course, thank you to regular contributors @FeliciaCago, @Chrisa_Hickey, @swanieson, @Robotstephe, @nella22, @Pawela04 and @hwtibbs. That was a fun story.

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Somewhere Over the Rainbow

“The pot of gold must be on top of that red brick building,” she thought. And the hunt was on.

“But how can I get there before Maggie,” she whined, “when she’s a giant and I’m so small?”

Not to be deterred, she grabbed her Ziploc® of loose change, and headed out the door. Cab would be the best way to get there.

“A cab, a cab, who called a cab?” Up pulled Mike the psychic cab driver.

“I did,” Margie said. “Take me to -” “I know where – and we’re racing against Maggie!” Exclaimed Mike as he sped off.

Maggie though had decided public transportation was the way to go and was stuck behind a stroller pushing mother.

The streets were full of vendors, stray dogs and, a camel. All of this was slowing the cab down. Margie was losing time.

Maggie was having problems of her own on the magenta line. Babies were everywhere!

Margie jumped from the cab and lept onto the camel in one swift movement.

However, at a point later in the story, Margie will realize that she left her Ziploc® bag in the cab. This does not bode well…

Since in addition to nickels and dimes the bag contained a gps tracker she had planted on Maggie.

While Margie was camel-leaping, Maggie was having troubles of her own. $4.46 for a medium latte? This city is getting ridiculous.

Margie drove ever-forward in the camel, nestled lovingly between the two humps. Inching closer to the red building.

Meanwhile, the pot of gold was shrinking because

of the hole in the pot, which Lloyd the Leprechaun bought second hand at a garage sale.

“You get what you pay for,” Larry muttered to himself. Not realizing…

…that he referred to himself as Larry instead of Lloyd, it became apparent to others that Lloyd might have a split personality.

Larry-Lloyd spoke those words to himself, but Maggie thought he was speaking to her. Finally, a bright spot in her day.

Meanwhile the camel, who’s name was Manfred, started running toward an oasis filled with rice milk.

Meanwhile, across town…

The real story was unfolding: Leprechauns in Lakeview. Not just there for drinks at Berlin, but apparently hiding gold on rooftops.

Neighborhood gossip placed at least one leprechaun working in the back at Cheesie’s Pub & Grub – specializing in potatoes.

Of course, the inevitable drunk Irish jokes are bound to come out when they hide gold so close to 1000 Liquors.

One leprechaun noticed Margie and her camel at the rice-milk oasis. “How much for the camel?” he asked.

“Not for sale,” said Margie. “No, I mean the one behind your ear,” he replied. “I could use a cigarette.” Margie loved her Camels.

Maggie trudged forward in her Converse® All-Stars. She never played basketball, but loved the green plaid design.

She got to the rooftop but the pot of gold was gone. Margie was already off in Mexico enjoying her riches. And cigarettes.



Anytime Leprechauns, booze, cigarettes and gold are involved, it’s impossible not to have a good time. This week’s story was all about greed, and Margie managed to outfox her sister Maggie. Poor Maggie. Maybe she could go get a drink with Lloyd-Larry at Berlin. Or they could just go get a handle of some Irish whiskey at 1000 Liquors and wallow in their sorrows.

The way these stories unfold always crack me up – stuff like when Lloyd the Leprechaun became Larry the Leprechaun and the use of the ®. I’m grateful for everyone who writes these stories with me. Collaborating on this one were @Robotstephe, @Chrisa_Hickey, @swanieson, @paulmtracy, @FeliciaCago, @Guert, @jsetlak and @officerpupp. Thanks all.


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God Almighty

It descended upon the city, slowly swirling in, high above even the tallest buildings. But what was it?

Marcel looked up and noticed that these clouds were different then the ones he’d been studying. These clouds…weren’t clouds…

It was smoke. Taking another drag on a gigantic cigar, Zeus furrowed his brow at the city.

And then he blew.

But nothing came out but a small gust of air.

Having smoked cigars for many years Zeus’ lungs weren’t all they were in his younger years.

Zeus re-dragged and re-blew with success. The tallest towers disappeared and Marcel knew that he was to blame because

he dared Zeus the night before to explain the weight of smoke. Zeus employed a method learned from Sir Walter Raleigh long ago…

Sir Walter Raleigh – whose exaggerations were legendary – once told Queen Elizabeth I that he could determine the weight of smoke.

Weigh cigar. Smoke cigar, ashing onto scale. Weigh ashes. Difference between weight of cigar and ashes = weight of smoke.

Why a mortal like Marcel was daring Zeus to do anything was a mystery. Marcel forgot that Zeus had a sick sense of humor.

Had Marcel remembered the story of Leda and the Swan, he’d know not to give Zeus any excuse to interact with mortals directly.

But it was too late. The sky was now “thundering,” but Marcel knew better. It was Zeus, with his deep, bellowing, smoker’s laugh.

Zeus had called his bluff, clearly proving his cosmic superiority. Marcel, undeterred, shouted up to the clouds. “I’m not…


Zeus was clearly willing to do anything, but Marcel was a man of his word. He paced back and forth, thinking of what to do next.

Eventually he decided to call the fire department. “I need the biggest ladder you’ve got,” he said.

Not the type that took kindly to loaning out equipment, the Chief politely told him to eff off. But Marcel, undeterred as usual,…

Pulled out the yellow pages and looked up

“Ladderrific! For ladders to Zeus.” He dialed the number and heard a recording on the other end say: “You…

doofus. The only way to reach Zeus is via the Unending Escalator, located in…

the 7th stall in the 4th floor ladies washroom of the Marshall Field building. Thank you for your inquiry.” Marcel was elated.

But the elation quickly died down, replaced with skepticism. “God, that recorded voice sounded familiar,” he said aloud.

that swan. “There were so many things I didn’t know about her,” Marcel said before making his way to the Unending Escalator.

A mythology professor from the University of Chicago,

his children, all eight of them, all boys, except one, one girl, one little girl who was the key to this big plan

stood on the sidewalk, watching. “Hey you,” Marcel shouted to the U of Chicago professor. “Can you and your daughter come with me?”

“Either we all come or none of us do,” said the professor. Marcel had no choice. “To the Unending Escalator!” he yelled.

Off they marched to Marshall Field’s, Marcel leading the way. Briefly, a group of tourists followed, thinking it was a guided walk.

In time these tourists fell back, captured by the alleged allure of the American Girl store. At State St., the group realized…

they needed a suitable tribute for Zeus. “A virgin? Gold?” asked the professor. “No,” said Marcel. “Zeus has that. We need…”

They had been walking the wrong way for 20 minutes. Marcel thought, “Is the unending escalator even worth it?”

But he trudged on. “We need…,” he stammered. “We need…we need…What exactly do we need again?”

“The list is clear!” screamed the professor. “We need a Ginger, 7 daisies, and a Hellenologophobic. Zeus loves irony.”

The little girl held on to a plush Alf doll, which Marcel grabbed. “This orange mess of ginger hair works. Surely Zeus has no Alf.”

They then passed a Sbarro, spotting Daisies Fuentes, Duke, Irani, De La Hoya, Foote, Duck and Ms. Daisy having their weekly lunch.

“Our seven daisies!” screamed Marcel as he stopped the group in their tracks. “Someone get them!”

The Daisies jumped up and tried to run for the door. In the commotion, they forgot the exit was a pull door. 7 Daisies, check.

“Ay dios mio,” yelled Fuentes, “my triple cheese slice fell on the floor!” Duke, meanwhile was hollering for her cousins Luke & Bo.

The last thing they needed was a Hellenologophobic. “Be on the lookout for a Hellenologophobic, everyone,” asked Marcel.

“What IS that?” asked the girl. “It’s someone who’s afraid of logos with Hellen in it,” said Marcel. “Duh.”

Marcel thought, “distractions.” All of the sudden the sky changed & it was a massive haboob.

He was mistaken. “Actually, it’s someone afraid of Greek terms,” the professor chimed in. “So like a Roman?” asked his daughter.

A roman or things like aeropostle or anthropology.

As they got to Marshall Field’s, a prison bus drove by. “Look!” screamed the girl, pointed frantically. “It’s Roman Polanski!”

“That’ll do,” said Marcel. “Stop that bus!!” Ms. Daisy, trailing a little behind the rest of the group, jumped in front of the bus.

The haboob was gaining strength & Marcel was the only one who showed concerned.

Thankfully the bus stopped as there is nothing worse than a smushed Daisy! Out stepped the elusive Roman

as the professor guarded his kids. “Stay away!” But Marcel needed a Hellenologophobic, aka a Roman, so Polanski fit the bill.

“Come with us Mr Polanski and all will be well,” said Marcel.

The haboob kept building as Marcel tried to get the ginger, the 7 Daisies & Roman the Hellenologophobic to the Unending Escalator.

Oddly enough the escalator had moved to just inside the door so no one was able to escape its clutches.

First up was Roman, then Alf, a few Daisy’s the professor and the kids.

Then the rest of the Daisies, and bringing up the rear was Marcel.

Ms. Daisy was confused. “Where are we going sir?” she asked Marcel. But Marcel didn’t answer. He kept shoving her up the escalator.

When they reached the top waiting for them was

Zeus. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. He exhaled deeply, parting the haboob. “These are for you,” said Marcel, sheepishly.

It was as Robert Plant imagined. A Stairway to Heaven. But to what end? A bunch of flowers in a dust storm hardly seemed worth it.

Zeus looked around. “Ginger, check. 7 Daisies, check. And Roman Polanski??” he asked as he put the Stairway to Heaven record on.

“Damn right,” said Polanski in between Plant’s chorus. Marcel tried to shut him up so he could explain Polanski’s relevance.

“He’s our Hellenologophobic,” explained Marcel. “You know, because he’s ‘a Roman’?” He used air quotes for emphasis.

Suddenly they all started singing along to the song.

“…And she’s buying a stairway to heaven,” Zeus, Marcel, the professor, his 8 kids, Alf, the 7 Daisies and Roman Polanski crooned.

And off into the mist they all went.



Ha! That was an amazing story. It was so funny. One of the better ones we’ve written, and we’ve written some pretty good ones. I’m really happy for Marcel – he made Zeus happy. And let’s face it, if you’re given the option of making Zeus happy or making Zeus upset, you probably want to go with making him happy. So good for him. And good for the 7 Daisies. I’m kind of jealous of them getting to go to Sbarro’s for weekly lunch. But the person I’m definitely NOT jealous of? Roman Polanski. He served a purpose.


Thanks to myself for supplying the photo. Just kidding. Kind of. And thanks to all of the writers. You guys really brought it. @nella22, who almost always is one of the first ones to jump in and always makes me laugh. @officerpupp, who’s a newb but acted nothing like one. @FeliciaCago, who tried as hard as she could to end the story after 4 lines, but we wouldn’t let her. @swanieson, who stuck with me all the way to the end to wrap things up. @jsetlak, owner of the triple-tweet, who this time came through with the quintuple tweet. @hwtibbs, whose obscure references has me googling stuff all the time. @Chrisa_Hickey, who’s great at cutting right to things. @_Benny_K, who’s getting more involved each week, which is awesome. @jimmydoestea, who can tweet all pronouns and I’ll still laugh. @vnarvasa, who scolded me for not giving her a heads up that I was writing a story. And last but not least, @rickmurray, who snuck a line in right at the end that led us to a different story ending.

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Wrestling with Love

This is the tale of two men and a magical, mystical fedora. It all began on an otherwise quiet evening.

Though they claimed they were meditating in actuality they were having a staring contest that started because

an hour before, fedora-sporting Frank said to Tim, “Hey! I bet if I stared at your chair long enough, I could make it disappear!”

“You’re on,” said Tim. And it was on. Fedora-sporting Frank fixated his eyes on Tim’s chair when, poof! Both chairs disappeared.

“Great,” said Frank. “Now where am I supposed to park my ass?” He grumbled as he slid slowly towards the cold, hard wooden floor.

Tim couldn’t believe what he saw. He looked under his legs then back at Frank. “What just happened Frank?”

“I don’t know, dude.” Frank had yet to realize that the fedora he was wearing, found at the pool hall last week, wasn’t normal.

Last week had been a tough one on Frank, being that he had just…

…lost the rest of his furniture in a poker game with former Governor and convicted felon Rod Blagojovech.

Frank gambled away his money, his dignity & his shoes. And as he left, he tripped over the fedora. “Damn hat,” he said, kicking it.

Shoeless and destitute, Frank bemoaned the loss of his chairs. His follicles tingled, the hat tightened on his brow. Then, a knock

on the door. “Open up!” screamed the voice on the other side of the door. Tim, always somewhat of a wuss, shook his head no.

The voice became more agitated. “OPEN UP!” Tim was crying. Frank kept still. And then, magically, the fedora sprung into action.

Chyna, 90s WWE diva wrestling superstar, nearly broke down the door before the Fedora magically turned the knob to let her in.

“50 push-ups, Now!” Chyna ordered. Shoeless Frank and Tim were too scared to argue. The Fedora kept count for the two men: 1, 2…

Tim struggled on 3. Chyna swiped her fingers on his back and smelled them. “Who’s got flowers?” she asked. “Cuz I smell a PANSY!”

Frank was shocked. Not at Chyna being there. Definitely not that Tim could only do 3 push ups. But that a fedora was counting.

“Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?” asked Frank between pushups 42 & 43. Chyna flexed her biceps, pondering the question.

Chyna dropped and powered through 50 pushups of her own. Frank shook, wishing the fedora were collecting the sweat on his brow.

Chyna got back up, then did a few side bends. She looked at Frank. “So Sally,” she mocked. “What’s up with this magical fedora?”

Frank was out of breath, so Tim weakly responded, “Ms. Chyna, we think the Fedora is magical and wanted our fates to align.”

Chyna punched Tim and screeched “Speak when spoken to!” Eyeing the fedora, a delicious idea began to form. She realized she could

use this to her benefit. She had been eyeing that hottie at

wrestling camp for quite some time. “Gimme that fedora!” Chyna raged. Frank felt spit in his eyelashes. He meekly handed it to her.

“Let’s go!” she grunted. Chyna marched out, fedora in hand, Tim and Frank following. Tim mouthed, “Is she a guy?” to Frank.

Frank shrugged, wincing at the burning sensation in his shoulders from the pushups. “So who’s the wrestling camp hottie?” he asked.

“Asher the Smasher!” barked Chyna. The fedora flew ahead to hail a cab. “Where is he?” asked Tim, as Chyna devoured a protein bar.

As soon as the bar was complete Chyna starting talking and sounded nothing like herself but instead had developed a man’s voice.

“You ARE a man,” yelped Tim. “I knew it!” Chyna turned around and backhanded him. “Tell your girlfriend to watch it,” he/she said.

They got outside, but the fedora was gone. “I lost my money, my shoes, my dignity, my chairs, and now my fedora?” Frank lamented.

“Buck up, Sally,” growled Chyna. “Your fedora went to go find Asher the Basher.” Frank and Tim were too scared to say anything.

Then he realized that Chyna was gone too. Maybe the fedora’s magic included granting wishes. Frank looked around for Tim and

saw him quivering behind a bush. “She’s gone,” said Frank. “It’s ok.” Tim stepped out, trying to cover up a wet spot on his leg.

The door swung open. There stood the wrestling camp hottie Asher the Basher. He opened his mouth

and a yellow canary wearing a tiny waist coat flew out & landed on a the shoulder of a startled Tim. It hopped over to

Frank. Tim let out a yelp. “So…Asher the Basher, is it?” asked Frank. The canary chirped away, and with each one, Tim cringed.

“Me Asher,” grunted the wrestler. “Chyna?” He then proceeded to smash his fist through the drywall. Tim just about had a meltdown.

“My fedora made her disappear,” said Frank. Asher, while not smart, didn’t believe what he heard. “I’m not that dumb,” he said.

Just then, there was a window tap. It was the fedora. It tapped on the glass 3 times, and on the 3rd, the canary turned into Chyna.

“My hottie!” grunted Chyna. “My Chyna!” grunted Asher the Basher. Tim sobbed. Frank grabbed the fedora, wedging it on Tim’s head.

Just like that, the fedora transformed Tim. “Come here you two!” he yelled. Celebrating, he put Chyna & Asher in headlocks.


So this story took a turn, and it’s all due to Chyna. What a physical specimen. She stole the show. And she got Asher the Basher!! I’m so happy for Chyna. But really, I think I’m happiest for Tim. He finally grew a pair (or was given one), and it’s all because of the magical fedora! So lucky! I almost want to change the intro line to say, “This is the tale of two men, a magical, mystical fedora and a 90s WWE female wrestler.”

This photo was one I found on my phone, so I thank myself for providing the picture. But thanks to all the writers – @swanieson @courtcan @arzubusiness @Chrisa_Hickey @nella22 @jimmydoestea @steeb2er @FeliciaCago @EBArchDesign – for helping write today’s story. Special shout-out to new writer @EBArchDesign, who jumped in towards the end with a few funny lines. Hope you had fun and that you join us again.

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A Daughter’s Journey

It had only been a few days since the operation, but Cassidy was finally ready to test her new legs out.

Her movement was shaky, at best. Cassidy discovered her inner beauty after the accident, and she was ready to move on.

She herkily-jerkily stretched out her top right limb and placed it down slowly. It held together, just like the doctors promised.

“We can rebuild you,” they said. “We have the technology.” They were right. Could everything the doctors promised Cassidy be true?

She reached her limb that’s second from the top out and put it down awkwardly, her doctors’ words still fresh. BAM! Two for two.

A sudden gust of wind shook her balance. The door to Utica flung open. She steadied herself, but she was no longer alone.

“Hello?” Cassidy asked timidly. “Anyone there?” No one responded. But she could feel someone, or something, in her presence.

“Surprise!” Thirteen inhabitants spun from the shadows. The Louveen Brothers broke into a bluegrass version of Brass Monkey.

“That’s my song!” screamed Cassidy. She immediately began tapping legs 3 and 7 to the beat, completely engrossed in the music.

Without warning, leg 4 fell off.

One of the Louveen Brothers picked it up and noticed the hollow middle. He dragged his knuckles against it to add more percussion.

A stranger arrived with an octagonal package for Cassidy. The room fell silent. This could only mean one thing.

“My replica UFC octagon!” yelled Cassidy. She had saved up enough UPC points from a summer Pepsi promotion to mail away for it.

It was the final piece for the soft drink flotilla. The partygoers gathered round, anxiously awaiting the sign.

All eyes were on Cassidy as she used legs 1, 3 and 8 to open the package. Just then, black smoke shot out and covered everything.

Awakening. Days later. Miles away, perhaps. In a room full of anarchist arachnids. “Dada?” she asked.

A booming voice echoed around her. “Where’s the package?” it asked. Lightning struck. Cassidy had lost the package in the smoke.

Cassidy didn’t know what to say, so instead she tried to run. Without leg 4, that proved a little difficult as she stumbled.

The lightning struck her 5th leg, and she went flying. “I told you not to come back without the package,” the voice boomed.

“But but but but but…” Cassidy shuddered. She couldn’t even get the words out. “You disobeyed me,” said the voice in anger.

Lightning struck again, this time on Cassidy’s 8th limb. She screamed mercifully. Out of nowhere, the Louveen Brothers appeared.

They broke out into a bluegrass version of Live’s “Lightning Crashes.” Everything came to a halt. The booming voice began sobbing.

Cassidy was sobbing too. “Please, not the bluegrass!” She begged.

“This song reminds me of your inner beauty, Cass,” the voice said in between sobs. It then tried to sing along with the chorus.

Cassidy had finally earned her father’s love & respect. And it only took the Louveen Brothers two covers for it to happen.


So Twitter was down today. And that, apparently, made it tough to search the storyline. At least that’s what I heard from a few regulars, and I’m sticking to it.

Thanks to @courtcan for the photo that launched this story. Thanks to @jimmydoestea for jumping in right away and to @Pawela04 for going back and forth with me all day. And a quick shout-out @FeliciaCago for the last second line right as I was wrapping up.

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A Witch’s Brew

“Let there be rain!” she declared. To her surprise, it began pouring. Did she really just do that?

She wondered what else her powers could get her. “Let there be shoes,” she cried and there she was, at Manolo Blahnik!

Ellen couldn’t believe it. The correspondence witchcraft course had worked. She’d started it on a whim, but now she had new shoes.

A late night junkie, she was all in after Erik Estrada promised “powers Harry Potter’d be jealous of” between Cosby Show episodes.

It was a wonder she even saw the infomercial. She was working on a thesis about the political meanings of Cosby Show sweaters.

However as she looked around the room at the piles of paper only surpassed by the colors of the sweaters, she felt that she needed

a break, a life, a husband who would fit all these sweaters, she turned to her tv & vanilla frosting when what did she find?

“Claire, is that you?” he exclaimed. “No, I’m not Claire, there’s no more Claire. Only Ellen,” she said as he looked around & saw his sweaters.

Ellen couldn’t believe how well her correspondence witchcraft course worked. First rain. Then Manolo Blahnik. Now Cliff Huxtable?

Cliff went to Ellen’s door and immediately began trying to fix her doorbell. Meanwhile, Ellen wanted to keep testing her powers

“Let there be music!” Immediately, a shortish man in a suit appeared behind her, holding a boombox. It was playing a mix of…

bluegrass and whale songs.

The suited man reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bag that resembled Michael Gross. He handed it to her.

She took the bag and examined its contents: one marble, a Slim Jim, and some weed. “Yep,” she thought, “Michael Gross.”

Not knowing who Michael Gross was she waved her hand & turned the bag to look like the judges on @NBCthevoice @ceelogreen 1st side.

“Crap!” yelled Ellen. She loved Gross, the Family Ties dad, ever since last week’s marathon. Elsewhere, Cliff tested the doorbell.

The sky open and thunder shook Ellen’s windows. Lightening hazed her vision momentarily. Coming to, she realized all was taken away.

Lacking a pure heart, Ellen had only temporary magic. She needed to find the only one who could purify sins: Patty Blagojevich.

Patty was nestled in the corner booth at Harold’s Chicken Shack on East 53rd street, reading palms as usual.

Ellen headed to Ravenswood to track down Patty. She’d certainly be home from her reality show foray by now.

Ellen found a note on the Blagojevich’s door: “Will return by 3. On the south side getting chicken & a weave for Rod.” She sighed.

Ellen stammered as she approached Patti, “I… I just…” The two locked eyes. “It’s fine,” Patti said. “You can touch my bangs.”

Ellen didn’t want to touch the hair but cut it. The crisp hair, the faint scent of AquaNet – perfect for her next potion.

Ellen shook Patty’s hand, remarked how it resembled a man’s hand then left. She only needed two more ingredients for her potion.

With Cliff still at the house messing with the doorbell & entertaining CeeLo & The Voice judges, Ellen was in no rush to get home.

So she continued on her quest to find the other 2 ingredients for her potion. Up next: a blobfish fin.

The blobfish had been known to frequent the Redwood Tap, so that was her first stop.

Ellen, forgetting her witchcraft powers, texted “Redwood Tap Chicago” to G-O-O-G-L-E to find its address. She awaited the response.

Google texted back:

Ellen thought maybe she misheard the bar’s name. But she trekked to Elgin anyway.

Ellen got there, but alas, no blobfish. “Wrightwood Tap, not Redwood,” said a Komondor bellied up to the bar taking whiskey shots.

Not to be out done, ellen asked the bartender for the rest of the bottle of whiskey, and started drinking it like bottled water…

After chugging a bottle of Early Times, Ellen set her sights on the Wrightwood Tap. Drunk, she called Cliff to drive her there.

Cliff was busy testing the doorbell, so when his “Get Low” ringtone went off, he barely heard it over the barrage of ding dongs.

Cliff picked up just in time. “Be there in an hour,” he said. “Nope, haven’t fixed it yet.” He hung up and headed out to get Ellen.

Cliff got to a drunk Ellen right as she and the Komondor started karaoke. “Let’s go find your blobfish,” Cliff said. Ellen burped.

Cliff gave Ellen coffee to sober her up for the drive. Pulling up to the Wrightwood Tap, they saw the slimy fish at the jukebox.

“Hey blobfish,” Ellen slurred when she got inside. “I need your fin.” Meanwhile, Cliff asked the bartender if they had a doorbell.

The blobfish, tired of being harrassed for his bloblike body, acquiesced. Ellen burped again, took his fin and dragged Cliff away.

Onto the 3rd and final ingredient – a lemon. Ellen told Cliff to take her to Jewel. “You don’t need more alcohol,” he said.

They got to Jewel, and Ellen went to the produce aisle. Cliff, however, went to find the manager to ask if they had a doorbell.

Ellen grabbed a ripe lemon, paid for it, then dragged Cliff away again. She needed to get home to look at her Potions 401 syllabus.

They made it home, and Ellen looked at her notes on making a potion. Cliff went back to doorbell, while she got the cauldron out.

She dumped the ingredients in the cauldron – Patty Blagojevich’s bangs, a blobfish fin and a lemon – heated it up and stirred it.

Ellen stirred the mixture until became a frothy liquid. She poured it in an old flower vase because she didn’t have any beakers.

Now, the final exam. If the potion worked, Ellen would receive a certificate of completion from the witchcraft school.

She followed the exam’s directions, which said to pour the potion on a sheet of paper. She had no idea what would happen.

Almost instantly, the paper began smoking. Ellen was riveted. Cliff, not so much. He kept working the doorbell, oblivious.

The paper was now shaking before morphing into a person. But not just anyone – Erik Estrada. “Congratulations,” he said to Ellen.

He handed Ellen a certificate of course completion. She was a certified witch! She jumped for joy, only to be interrupted by Cliff.

“I fixed it,” he said. Ellen had lost her patience. “Abracadabra Alakazam, get rid of this annoying man.” And poof! He was gone.

If only she could find a potion now to stop the doorbell from ringing.

Ellen practiced her witchcraft all night. The only time she stopped was to order the Slap Chop, a Snuggie and Nutrisystem.


This was a fun one. I loved it. And no, it doesn’t have anything to do with me writing about the last 20 tweets. Someone had to get a drunk Ellen home safely. Anyway, there were a lot of great pop culture references in this story, from Cliff Huxtable to Michael Gross (Family Ties’ Mr. Keaton) to Patty Blagojevich’s bangs. Who knew Ellen would need those precious locks?

Thanks for writing, everyone. I’m especially honored that my old co-worker @Pawela04 jumped in. He tweeted four lines, and those four tweets were his first four tweets. EVER. That’s pretty cool. Also, thanks to @BlackDreams for the continuous plugs. It’s always nice to have a more ambassadors. Hopefully she’ll pick up the little nuances the more she contributes. And I could never do this without my reliable stable of writers @kikiandkyle, @hwtibbs, @FeliciaCago, @jimmydoestea and @thatgirlmari – you guys save me and make the stories so good. So thanks for humoring me and writing time and time again. And to @swanieson – you managed to sneak a line in just in time!

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Filed under @BlackDreams, @feliciacago, @hwtibbs, @jimmydoestea, @kikiandkyle, @Pawela04, @swanieson, @thatgirlmari, Bill Cosby, Blagojevich, Witch

The Gnome Wars

The two friends crouched down slowly. Lamont peeked between the wood slats. “Do you see that?” he asked.

“Yes Lamont, I’m not blind” snapped Gordo. “And I can smell it. What do you think it is?”

Oblivious to Gordo’s tone, Lamont replied, “Well it smells like bacon, but it can’t be. Who has cooked bacon under a deck?”

The lawn gnomes had been plotting an ingenious bacon trap for Lamont and Gordo for some time now. They wanted vengeance on the canines.

Gordo: It’s cooking, but not bacon. I think that damned rabbit nibbled on the porch light wires once too much. Smell burnt fur?

The dogs were unaware that the gnomes dared the rabbit to bite all the way through the live wire. Just one part of a sinister plan.

“It smells like victory. Now I’ve got a craving for bacon flavored rabbit,” said Lamont.

The dogs were tragically unaware of the gnomes’ plot to teach a lesson: Never, ever piss off – or especially ON – a garden gnome.

For years, the gnomes have been pissed on. By birds. By meerkats. By donkeys. By llamas. And of course, by Lamont and Gordo.

One by one, meticulously, the gnomes got their revenge. The birds were tarred. The meerkats skinned. The llamas drugged.

The donkeys? Let’s just say those asses’ll never be heard from again. But Lamont & Gordo? They’re different cats. Cuz they’re dogs.

Bobbing side to side, the great gnome warrior, Metro Gnome, waited for the bait to draw in his unsuspecting prey.

Metro Gnome was ruthless, known to trip children for fun. Paranoid about a coup, he saw Gordo and Lamont as threats to his rule.

Metro lived a solitary life under a patch of mushrooms. He talked to himself by day and developed conspiracy theories by night.

These were the unfortunate effects of the mushrooms being of the Psilocybin variety.

Metro Gnome’s hallucinations often involved magical unicorns. Not surprising, given his brother Gastro’s My Little Pony collection.

There were rumors of a rebellion, but always in hushed tones. Metro once forced a cat to bark as punishment for purring loudly. He

was true definition of a crazed despot. Known to sit quietly for hours, he’d spring into action after wolfing down the mushrooms.

Conspiracy theories too often amplified by Metro’s cousin, Terror Gnome, who is sure someone or something is always out to get us.

“Neil Armstrong, Oscar winner,” Metro was fond of telling Gordo and Lamont. The dogs’ response? A simple leg raise & a lot of piss.

That’s why the Gnomes had beef with Lamont and Gordo. That and Lamont teasing Gastro about the Tourette’s he’s had since he was 6.

That was the last straw. Metro, Terror and Gastro Gnome had a plan. And it involved their other cousin Gee, an electric Gnome.

Shaken from his reverie, Metro saw a sudden movement reflected from the surface of his pinwheel made from the finest Gnomish steel.

It was the white haired fiend and he was approaching quickly!

“Quick!” yelled Metro. “Plug Gee into the socket!” Gordo was bearing down on them. Terror & Gastro got to the outlet just in time.

With 120 volts coursing through Gee Gnome, he began to replicate. Dozens then hundreds of gnome warriors began to appear.

As their ranks swelled, a battle cry went up. “Red Rover, Red Rover, these Dog Days are over!” Gastro twitched with anticipation.

Lamont led the charge, followed closely by Gordo. Poor Gordo was a step behind when it came to everything – sports, girls, school.

They got closer. Metro calmed the troops. “Steady! Steady!” But since their legs were really just painted on, they had no choice.

Lamont & Gordo leapt at the Gnomes. The Gnomes held their ground, as Gnomes do. Sparks flew in the air, as did some fur & plaster.

As the debris settles, Lamont is seen gnawing on fragments of a silver whirligig while Gordo bats about a small red cap.

Lamont & Gordo defeated Metro, Gastro, Terror & Gee Gnome in the Battle of Madison’s Yard. But the war may have just begun.


Ha! Dogs vs. Gnomes. Loved it. Especially the names – Gordo, Lamont, and the Gnome family (Metro, Gastro, Terror and Gee).

Thanks @MadisonZyluk for supplying the photo. Your dogs are pretty cute. And thanks to all the writers – @FeliciaCago @hwtibbs @jimmydoestea @jsetlak @paulmtracy @thatgirlmari. Special shout out to @Paulmtracy, who was writing with us for the first time. Hopefully I’ve got another addict.


Filed under @feliciacago, @hwtibbs, @jimmydoestea, @jsetlak, @MadisonZyluk, @paulmtracy, @thatgirlmari, Dogs, Gnomes, Uncategorized

Sticky and Sweet

This is a tale of love. Of resiliency. Of an ordinary chocolate chip pancake looking for her soulmate.

Stella thought to herself, “I hope my soulmate has a whipped cream topping,” as she logged into

She had no nuts & realized by virtue of that fact she was considered inferior.

As she searched, she had an idea: What if she went on a diet and became one of those sexy, french Crepes? Thin, delicate….

But it was not to be. With’s new screening the word “crepe” immediately put her onto the…

…swingers pages. This was unacceptable. She was looking for a soul mate, not a fling. She applied a little syrup & kept perusing.

Suddenly, an IM window opened, beckoning her toward her destiny.

“I like what I see,” said Trevor. His tagline read “Rooty Tootie Fresh and Fruity.” He was a sexy, plump blueberry from Kalamazoo.

“Hi,” Stella typed nervously. She hadnt been in the dating scene since before she met Raul, a two-timing strawberry from Nantucket.

Trevor was a berry, just like Raul. She didn’t know if she wanted to go down that road again. Just as she was about to respond…

“Click here,” the virile blueberry propositioned. “Find juicy fruit like me all over” Stella sighed wearily.

“Ugh.” She remembered the last time she naively clicked a link IM’d to her. It took a lot to get over the fiasco.

Despite 27 syrup flavors of compatibility, was delivering rubbery sides of bacon. Then, a blink! A new…

..IM window opened. “Hey there,” it read. Stella searched her new suitor’s profile. It was Chad, a stick of butter from Toronto.

Mmmhm, butter. I haven’t had me some butter in a long, long time. “Hey darling!” Stella typed lustfully….

She wanted some friendly, socialist Canadian butter. “May I see your pecans?” Chad asked. Stella blushed, embarrassed to be nutless.

Just then, her IM box from Trevor blinked again. “,” he wrote. Stella ignored him as she hesitantly responded to Chad.

“My pecans are being shelled right now, but I’ll show you my bananas,” Stella typed into the box. She paused before hitting ENTER.

She felt a tinge of anxiety. What if Chad changed his mind? She wasn’t invested, but had already imagined them on a plate together.

Boldly, she hit ENTER & waited for Chad to respond. She could see he was typing – and for a long time. Was he writing her a poem?

Her anticipation was interrupted by another ding from Trevor. “,” his IM read. Disgusted, she ALT-TAB’d to Chad’s box.

And lo and behold, Chad was indeed writing an ode to ! No one had ever written a poem to her before.

“Berries are red, Berries are blue. You look delicious. Would love to fill you.”

Chad was one savvy banana. He knew how to distance himself from other fruits. This poem was just one of his ways to be sweet.

An IM window didn’t convey his feelings, though. He was ripe to make Stella feel better than the day she was made.

Yet his poem went on: “Imagine me and you out on a date / I make you appealing while on a plate”

Chad’s prowess at poetry, and his appeal, were slipping. And at that moment another IM window popped before Stella…

“Hi there,” Brad wrote. “I’m a single white bag of powdered sugar from CT.” Stella curiously clicked on Brad’s profile.

She liked what she saw – skier, loved the White Stripes, White Men Can’t Jump. And Chad was playing her, lying about who he was.

“Nice poem,” she wrote Chad. “But I thought you said you were butter.” She continued. “Don’t ever IM me again!”

Chad tried writing back that it was a Freudian slip, but the IM never went thru. Stella blocked him, turning her attention to Brad.

Brad was pretty much ignoring her. He was 29 minutes into his 30 minutes or its free guarantee, hungry and hopeful.

But Trevor? Trevor was relentless. He IM’d again. “,” it read. Stella learned to ignore him. She waited for Brad.

Stella decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She typed, “Moguls?” It bounced back. “User not found,” it read. Brad’s trial expired.

Stella felt like giving up. All the suitors on were either duds or too cheap to pay for a real subscription.

And then just as she was logging out an IM window appeared from Brad.

Stella slammed her laptop shut. “Screw pancakes!” she yelled. It was time to be bad. Time for the forbidden carb: the Waffle.

Oh, waffles. The last time she had indulged in such sinful pleasure was when she went to the Waffle Bar on Armitage. So much syrup.

But it was time to go back. So she got dolled up, spread some apple compote on & headed out. The only problem? Raul was a regular.

She wondered where Chips was, it had been a while since she had seen her. As she picked up the phone to call her, it rang….

She answered. “Hello?” “Uh, hi, Stella. I’m really sorry to call you out of the blue. It’s me, Trevor.” He cleared his throat.

As soon as he finished, the call waiting beeped….it read “Raul: Don’t Pick up!”; Stella of course, did….””Raul..?”

“Behbeh, I meece you,” said Raul in his thick accent. Stella didn’t know what to say. She was flattered but had Trevor on hold.

But hearing Raul’s voice melted the apple butter off of her. Trevor could wait. “Raul…why are you calling me? Where is Mila?”

“Meela has, how you say, leaf trimming,” Raul said. Mila was his latest fling – a lean, orange carrot with long, green leaves.

“Lovely!” she said. But Raul had other thoughts..He needed to get Stella alone. He had unresolved issues. Not so lovely issues…

Stella agreed to see him because her heart needed it. Raul understood that this was his one chance to finally kill her.

Stella clicked back to Trevor, intending to say she was going to see her ex. But Trevor said something so sweet, she reconsidered.

“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I could tell I fit you,” he said. Stella, being the pancake to his blueberry, blushed.

Meanwhile, Raul growing with impatience hired the biggest fork he could find to do the dirty deed he had planned out for so long…

She missed Trevor but he was too busy with work to notice her back then. “Do you want to go for some whipped cream?” she asked.

Trevor was happy Stella didn’t push him away after all these years. “Allons-y!” He whisked her away to Paris on his private jet.

Meanwhile, the fork arrived at Stella’s house. Too late. She was gone. Raul was furious. He sold the fork to a pawn shop for $3.22.

Stella was gazing out at the Atlantic when Trevor returned with a jug of rum syrup. “So, what was with all of those awful links?”

“What links?” he asked. “The ones you sent me on,” she responded. “I haven’t been on that site in years,” he said.

At which point it all became clearer that saving passwords and then selling a computer…

…wasn’t so smart. “I knew I should have sold my Mac to that Indian spice,” said Trevor. The plane started its descent.

As the plane landed, the flight attendant, a bottle of grand marnier, welcomed them to Paris. Trevor nuzzled in Stella’s nook.

Blueberries and a pancake – they really fit together. Trevor and Stella went on to live a fruitful life together


Man. I’m so happy for Trevor! The pervy link sender (we all know it was really him) from Kalamazoo got his pancake!

I’ll be honest, when I tweeted the first line of this story, I thought it might end up being a dud. But I am happy to say I was completely wrong. It is absolutely amazing. So funny. So awesome.

Thanks @nella22 for supplying the photo. And thanks so much to all the writers. We had 13 (including me). Special shout out to new writers @damnfineAD, @swanieson, @marzlet and @lesliestaysup. And to those who’ve written before – @foiledcupcakes, @nella22, @thatgirlmari, @FeliciaCago, @jimmydoestea, @hwtibbs @jsetlak and @rickmurray – you continue to crack me up. Trevor and Stella would thank you too, but they’re busy frolicking abroad.

By the way, Jake (jsetlak) sent me this tweet that makes me laugh every time I read it, so I wanted to share:

“I think “ALT-TAB’d to Chad’s box” needs to become a colloquialism for some weird online sex act.”


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The Secret of the Creeps

They landed in the middle of the night, sending armed guards out to patrol the field. All was quiet.

This new planet reeked of banana and unrest but General Chick McPeep, the fearless leader of this abandoned squad…

..had a potassium allergy. “Gereddsh ma gheglkv!” he screamed to his lieutenant. A soldier ran to get the General’s breathing mask.

Unfortunately, breathing masks hinder order-barking so the General cast it aside in order to lead. “Troops!” he chirped. “Find the

terrain map and fan out!” McPeep had trained his troops well; they quickly sprang into action. Only Private Chirpington did not. He

was younger than the rest & his curiosity had gotten him into trouble before. Little things distracted him – twigs, lights, leaves.

Something glimmered, just over there. He hopped, hesitated, hopped again, then gently parted the grass with his beak.

And what he saw filled him with terror. Staring at him with hunger and violence was a giant eyeball attached to a…

horrid face. Under the eye sat a gaping maw, rows of teeth glinting despite the darkness. Chirpington froze, his mind racing.

“Whatever you do, don’t touch the teeth of the horrid faced native,” Gen. McPeep’s orders stated. But Chirpington was too curious.

Chirpington stepped closer, torn between fear and growing curiosity. He timidly stretched out a wing. His heart pounded. Just then,

Corporal Featherton showed up. “What IS that?” Featherton chirped. Chirpington’s wing was inches away from the native’s teeth.

With fascination and horror, they realized they were surrounded. By an army of menacing yellow marshmallow chicks.

Chirpington was horrified. He’d heard stories about the marshmallow Peeps, who were known for blank stares and terrible tempers.

Featherton, meanwhile, was drawn to them – a moth to flame. “Aww, they’re kinda cute.” Petting one on the head, it snapped at him.

And then he remembered the rest of the story: the legendary race of deceptively adorable but deadly Creeps.

“What do we do?” asked Featherton. “They’re so cute, I just want to squeeze them.” Chirpington, though, was not the soldier to ask.

Just then the General intervened and with a decisive thwack of his baton, he drove the Creeps back into the grass. “Our mission is

NOT to play with the Creeps, but to uncover what their secret is,” he exalted. General McPeep was referring to their lack of aging.

“But but,” Chirpington started. McPeep thwacked him again. “Enough chirping Chirpington!” This was the distraction the Creeps needed.

They came flying out of the brush from all directions, throwing blinding clouds of pastel dust. “Retreat!” called McPeep, before

falling to the ground. Chirpington knew he had to do something. McPeep was covered in a light yellow film that was hardening fast.

Things weren’t looking good. Pastel dust was flying everywhere. Chirpington’s comrades were covered in light blues, pinks, yellows.

To us, it’s just sugar. To the Chicks, it was a candy coating that’d force them into submission, then turn them into confections.

He rushed over to McPeep, who by now was gasping for air. Featherton was rolling in the dust to shake off the pink haze on him.

The expression on McPeep’s face glazed over, now identical to the blank countenance on each and every one of those damned Creeps.

In the commotion, the horrid one-eyed creature had returned and now lumbered towards Featherton, jaws open wide and eye narrowed.

There were roughly elevenish ways out of this ordeal, but would there be enough time to pull off any of them?

“The Ziploc method would take too long,” thought Chirpington. “And I’m out of popsicle sticks, so burning’s out.” Time was ticking.

The Creeps’ secret wasn’t hidden somewhere in the fields of plastic grass surrounding the landing site; it was the DUST itself!

If only he’d thought to bring the egg cases, they could have waited out the attack. Alas, they were left back at the site.

And with no furry Dahgs in sight, no one could be relied on to eat the Creeps which strayed from the larger group.

Even a Caat could have proved helpful, though they couldn’t be controlled and were known to indiscriminately bat at small objects.

The horrid face, now seen to have not one but two eyes (and banana breath) abruptly began devouring Creeps, one by one, meaning…

… that there was hope for the remaining Chick troops after all. But would the face come after the dusted among them next?

Chirpington remembered what General McPeep taught him. “When face to face with face, peck nose,” was one of McPeep’s many lessons.

The face moved in on McPeep, now yellow and soft. Chirpington waddled himself in the way. “On guard!” he chirped, voice trembling.

The face kept moving closer. It was again inches from Chirpington. This time, though? He started to pecking at the face’s nose.

And with every peck, the mystery was revealed. A purple parchment emerged, with letters that spelled out the truth.

One by one, letters were revealed: A…Y…I…R….P. what could this mean? Chirpington held his breath.

The letters kept appearing as he scanned the page. Alone they meant nothing but they were the key to defeating the ruthless Cheeps.

Another yearning, I revealed… peanuts!

A…Y…I…R….P…A…Y…I…R….P…A…Y…I…R….P…A…Y…I…R….P. The letters kept scrolling faster and faster.

Not the brightest chick in the coop, Chirpington couldn’t decipher the code, even with Featherton whispering it before solidifying.

“Another yearning, I revealed…peanuts!” whispered Featherton. It finally dawned on Chirpington. He was gonna need some peanuts.

Chirpington remembered seeing a peanut by McPeep’s pastel dust-frozen body. He leapt to it just as the face was about to close in.

The face followed, and Chirpington nudged the peanut out from under McPeep’s marshmallowy corpse. “Now what?” he wondered.

But not much longer. Face’s two eyes began bugging out, and it pulled back. Chirpington had no idea that face had a peanut allergy.

Defiantly, Chirpington rolled the peanut toward face. Face backed off. “That’s right!” chirped Chirpington, puffing out his chest.

With face having moved on and Featherton, McPeep & the rest of the chicks solidified in pastel dust, Chirpington accepted his fate.

No Creeps were left, but there was plenty of pink pastel dust ammo. Chirpington picked up a casing, emptied it & covered himself.

He would be in a better place, just like Featherton and McPeep. A tear fell from his eye but froze before reaching his beak.

So did his wings. And his legs. And his claws. Chirpington was becoming a Creep. His head became marshmallowy, as did his body.

The Chicks had finally uncovered the Secret of the Creeps. They would forever be preserved in a pink & yellow pastel dust.


Whoa. This one had it all. Chicks. Creeps. McPeeps. Two-eyed faces. Potassium allergies. Peanut allergies. Dahgs. Caats. So funny. Thanks @kikiandkyle for supplying the photo. And thanks @FeliciaCago @hwtibbs @inediblejewelry @jsetlak @foiledcupcakes and @rickmurray (inadvertently) for writing with me.

Maybe this should be an Easter story? Actually…maybe not.


Filed under @feliciacago, @foiledcupcakes, @hwtibbs, @inediblejewelry, @jsetlak, @kikiandkyle, @rickmurray, Chicks, Peanuts, Peeps, Sci-fi