There was a fish, his name was Fred.
His friend was named Ned, and they both loved Bread and had a crush on Winifred.
One night, while Fred was in Bed, Ned killed Fred in his love for Winifred.
So now, Ned and Winifred were happily Wed.
Wile Fred was Dead.
Wile Fred was Dead.
Then, Fred came back from the Dead, and with the help of Ed, he ate the brains of Ned, which were in his Head.
So, while Ned badly Bled, he began to Dread his killing of Fred.
So, while Ned badly Bled, he began to Dread his killing of Fred.
Then, Winifred went to Ned, and tried to sew his Head back together with a Thread in a Shed.
But, Ned was Dead, while Fred read a book about a man with a Flathead, while eating Bread.
Later, he dropped Dead from the poisonous Bread that Winifred had infused with Lead.
Later, he dropped Dead from the poisonous Bread that Winifred had infused with Lead.
With Fred and Ned both Dead, all that were left were Ed and Winifred.
But Winifred hated Ed, and refused to be Wed.
Winifred disliked Ed because he was a Red-Head.
THE END
But Winifred hated Ed, and refused to be Wed.
Winifred disliked Ed because he was a Red-Head.
THE END
Very original. Definitely an interesting way to start our this Slice of Life Challenge. I look forward to seeing what else you can come up with.
ReplyDelete-Brynn
CLUE
ReplyDeleteChad Clifford had always loved quiet Denver with its quaint, cooked, queasy quarries. It was a place where he felt angryand cooked.
He was an optimistic, ruthless, cooked, wine drinker with ruddy fingernails and skinny toenails. His friends saw him as a knowing, knowledgeable, cooked knight. Once, he had even helped a pongy blind person cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.
Chad walked over to the window and reflected on his cooked surroundings. The drizzle rained like bouncing snakes.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone cooked. It was the figure of Warwick McCallister. Warwick was a forgetful author with greasy fingernails and cooked brown toenails.
Chad gulped. He was not cooked up for Warwick.
As Chad stepped outside and Warwick came closer, he could see the cooked glint in his eye.
Warwick glared with all the wrath of 9625 cooked hurt hamsters. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want Money."
Chad cooked back, even more afraid and still fingering the minuscule torch. "Warwick, no," he replied.
They looked at each other with cooked feelings, like two purring, purple puppies swimming at a very cooked wake, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two gracious cooks smiling to the beat.
Chad regarded Warwick's greasy fingernails and brown toenails. "I feel the same way!" revealed Chad with a cooked grin.
Warwick looked ambivalent, his emotions blushing like a new, cooked newspaper.
Then Warwick came inside for a nice cooked glass of wine.
Repeat.