Comin' up

Another story is currently in the works; look for it in April!

“That Fair Girl Child, She Ripped Him Limb from Limb from Limb”

Wolf Girl, upload by AlisonKC.

There are neighbourhoods you will be told you can walk in. There are neighbourhoods you’ll be told you should not walk in. This was either of those, depending on whom you were.

He was a nice child, or so his mother and nine aunts appreciated. He played in the sandbox and the sandbox was never worse for it. Unlike other children.

She was a fair girl child. She moved into the neighborhood from a neighbourhood her mother thought it fit she never mention again. She wore dresses and she also wore slacks.

- Wanna play? she asked – What do you play? he asked. – Gun Boats and Resort Town, she said, shifting her feet. – I don’t know how you play that, he said. – Here I’ll show you, she said, and kicked all the sand in the sandbox until there was no more sand in the sandbox.

- Neat huh, she said. – Sort of, said the boy, not letting on he was in love.

And there began their time as playmates together. Characterized by much sand-kicking, grass burning, match play, and pigeon bombing.

The boy got the sweats. He ate little of his macaroni or else would take a double and triple portion. His mother assessed him for fever. His father sent occasional cheques and postcards.

His attentions towards the girl became more obsessive. He began to insist on rules when they played war. There were borders between gravel pit and the swing-less swing set, not to be crossed. Panels of the sidewalk you couldn’t set foot on. You had to shout “Home Free” in as loud and clear voice as you could manage so it couldn’t be mistaken for other phrases, like “Humphrey” or “Home Fries.”

Finally, the girl had her fill of him. One sparkling lavender evening, the night of the new moon, she turned into a wolf, and the neighbours were talking for the next several years about finding pieces of him at every curb. Those who didn’t witness the bloodbath nor hear the blood-curdling cries watched it on the news. For a real moment in the community, all eyes locked on their set, the community was sharing something—something unprecedented, something unfathomable.

THE END

Ultraviolence Bears

In a part of the urban forest named Toronto, slightly east of Parkdale and quite west of Downtown, there is a neighbourhood overrun every Thursday through Saturday by the Ultraviolence Bears. Now Ultraviolence Bears were well known to all the other forest animals, but not much liked by any other animals except other Ultraviolence Bears. Ultraviolence Bears were known for such things as drinking so much sugar and inhaling so much sweet honey in their noses, that they became rambunctious and loud. They sang karaoke so obnoxiously that the whole neighborhood Knew Who Was in Charge. They bought up bars in the neighborhood and strangled out the old mom and pop joints. They were masters at getting stupid and dressing in the latest fashions. If you were among those who didn’t care for the Ultraviolence Bears, the Ultraviolence Bears didn’t mind so much. The Ultraviolence bears would send you home in an ambulance.

Now among the Ultraviolence Bears, there was a sad Ultraviolence Bear. As a daydreaming cub, whenever he thirsted for the candy-clear waters of the crystal clear stream, galumphing his way up the sidewalk, he was pounced upon and marauded by the Blue Bear, the Gingham Bear, the Bear with The Sparkle Heart, for no particular reason. If ever he should whistle a new, merry tune, bigger Ultraviolence Bears would march down from the fire-escapes, smacking him into a fine piquancy of delirious pain, until both eyeballs bugged out of his head and one of his arms clung barley to its stump, by a thread.

Fiery explosions from frequent overhead war machines periodically decimated the Ultraviolent Bear population, keeping them becoming more of a nuisance.

One day, a real microwave of a day, the sad Ultraviolet Bear dragged himself to the shore of Lake Ontario. There, between the Ultraviolence bears blowing one another away with six shooters, and the Ultraviolence Bears growling at one another on picnic blankets, a vision of gentleness and grace dipped in and out of the water. It was a real mermaid! She was as lovely as lovely could be and the Ultraviolent Bear felt – queer. His head was a-swim with sensations generally unfamiliar to him: The Not anger, the Not Cantanerous Hatred, the Non-Aggression. He galumphed closer to the shore as this princess among magical created things pushed towards him through the weeds. His guard let thus down, suddenly he found himself hoisted up on the shoulders of the Bear made of PVC and the Bear Made of corduroy. O they were to have quite a BBQ with their fellow tonite!

Haunted Test Pattern

Hello . . . . Normal programming has been discontinued. Alison and Ryan are not here right now. This is only a test. The purpose of this test is to allow venders, home users and internet-providers to adjust their equipment for optimal functioning. This is not a real haunting. Please excuse the sheeted individuals with gonzo, midnight dots for eyes. These individuals are not ghosts but instead personages dressed up as. Meeweep. Alison and Ryan are not here right now. Please enjoy our royalty-free organ music. Meeweep. Please endoy Alistair and Penicilan are not rIght. Meeweep. Please enjoy the temperature drop in the room. Hello? Hello? There is no beauty here, only sadness for eternity and coldness. Were this an actual haunting you may have been instructed what dead-end closet to barricade you and your chattering siblings in, at the end of which long-ish, dead-end chamber, clutching what overstuffed, ghoulish-looking doll. Meeweep. But there are no flowers nor dolls in the closets, nor any instruction at this time. Only the barren petals of death. Normal programming has been suspended.

This system has been developed to keep you informed in the event of a real haunting, in voluntary cooperation with Red Velvet Cake and your local authorities.

Vainglory

vainglorychair, upload by AlisonKC.

In the rainy, wearisome bedroom community of Maple Ontario, near an uncertain kingdom of fun rides, the aging developments came in every size and gray-tone, every stage of dilapidation and dry rot. The homes were reasonably boxy and the same, spooky jobbies, with mazy topiary. Vainglory's family resided in the great greige manor upon the biggest, shapliest hill of all, a house of cobwebs, creaky passages, buggy and inconstant appliances. Nearby the rich folk held their functions, in homes so large one couldn't gaze at them directly without damaging your eyes. Downhill, the town was a loose-candy box and association where the duds, ruts and burps got up late each day and stayed up late into the night, playing bridge or logic games, and when that no longer suited them, a brisk, sober evening funeral was held. Vainglory lived amidst this with her well-dressed, often well-meaning but often sinister parents, her rotund mom who called her princess potty lips and her triangular dad who called her the hardened criminal. Her velvety Persian as well, Queen Plague, a stately feline with lineage traceable directly to ancient Egypt. Her room was located at the top of the house, reached by cranky dumbwaiter after several flights of stairs. Her manners at school were quaint and most ingenious while at home she talked rudely, sang or made rude noises and listened to heavy metal music before retiring to the nursery for crustless paninis, celery sticks and a sippy cup of mochachino.

As Maple offered Vainglory few prospects for zitty buds or earwax peers--local kids having defaced not nearly enough volumes of poetry for that--to play alone, Vainglory would creep through the walled garden, past two stone lady-faces, warty mushrooms and frugal thorns. In her woods, the boulders were the pinkest pinks, the weeds the peacockiest blues. Here she was the Empress Potty Lips, and her domain extended to under every twig and tile of grass. She placed a moss-clump on her head and stomped the sylvan floor. Moths and bats were her imperious train. Mosquitoes and hoot owls.

As is the habit in that part of the world, one-day smart and motivated developers came to put away the forest, tidy up. Match the impractical woods to the houses. New chunks of houses, more houses, mile-long-garages. Roaring busy battlers, bulldozers, caterpillars far-flung and inevitable as skyscrapers. They plucked Vainglory's groves up whole, packed lily ponds, ducks, rivulets and creeks into square blue bails. A monstrous fleet, it devastated the countryside. An implacable dragon, its breath poisoned all that approached.

Put out and in a mood, Vainglory brought her imperial compound back into the house. She battled bouts of sighing and stomped up and down the stairs. - My Coloured Tights! she would yell. - Shut up dawg, her mother encouraged, a suggestion to improve Vainglory's behavior. - What about your galoshes, her father would pipe in, helpfully, chewing the nub of his shirt-cuff. - No, want My Coloured Tights, Vainglory screamed and screamed. Queen Plague traipsed on points behind her, mewing and arching. Full days Vainglory rubbed her eyes at windows, bubbling. Upstairs, she would stuff herself between her bed and wall, itemizing her aluminum foil bits and the growing ball. From time to time the grand radio spoke of a land dispute between aboriginal folk whose land this was, and the developers, whose land this would be. Vainglory moldered in the big arm chair, concentrating on making the lashes on her left eyelid lift. The aboriginal folk raised a blockade to prevent the developers from servicing humanity and economics and progress. Occasionally townsfolk gingerly darted across the lines, pushed one of the aboriginal folk, then ran like the dickens back to town.

On a day it thundered but did not rain, Vainglory rode her prided bike with sparkler-rocket-tassels to the high pass. As it was a week when an injunction had stopped the development, the ruins of the forest sighed and butterflies patrolled. And Vainglory would whisper "I did that." The next day, when the injunction was repealed and new developments marched like troops of gazebos, pickets, astroturf and basements, Vainglory rode to the top of the pass and would whisper "I did that."

Vainglory was bored. Her in-house imperial compound proved to be one of her less successful playtime initiatives. After tea she was plopped in the sink, shampooed into scowls, rolled up in a towel, then dumped in bed. Sleep came after the usual boredom, and what nightmares came she barely even enjoyed. She pedaled up the pass once more then whisked down with her eyes burning and her hair stiff while her handlebars jerked this way and that.

Like a puffy sticker zipping across a desolate piece of foolscap, Vainglory rode across the meadow. At the treeline, only a toss of low saplings and shrubbery remained. Only a little burbling brook that occasionally burst in smoke and fiery flames. Of these, Vainglory plucked up the furriest and prettiest sticks, the gaspiest branches and vegetable debris. She tugged them up by the roots, packed them in a plastic bag. Stored the little darling in her flowery basket. Transplanting her forest knot by parasite, crumb by thread, jumble by spot into her mother's pink and red rose garden, Vainglory tended her jagged spouts and sprigs. She dreamed of a day not far off when she would be honored as a magnanimous philanthropist, and it would cost the girls in her class twelve jellybeans and twenty-five dollars even to talk to her.

THE END

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day, upload by AlisonKC.

Foetus Candy

june 9, upload by AlisonKC.

Fat Mooshy Tart.

FOETUS CANDY.

THE-REAL-ALIVE-BON-BON-AND-FUN-PET-YOU-GROW-YOURSELF
$5.00 $5.00
World famous foetus candy is so full of surprises you won't be able to stop sucking them or wiggling them with your tongue. They shrink with joy upon contact, blossom with slow, sure flavour, squash and squirt. Make your nose scrunch up and do wonderful things in your mouth. They taste like the most sensational things you can think of, like vacations to the sea and the breathless sensation of falling. Best of all, foetus candies love and trust you for they have no other family.

Butter em.
Put em in yer mouth.
Butter em.
Put em in yer mouth.
FOETUS CANDY!

They're amazing! It doesn't matter if you nuture them and raise them to be good kids or devour their jammy centers first. Sun-warmed and sunny-tempered, they just love having your attention.

***

Have you marveled at what it feels like to be such a small thing in such an infinite universe? Have you wondered before a kid enters the world, what it's doing in there?

WELL YOU WILL NEVER NEED TO STOP WONDERING, HAVING FOETUS CANDY! Introduced to the 2001 Global Confectionary Exposition amid much excitement and astonishment, Foetus Candy gained an immediate popular following and reputation for their great taste as well as great personality. Fashioned individually by the love of our rationalist and doting science-moms, feed them their patent silver placenta-beads to increase their size and range of attributes. Or gobble by the handful. The more you interact with them, the more you will be able to do with them. You won't believe your eyes. See nascent motory skills and skin respond. Hear them make their first mammalian gurgling. Watch them move if you play music on a cassette tape. Be the first in your apartment building to collect them all.

Packed in each quality plastic pouch, with colourful moss fill:
4 Foetus Sours
2 Princess Pouffe Chews
5 Smoked Plum
6 Golden Powdered
6 Snapdragon Pollywog
7 Psychedelic
3 Assorted All-stars
2 Mocha Milkshake
2 Glitter Afterburners
25 Foetus Nibs (Elbows and Chins)
10 Berry
...And many, many more.
Packed in each quality plastic pouch, with colourful moss fill:

------money back guarantee-----------------------
I enclose __Cash __Cheque
Send me _________ Kits.
Name _______ Address________________
City __________ Province _____________
Country __________
Postal or Zip Code _____________________
------money back guarantee-----------------------

Send to RV SALES LOT #25
RR #5, Highway 11
Rainbow Falls Canada