âHey guys, itâs our anniversary. Itâs fifty years since we got together and solved our first case.â
âThatâs right. Why donât we do something to celebrate? We could stay the night in the old, haunted house.â
âIâm not really sure. None of us are as young as we used to be, weâre all in our late sixties now.â
âYeah, and Iâm not sure that I want to stay up past my bedtime.â
âOh, go on, itâll be a bit of fun. Itâs not as though any of us get much of that anymore.â
âIt just wonât be the same without the dog.â
âYouâre right about missing the dog. I even miss that annoying little one that accompanied us on some of our later adventures.â
âOK, itâs a date then. We just need someone to drive us out there before it gets dark.â
âIâll organise some supplies. Some drinks, a snack, spare walking sticks, and a flashlight for each of us.â
âIâm not sure that I see the point. We never managed to find any real ghosts or monsters, never in our entire career. It was always a scam of some sort, and always one carried out by ordinary, everyday losers dressed up in costume.â
The overnight stay was uneventful until just before dawn when they heard someone moving about downstairs. Silently they crept down the stairs only to find a fat balding man dressed up in a sheet going, âWoo⌠wooâŚâ As it was obvious something untoward was going on, they phoned for the police. When they arrived a few minutes later the police arrested the would-be ghost. As he was taken away the last thing the gang heard him say was, âAnd I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasnât for those pesky pensioners!â
Thatâs Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer
Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.
Bobblehead?
Bubblehead for sure.
Or Stubble head.
Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.
Bazooka hookahs, man!
Reefer creepers!
Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?
Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.
Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.
Hah! I donât know what that is.
Anyway, Iâd been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.
You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Skyâs storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed thatâs never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Somethingâs gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flappingâ in the night wind, and that ainât no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bongâŚand Iâm thinking, Bong? James Bong?
There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, âSorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Betterâs closed tight. City ordinance.â
âBummer, manâ I bleat, âand me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.â
Stoner, haunted house, drama
295 words
Gardening
âHi Pete. Howâs it trucking?ââ
Pete blinked, hoping his neighbour was another bad trip.
âGardenâs looking great. Not many weeds. Ho!â
Pete sucked in air, disorientated by the lack of smoke. I need to cut back oxygen. âHi Greg. You after a packet?â
âI was just wondering how you get them so… leafy?â
Pete licked the paper. âYou planning your own? Take some seeds, man.â He sealed another joint, willing him to go.
âI donât think so. Whatâs the secret?â
Pete looked at the soil at his feet. âPeace and love, man.â
âSeriously. We grew cannabis at college but that was inside in Cheltenham. You manage outdoors, in Scotland in January…â
âI rely on my relatives.â He kicked the dirt, exposing the head of a femur. âThatâs Auntie Jane. The plants love her.â
Gregâs eyes widened. âThatâs your aunt?â
âThink so. Hang on.â Pete put down the Rizzla packet and bent to the bone. âYeah? You sure? Right ho.â He looked up. âUncle Portius. They look the same at that age, donât they?â
Greg rubbed his eyes. âI must be passive smoking your product. Did you just talk to a bone?â
Pete laughed. âCourse not. Boneâs donât talk…â
âBut…â
âTheyâre ghosts. I you like I can do you some Mexican spicy and my second cousinâs torso as a starter kit…â
Greg backed away. âMaybe later.â
Pete started another joint and covered the bone. Heâd need another dozen for the school run. âThanks Ponti, Iâll get you that pint of Ruddles later.â He looked down the rows of fecund and fullsome plants to a slightly saggy group by the hedge. âAnd Iâll pick up some dubonnet and lemon for Granny Emmaline. Wouldnât do to let her crop get peaky, what with festival season nearly upon us.â
Thatâs Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer
Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.
Bobblehead?
Bubblehead for sure.
Or Stubble head?
Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.
Bazooka hookahs, man!
Reefer creepers!
Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?
Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.
Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.
Hah! I donât know what that is.
Anyway, Iâd been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.
You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Skyâs storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed thatâs never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Somethingâs gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flapping in the night wind, and that ainât no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bongâŚand Iâm thinking, Bong? James Bong?
There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, âSorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Betterâs closed tight. City ordinance.â
âBummer, manâ I bleat, âand me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.â
I saw through the haze
A ghost shipâs hallways
Twisting and turning
The maze was daunting
A ghostly dancer beckoned
âGet naked,â she reckoned
My mind said, âOkay!â
My body said, âLetâs play!â
The scene was rearranged
And the actors were exchanged.
The captain wore coat tails
He clung onto the rails
He shouted for pirates
And called us bandits
Zombies took me to the ledge
To walk the plank to the edge.
When I came down
We were back in Cape Town
I found myself at the pool
Standing starkers like a fool
The mystical dancer
Was a Trans performer
Security was cuffing me
No zombies could I see.
Donât ever take the green stuff
It can be quite rough
Make sure you buy local
Not pirated forms of diabolical.
Fred was hungry. It was his semi-permanent state. Always eating; yet as thin as a rake that had been split in twoâhis acquaintances assumed he was looking after some tape worms. His best buddy, Havant, had just as voracious an appetite. Being a dog it was expected.
Their holiday to France wasnât going well. The language was unfamiliar and the food was not as good as anticipated. It was four days before Fred discovered that they were in Hamburg. And, whilst it was just two letters shy of his favourite word, it wasnât in France.
Things began to look up when they went for a couple of currywurst after a big breakfast. They got chatting to a groovy guy by the wurst-stand about all things sausage related ,which had got them a) excited and b) hungry again. Being at the wurst-stand that had been easy to deal with. There was always room for one more sausage.
They shared a funny cigarette with Groovyman, which made them giggle. He said heâd never seen a dog smoke before. Fred said it happened regularly, usually when heâd spilt cooking oil on Havant.
Groovyman enquired why he was called Havant. Fred explained that it was short for Havant A. which left him none the wiser. He then told them about the sausage barge, where the price for a four hour trip includes an âAll That You Can Eatâ buffet. They werenât going to miss this opportunity, so they heading down to the docks with big loping strides and stupid grins.
At the docks everything was a bit blurry. Clearly they were in danger of fainting from hunger. So they got onboard the SS Hamburger with expectant bellies and an aim to make the buffet their home. Havant A. realised something was amiss when their boat passed through a series of locks without the gates opening. The lack of taste to the buffet wasnât an issue, but the lack of substance was. When the captain turned up minus his head even Fred thought something was amiss.
Then they smelled the Sausage Cruise pass in the other direction. It was a good job Havant could swim and Fred could float.
The USS Bronson departed the solar system on the first Wednesday in October, carrying 420 tons of prime marijuana for trade on the rim. Its wormhole jumps were automated.
By the first jump, the crew, consisting of Oscar Slama, was baked. He sat in the captain’s chair with a bowl of chips in his lap.
In front of him, he appeared.
“Wha…?” he said.
“Don’t freak out,” Oscar 4-6 said. “I’m just more you, in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.”
“Whoa,” Oscar said.
“Got a light?” asked Oscar 4-6.
After a second wormhole jump, as the ship navigated n-space on its trip to the rim planets, Oscar 7-9 joined the others, who, using a bong, were now ozzy. He immediately commenced baking brownies, a smoking blunt held between his clenched teeth.
Croned, the three talked about the meaning of life with others who joined them subsequently.
“It definitely has something to do with this yup yup,” Oscar 64-66 said.
“Dude, it’s like … like … life,” Oscar 90-92 said.
“Having trouble finishing my sentenc… ” Oscar said. Oscar 99-101 refilled his bowl with organic, unsalted puffed peas.
“How many are me?” Oscar said. “I mean, how many of dimensions of me are they …?”
“Infinite,” said Oscar 19948892…
More wormholes, more dank. Infinitely more Oscars, steetched.
“Let’s all squeeze in together,” Oscar said. “Dudes, I am so fazed …”
“Dude, not out here in n-space. You got to stay spread out in n-space.”
“No, squeeze in,” Oscar said with the frown of the chonged.
They burned the crops. They squeezed in, all infinity of them.
The ship flew on, empty of Oscars and budda.
The Oscars looked around.
“Where are we?” they asked themself.
“In this universe, we’re God,” said the part of Him most lit.
THE BARGE
Stoner, Ghost Ship, Comedy
282 words
The rumor had spread with lightning speed, fuelled by media coverage.
A mahogany barge, loaded with Lebanese weed was floating somewhere in Amsterdam canals, unattended
Smokers in coffee shops hotly debated the matter. Abe swore he saw it moored near Singel canal; Alwine claimed to be certain that the ship was far in the harbor; Rastafarian waiters fabled about an Iranian merchant, owner of the barge tugged along his princely yacht, vanished with a Circassian beauty.
Eventually, on a warm summer Saturday night, the Quest had its beginning.
Hordes of stoners, old hippies and weirdos of all kinds gathered in Dam square and started scouring all the canals, walking on the banks, boating or paddling in muddy waters: braver and youngsters went so far as to swim in the smelly current.
The Quest was unsuccessful, but Saturday phantom barge hunting became a fixed meeting. If interest decreased, the press reported a new sighting and people got back to the endless hunting. Hunters set up groups and association named by famous weed smokers of the past. Each group had a leader, a hymn, a flag.
And every Saturday evening Mr. Janssen, managing editor of âAmsterdam Todayâ, savored happily the silence of his flat in Central Amsterdam, a little nest in a medieval alley crowded with coffee shops. No more yelling, no more stonersâ noise. No more frantic strolling of excited people along the cobblestone street.
All the smokers had gone away, searching for the barge.
His little article full of question marks and drop hints about a mysterious barge had proved useful, and he could eventually savor domestic pleasures in peace. âMarijuana enthusiasts are like children,â he said to himself âthey believe anythingâ.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound reminded Midshipman Smythe of the death march if it was played badly by a toddler on kitchen pans. What was scarier was the lack of bodily panic symptoms. His heart hadn’t tried to explode. His stomach hadn’t emptied like a freshly flushed toilet. Nothing was doing nothing in fact. Peter, the welcome guy, had warned him about this but it took some getting use to.
âIs that her Midshipman?â His Captain pointed at the blue haired girl hitting the ships pipes.
âYes Sir.â
âMadam.” The captain pulled herself to the full height of her tall frame. âHow did you get on board?â
âI donât know man.â She didnât look at the captain. Instead she gazed off to the left, as if following an excitable fly.
âMadam, I am very much not a man.â
She blinked three times, each time she forced her eyes as wide as she could. âYou are so pale…wo-man. Did I get that right? Wo-man.â
She giggled to herself.
The Captain did not see the funny side. âMadam! How did you get on board this ship?â
âSpace cakes.â Her hand becomes a rocket which follows the same trajectory as her imagined fly. She takes the same level of interest.
The Captain groans. âMidshipman?â
âYes Captain.â He clips his heels together, disappointed at the lack of noise. Another thing he has to get use to.
âGo find the Chaplin. Tell him to prepare for a bio-exorcism. I wonât have a breather on my ghost ship.â
@EdenSolera
150 Words
Unmasked Villain; Spooky Location; Drama
Inferno
Flames flickered in the oppressive darkness, solitary among thousands. A tall woman strode around them, her high-necked red dress flowing dangerously close to the light. Watching her, bathed in the shadows, were hundreds of people, their breathing heavy in the air of anticipation.
She spun to face them, her eyes flashing as they reflected the flames. Her voice thundered through the deadened space. Disdain blanketed the group, suffocating even the bravest of her followers.
Weakness was unacceptable, this they knew, but they had still managed to disappoint her. All fell to their knees, bowing their heads to the shame brought on by her piercing glare.
She reached down to grab one of the candles, holding it in such a way that her face was cast in a ghostly light. Swiftly, her fingers were enveloped in the burning wax. Everyone else hissed, shocked, yet impressed by her stoicism.
As they ventured further down the dimly lit tunnel, Miranda pulled her book closer to her face, squinting to make out the words, comparing them to her surroundings. Everything seemed to be just as sheâd expected. The construction of the mine shaft seemed stable and matched the text, which eased her growing sense of claustrophobia, but there was something that still just didnât seem right. She hadnât noticed that sheâd slowed to a stop until the man behind her nearly knocked her over.
âOomfâsorry about that. Need to watch where Iâm going a bit more,â he said with a sheepish grin.
âIâm fine,â she said, clutching the book to herself and waving him away. Ignoring the dismissal, he pointed at her treasured cargo.
âSo what are you reading down here thatâs so important to gum up the traffic?â he asked jovially, lowering his pickaxe from his shoulder.
âOh, this?â She held up the book. âItâs just an old book about mines. I figured Iâd bring it along for some good-natured analysis. This mine seems similar to the one in the book, but the thing thatâs been concerning me the most is the canaries.â
âCanaries?â he asked, confused, briefly glancing around the shaft as though heâd missed something.
âThere arenât any,â she said matter-of-factly, reopening her book, âHere, they use canaries as a warning system for noxious gases to keep people from dying, but this whole time weâve been here, I havenât seen a single one.â The look on her face fell as he burst into laughter.
âIâm sorry,â he said, pointing to a box on the wall. âI think this sensor is that canary youâre looking for. Donât worry, we are monitoring the safety of the air down here. At any rate, hope youâre enjoying your tour!â
A motivating discussion is definitely worth comment.
I think that you should publish more about this subject, it
might not be a taboo subject but generally people do not
speak about these issues. To the next! Many thanks!!
The only reason this has one star is because the flowers were beautiful.
The owner Mike is a nightmare! We ordered flowers for my Dads memorial and
all but one arrangement was delivered. Of course it was the one from my sister and myself.
When my mom called the shop they refused to refund her the
money. Blaming it on the funeral home even though their delivery person didn’t follow protocol.
My mom called him directly several times and he never returned
her call. How despicable! When I called him he finally answered.
After 30 min of arguing with him about a refund he reluctantly agreed.
It’s been three weeks and no refund!! You are a horrible business owner MIKE!
He kept saying to me \ https://mvsnoticias.com
We’re going to do a soft launch on 1 January. We’ll be e-mailing everyone shortly. Stay tuned!
What’s happened to all the stories from last week’s competition?
They’re all still in the system but not displaying on the front end. Part of the glitch I’m trying to resolve. :/
Who is Stoner, please?
Okay. Got it now.
Ghost; Haunted House; Comedy
298 words
The Gang, Fifty Years On
âHey guys, itâs our anniversary. Itâs fifty years since we got together and solved our first case.â
âThatâs right. Why donât we do something to celebrate? We could stay the night in the old, haunted house.â
âIâm not really sure. None of us are as young as we used to be, weâre all in our late sixties now.â
âYeah, and Iâm not sure that I want to stay up past my bedtime.â
âOh, go on, itâll be a bit of fun. Itâs not as though any of us get much of that anymore.â
âIt just wonât be the same without the dog.â
âYouâre right about missing the dog. I even miss that annoying little one that accompanied us on some of our later adventures.â
âOK, itâs a date then. We just need someone to drive us out there before it gets dark.â
âIâll organise some supplies. Some drinks, a snack, spare walking sticks, and a flashlight for each of us.â
âIâm not sure that I see the point. We never managed to find any real ghosts or monsters, never in our entire career. It was always a scam of some sort, and always one carried out by ordinary, everyday losers dressed up in costume.â
The overnight stay was uneventful until just before dawn when they heard someone moving about downstairs. Silently they crept down the stairs only to find a fat balding man dressed up in a sheet going, âWoo⌠wooâŚâ As it was obvious something untoward was going on, they phoned for the police. When they arrived a few minutes later the police arrested the would-be ghost. As he was taken away the last thing the gang heard him say was, âAnd I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasnât for those pesky pensioners!â
http://www.engleson.ca
@billmelaterplea
300 words
Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy
Thatâs Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer
Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.
Bobblehead?
Bubblehead for sure.
Or Stubble head.
Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.
Bazooka hookahs, man!
Reefer creepers!
Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?
Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.
Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.
Hah! I donât know what that is.
Anyway, Iâd been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.
You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Skyâs storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed thatâs never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Somethingâs gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flappingâ in the night wind, and that ainât no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bongâŚand Iâm thinking, Bong? James Bong?
There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, âSorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Betterâs closed tight. City ordinance.â
âBummer, manâ I bleat, âand me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.â
Stoner, haunted house, drama
295 words
Gardening
âHi Pete. Howâs it trucking?ââ
Pete blinked, hoping his neighbour was another bad trip.
âGardenâs looking great. Not many weeds. Ho!â
Pete sucked in air, disorientated by the lack of smoke. I need to cut back oxygen. âHi Greg. You after a packet?â
âI was just wondering how you get them so… leafy?â
Pete licked the paper. âYou planning your own? Take some seeds, man.â He sealed another joint, willing him to go.
âI donât think so. Whatâs the secret?â
Pete looked at the soil at his feet. âPeace and love, man.â
âSeriously. We grew cannabis at college but that was inside in Cheltenham. You manage outdoors, in Scotland in January…â
âI rely on my relatives.â He kicked the dirt, exposing the head of a femur. âThatâs Auntie Jane. The plants love her.â
Gregâs eyes widened. âThatâs your aunt?â
âThink so. Hang on.â Pete put down the Rizzla packet and bent to the bone. âYeah? You sure? Right ho.â He looked up. âUncle Portius. They look the same at that age, donât they?â
Greg rubbed his eyes. âI must be passive smoking your product. Did you just talk to a bone?â
Pete laughed. âCourse not. Boneâs donât talk…â
âBut…â
âTheyâre ghosts. I you like I can do you some Mexican spicy and my second cousinâs torso as a starter kit…â
Greg backed away. âMaybe later.â
Pete started another joint and covered the bone. Heâd need another dozen for the school run. âThanks Ponti, Iâll get you that pint of Ruddles later.â He looked down the rows of fecund and fullsome plants to a slightly saggy group by the hedge. âAnd Iâll pick up some dubonnet and lemon for Granny Emmaline. Wouldnât do to let her crop get peaky, what with festival season nearly upon us.â
http://www.engleson.ca
@billmelaterplea
300 words
Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy
Thatâs Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer
Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.
Bobblehead?
Bubblehead for sure.
Or Stubble head?
Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.
Bazooka hookahs, man!
Reefer creepers!
Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?
Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.
Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.
Hah! I donât know what that is.
Anyway, Iâd been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.
You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Skyâs storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed thatâs never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Somethingâs gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flapping in the night wind, and that ainât no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bongâŚand Iâm thinking, Bong? James Bong?
There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, âSorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Betterâs closed tight. City ordinance.â
âBummer, manâ I bleat, âand me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.â
Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy
135 words
Green Boo-ty
I saw through the haze
A ghost shipâs hallways
Twisting and turning
The maze was daunting
A ghostly dancer beckoned
âGet naked,â she reckoned
My mind said, âOkay!â
My body said, âLetâs play!â
The scene was rearranged
And the actors were exchanged.
The captain wore coat tails
He clung onto the rails
He shouted for pirates
And called us bandits
Zombies took me to the ledge
To walk the plank to the edge.
When I came down
We were back in Cape Town
I found myself at the pool
Standing starkers like a fool
The mystical dancer
Was a Trans performer
Security was cuffing me
No zombies could I see.
Donât ever take the green stuff
It can be quite rough
Make sure you buy local
Not pirated forms of diabolical.
stoner/ghost ship/comedy
WC: 365
http://www.awalker.org
@zevonesque
One More Sausage
Fred was hungry. It was his semi-permanent state. Always eating; yet as thin as a rake that had been split in twoâhis acquaintances assumed he was looking after some tape worms. His best buddy, Havant, had just as voracious an appetite. Being a dog it was expected.
Their holiday to France wasnât going well. The language was unfamiliar and the food was not as good as anticipated. It was four days before Fred discovered that they were in Hamburg. And, whilst it was just two letters shy of his favourite word, it wasnât in France.
Things began to look up when they went for a couple of currywurst after a big breakfast. They got chatting to a groovy guy by the wurst-stand about all things sausage related ,which had got them a) excited and b) hungry again. Being at the wurst-stand that had been easy to deal with. There was always room for one more sausage.
They shared a funny cigarette with Groovyman, which made them giggle. He said heâd never seen a dog smoke before. Fred said it happened regularly, usually when heâd spilt cooking oil on Havant.
Groovyman enquired why he was called Havant. Fred explained that it was short for Havant A. which left him none the wiser. He then told them about the sausage barge, where the price for a four hour trip includes an âAll That You Can Eatâ buffet. They werenât going to miss this opportunity, so they heading down to the docks with big loping strides and stupid grins.
At the docks everything was a bit blurry. Clearly they were in danger of fainting from hunger. So they got onboard the SS Hamburger with expectant bellies and an aim to make the buffet their home. Havant A. realised something was amiss when their boat passed through a series of locks without the gates opening. The lack of taste to the buffet wasnât an issue, but the lack of substance was. When the captain turned up minus his head even Fred thought something was amiss.
Then they smelled the Sausage Cruise pass in the other direction. It was a good job Havant could swim and Fred could float.
stoner; ghost ship; comedy
287 words
Oscar
The USS Bronson departed the solar system on the first Wednesday in October, carrying 420 tons of prime marijuana for trade on the rim. Its wormhole jumps were automated.
By the first jump, the crew, consisting of Oscar Slama, was baked. He sat in the captain’s chair with a bowl of chips in his lap.
In front of him, he appeared.
“Wha…?” he said.
“Don’t freak out,” Oscar 4-6 said. “I’m just more you, in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.”
“Whoa,” Oscar said.
“Got a light?” asked Oscar 4-6.
After a second wormhole jump, as the ship navigated n-space on its trip to the rim planets, Oscar 7-9 joined the others, who, using a bong, were now ozzy. He immediately commenced baking brownies, a smoking blunt held between his clenched teeth.
Croned, the three talked about the meaning of life with others who joined them subsequently.
“It definitely has something to do with this yup yup,” Oscar 64-66 said.
“Dude, it’s like … like … life,” Oscar 90-92 said.
“Having trouble finishing my sentenc… ” Oscar said. Oscar 99-101 refilled his bowl with organic, unsalted puffed peas.
“How many are me?” Oscar said. “I mean, how many of dimensions of me are they …?”
“Infinite,” said Oscar 19948892…
More wormholes, more dank. Infinitely more Oscars, steetched.
“Let’s all squeeze in together,” Oscar said. “Dudes, I am so fazed …”
“Dude, not out here in n-space. You got to stay spread out in n-space.”
“No, squeeze in,” Oscar said with the frown of the chonged.
They burned the crops. They squeezed in, all infinity of them.
The ship flew on, empty of Oscars and budda.
The Oscars looked around.
“Where are we?” they asked themself.
“In this universe, we’re God,” said the part of Him most lit.
“Dude!” they said.
THE BARGE
Stoner, Ghost Ship, Comedy
282 words
The rumor had spread with lightning speed, fuelled by media coverage.
A mahogany barge, loaded with Lebanese weed was floating somewhere in Amsterdam canals, unattended
Smokers in coffee shops hotly debated the matter. Abe swore he saw it moored near Singel canal; Alwine claimed to be certain that the ship was far in the harbor; Rastafarian waiters fabled about an Iranian merchant, owner of the barge tugged along his princely yacht, vanished with a Circassian beauty.
Eventually, on a warm summer Saturday night, the Quest had its beginning.
Hordes of stoners, old hippies and weirdos of all kinds gathered in Dam square and started scouring all the canals, walking on the banks, boating or paddling in muddy waters: braver and youngsters went so far as to swim in the smelly current.
The Quest was unsuccessful, but Saturday phantom barge hunting became a fixed meeting. If interest decreased, the press reported a new sighting and people got back to the endless hunting. Hunters set up groups and association named by famous weed smokers of the past. Each group had a leader, a hymn, a flag.
And every Saturday evening Mr. Janssen, managing editor of âAmsterdam Todayâ, savored happily the silence of his flat in Central Amsterdam, a little nest in a medieval alley crowded with coffee shops. No more yelling, no more stonersâ noise. No more frantic strolling of excited people along the cobblestone street.
All the smokers had gone away, searching for the barge.
His little article full of question marks and drop hints about a mysterious barge had proved useful, and he could eventually savor domestic pleasures in peace. âMarijuana enthusiasts are like children,â he said to himself âthey believe anythingâ.
@the_red_fleece
http://www.theredfleece.co.uk
stoner/ghost ship/comedy
Word Count – 260
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound reminded Midshipman Smythe of the death march if it was played badly by a toddler on kitchen pans. What was scarier was the lack of bodily panic symptoms. His heart hadn’t tried to explode. His stomach hadn’t emptied like a freshly flushed toilet. Nothing was doing nothing in fact. Peter, the welcome guy, had warned him about this but it took some getting use to.
âIs that her Midshipman?â His Captain pointed at the blue haired girl hitting the ships pipes.
âYes Sir.â
âMadam.” The captain pulled herself to the full height of her tall frame. âHow did you get on board?â
âI donât know man.â She didnât look at the captain. Instead she gazed off to the left, as if following an excitable fly.
âMadam, I am very much not a man.â
She blinked three times, each time she forced her eyes as wide as she could. âYou are so pale…wo-man. Did I get that right? Wo-man.â
She giggled to herself.
The Captain did not see the funny side. âMadam! How did you get on board this ship?â
âSpace cakes.â Her hand becomes a rocket which follows the same trajectory as her imagined fly. She takes the same level of interest.
The Captain groans. âMidshipman?â
âYes Captain.â He clips his heels together, disappointed at the lack of noise. Another thing he has to get use to.
âGo find the Chaplin. Tell him to prepare for a bio-exorcism. I wonât have a breather on my ghost ship.â
@EdenSolera
150 Words
Unmasked Villain; Spooky Location; Drama
Inferno
Flames flickered in the oppressive darkness, solitary among thousands. A tall woman strode around them, her high-necked red dress flowing dangerously close to the light. Watching her, bathed in the shadows, were hundreds of people, their breathing heavy in the air of anticipation.
She spun to face them, her eyes flashing as they reflected the flames. Her voice thundered through the deadened space. Disdain blanketed the group, suffocating even the bravest of her followers.
Weakness was unacceptable, this they knew, but they had still managed to disappoint her. All fell to their knees, bowing their heads to the shame brought on by her piercing glare.
She reached down to grab one of the candles, holding it in such a way that her face was cast in a ghostly light. Swiftly, her fingers were enveloped in the burning wax. Everyone else hissed, shocked, yet impressed by her stoicism.
Flames smoldered still.
I guess mine didn’t get saved…oh well.
298 Words
Bookworm; Mine; Mystery
The Case of the Canned Canaries
As they ventured further down the dimly lit tunnel, Miranda pulled her book closer to her face, squinting to make out the words, comparing them to her surroundings. Everything seemed to be just as sheâd expected. The construction of the mine shaft seemed stable and matched the text, which eased her growing sense of claustrophobia, but there was something that still just didnât seem right. She hadnât noticed that sheâd slowed to a stop until the man behind her nearly knocked her over.
âOomfâsorry about that. Need to watch where Iâm going a bit more,â he said with a sheepish grin.
âIâm fine,â she said, clutching the book to herself and waving him away. Ignoring the dismissal, he pointed at her treasured cargo.
âSo what are you reading down here thatâs so important to gum up the traffic?â he asked jovially, lowering his pickaxe from his shoulder.
âOh, this?â She held up the book. âItâs just an old book about mines. I figured Iâd bring it along for some good-natured analysis. This mine seems similar to the one in the book, but the thing thatâs been concerning me the most is the canaries.â
âCanaries?â he asked, confused, briefly glancing around the shaft as though heâd missed something.
âThere arenât any,â she said matter-of-factly, reopening her book, âHere, they use canaries as a warning system for noxious gases to keep people from dying, but this whole time weâve been here, I havenât seen a single one.â The look on her face fell as he burst into laughter.
âIâm sorry,â he said, pointing to a box on the wall. âI think this sensor is that canary youâre looking for. Donât worry, we are monitoring the safety of the air down here. At any rate, hope youâre enjoying your tour!â
A motivating discussion is definitely worth comment.
I think that you should publish more about this subject, it
might not be a taboo subject but generally people do not
speak about these issues. To the next! Many thanks!!
The only reason this has one star is because the flowers were beautiful.
The owner Mike is a nightmare! We ordered flowers for my Dads memorial and
all but one arrangement was delivered. Of course it was the one from my sister and myself.
When my mom called the shop they refused to refund her the
money. Blaming it on the funeral home even though their delivery person didn’t follow protocol.
My mom called him directly several times and he never returned
her call. How despicable! When I called him he finally answered.
After 30 min of arguing with him about a refund he reluctantly agreed.
It’s been three weeks and no refund!! You are a horrible business owner MIKE!
He kept saying to me \ https://mvsnoticias.com