Tag Archives: short story

The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal

Fungal Maximillian O’ Flurtigan was half Roman and half Irish, but the twain never met, not even socially. The Roman side of him liked straight roads and the ruins of military encampments, the Irish side of him liked Guinness and people who could talk faster than a whistle tune. It was Julius Caesar who convinced him that he was half Roman, not face to face, but when he had to study him at school. One of his soldiers must have been his great grandfather, he thought.
“Best keep it to yourself. Better to be completely Irish,” his fellow drink downers in his local pub, The Thirsty Thistle, told him when he brought up his hybrid nature and his dual nationality. Part of him fancied living in a villa on a hill under a perpetual summer sky, the other part longed to master the fiddle and live in a white cottage by the sea shore. Sometimes he felt like an accident that did not wait to happen, other times like a corked barrel of vintage beer. That was the only interesting thing about him, really, as regards holding the attention of strangers. He stood at the bar, his hand grasped round his almost empty glass, late one evening, and became aware of his fall and eventual decline, like that of the Roman empire. His life would end, as all must, he knew. He hoped his fall would be slow, painless. A sudden thud on the kitchen window would disturb him one afternoon, maybe. A rough wind would blow him away.

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Willy Wart Wandered W Way

Willy Wart Wandered W Way

Willy Wart wandered W way. Was wagon waif. Worked writer writ word. Wisely wore weevil waistcoat. Watched worldly worm wrestle wren. Weathered world wrecked wreckage wreck. Was white winter whistler wretch. Weird wood walked. Walnut wizard wand waved. Wiry warlock warbled. Waked wren. Watched wren wing wold. Way winded. Walked in Wayfarer’s Inn. Waylaid Winifred Woodchuck, waitress worked. Wanted wine without wasp, warm whortleberry pie without whinnyshins. Winifred winked, wanton wholesome wench.
Wade Wykehan wanted Wilhelmstrasse wine, dish of whipped wish. While Wallace Witenagemot whaled way in Wayfarer’s Inn, lit pipe weed, woke smoke. Was Woden worship willow wizard. Willy Wart talked Wade and Wallace with wise wit.
Wensleydale Wertherisms Wallace wedged. Walter warmed with Wittenstein wonder wit. While Weland Wealdsmith waded in with wise word hoard wealth.
Willy Wart went waltz with Winifred Woodchuck. Watched Walter Wise Waffle waltz Winnhilda Warpspeed, wardrobe wide wealthy widow. Walter Wise Waffle worked Whitehall. Was weighty Westerner, weekend wine wimp. Wound watch. Waltzed Winnhilda Warpspeed. Wanted wholesome whoopee. Walter winked. Winnhilda whined. Was wanton windy Wednesday. Went wallpaper watching. Walter whistled, whispered to Winnhilda. Wrung woven web weirdly wrought.
Wilbert Woodwose, wrinkled wheelwright, waltzed Winnie Windup, Waitrose worker. Went willow woods whortleberrying. Waked in wondrous water wells. Was Wordsworthian wanderer. Walked wild wilderness without woe.
Witness Wendy Windflower, weekend wrong wisp wimple, was wishy washy. Wisteria Wiseacre, warehouse warden, withheld wages. Wendy warmed to Willy Wart. Willy Wart wanted Winifred Woodchuck.
Wendy whined when Willy Wart wedded Winifred Woodchuck.
“What womb waste woe,” Wendy wailed.
Wolfram Wolverine, wood wizard, woke wormwood worm, wyvern wise. Went withershins without withy.
Wallace Windlestraw wedded Wendy Windsor. Went willowy Wimbledon, will-o-the-wisp Winchester way. Wallace, wigwam widower, wedded Wendy, wicker wife.
Wilhelm Wardour, wardrobe wright, Waterloo warrior, werewolf whiff, wench wheedled Wendy Windflower. Went wanderlust warren. Waltzed Wendy with Walloon Wallaroo warthog.
“Why wrought wrong wry wrinkle wrist?” wondered Wendy.
Wen Wheatear wronged Willy Wart with wharf owner whangee. Wore whacked Welsh wellingtons. Was webbed Wednesday wedding weep weather. Wen wore weasel weeds with Wealden wealth.
“What wax wavy wattle waul wave,” whispered Willy Wart.
Whopping webbed walrus waited, wedged on wave washed wharf, was witty woof. Willy Wart watched Weezella Wind Witch, whimsy woman, wash white wool, weld wealthy weapon. Woke winds. Welkin whelp. Wombat wanted wean wane.
Willy Wart wondered why wrath wraith wrangle wrap.
“Why wrought wrong wry windy winsome wherry?” wailed Weezella Wind Witch, whimsy woman.
“Wrought wrong way wedge wood ward weave?” warranted Willy Wart.
Westerly went Willy Wart with wife Winifred Woodchuck. Waged war with wind pipe in Wattage Cottage. Whacked world Y way.

Wee Wend Willy Wart wrought.

The Case of the Rival Detectives

The Case of the Rival Detectives

“My God, Gorms, you have not had a case for a while, ” said Doctor Whatsit, one evening in the study of 214A, Bacon Street, amid the hurly burl of sometimes foggy London.
“No, Whatsit. It is because someone else has been solving all the cases, ” said Sherman Gorms,
leaning back in his armchair, like a long necked lobster.
“My God, Gorms. What’s his name?” asked Doctor Whatsit, alarmed.
“Holmes,” said Gorms.
“Holmes, my God,” said Doctor Whatsit.
“Yes, Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, his full name. Solves all his cases with the help of Doctor Watson,” said Gorms. “They live not far from here, in Baker Street.”
“Baker Street. My word. Not far from here, as you say,” said Doctor Whatsit, now pale as a phantom owl in a sack of flour.
“Quite,” said Gorms. “The man wears a deerstalker, smokes a pipe, plays the violin. Sounds like
someone created by a literary nut job.”
“Well, if you’re not going to be a private detective anymore, now that this Mr Sherlock Holmes is
solving all the cases, what are you going to be, Gorms?” asked Doctor Whatsit.
“The opposite, Whatsit,” said Gorms.
“The opposite of what?” asked Doctor Whatsit.
“The opposite of being a private detective, ” said Gorms. “I am going to be a criminal. I am going to commit the perfect crime, and you are going to help me. I am going to steal the Jewel of Burma
from the British Museum. Then see if Sherlock Holmes can solve the case. It would take a private
detective to outwit a private detective. Holmes will be publicly shamed for not solving the case, while you and I will get our old jobs back as the best private eyes of London.”
“Good show, Gorms,” said Doctor Whatsit, impressed.
“Thanks, Whatsit,” said Gorms.
Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes with the aid of Doctor Watson did solve the case of the theft of the Jewel of Burma, and Sherman Gorms and Doctor Jock Whatsit had to spend twenty years in her Majesty’s prison, a sentence that neither of them survived, due to poor health and the natural deterioration of the human body.