Humor
Winner, Winner Chicken Dinner
Everyone knows who rules this roost, it’s Foghorn Leghorn of course. He’s up before the sun every morning, flies to the chicken coop roof, and announces the beginning of every new day. His voice was so strong it resonated throughout the dell. Most of the residents relied on Foghorn’s powerful crowing to roust them out of bed. Sure, there were other roosters in the dell but none with the crowing power of Foghorn. He truly did rule the roost.
By Mark Gagnon2 years ago in Fiction
When You Gotta Go
You might be wondering why a grown man is hiding in the bushes with his trousers round his ankles. Several years ago I had an impacted bowel. Worry not, we won't linger on it. Suffice to say it was the most painful experience of my life. Recently, I became constipated, so this morning, I decided to take up regular walks in the nearby woodland to get things moving. It was a good day to start: clear, dry and bright. The trees a riot of red and gold, the path firm underfoot. It worked! The problem: the Urge struck deep in the wood, at the furthest point on my route from my home. If I'd never had impacted bowel, I might've clamped my cheeks shut and hurried homeward, hoping for the best. The experience was a stark memory, though. I was keen to avoid repeating it. I know from experience: if I held it in, it might be days before my body deigned to co-operate again. I hadn't encountered a soul on my little constitutional. Thinking myself safe, I shuffled behind some bushes, dropped trow, and squatted down. The late Autumn air nipped at my buttocks. It was like a monster leaving my body! It hurt. My position and the sheer weight of it ensured its inevitable evacuation. Trembling and panting, I felt, for a few minutes, what women surely feel when the baby emerges. The smell of it rose up like a pantomime demon. I might've gagged, except just then I heard movement on the path. And that, dear reader, is how you found me. Panicking, I fumble with my pants and retreat further into the undergrowth, trying not to rustle, and hoping they don't get an eyeful. I turn, peeping through the branches at a caramel coloured mutt. The owner appears a moment later. "Ugh, Rupert! What have you been eating?!" I watch him scoop up my poo in a bag. My cheeks burn. I daren't move, lest the crunchy leaves betray me. I cross all my fingers, praying Rupert won't sniff me out. The man walks away, still expressing his disbelief, the bag of my shit dangling from one hand, "I can't believe such a big shit came out of such a little dog!"
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Humans are Living Weapons tol
The term "Living Weapon" are given to the most dangerous and troublesome species. The ones with deadly claws and fangs, with poisons that can melt through super alloys and densely packed muscles that allow organisms to lift close to three hundred times their weight. Living weapons is the term used for biologically superior organisms within the Galactic Federation... And Humans.
By sagar dhital2 years ago in Fiction
The Oasis of Hope
In the ancient city of Zahran, nestled between the majestic dunes of the Arabian Desert, Khalid Al-Rashid's strong features and piercing brown eyes seemed chiseled from the same sandstone as the city's iconic architecture. At 25, Khalid's dark hair was already flecked with threads of silver, a testament to his dedication to his craft.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Power of navigation
As she stepped off the train and onto the bustling streets of New York City, 25-year-old Sophia Patel felt invincible. Her freshly minted MBA from Columbia University gleamed on her resume, and a coveted job offer from a top financial firm awaited her. The world was hers for the taking.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
The Family - Page by Page
As I sat beside my father's hospital bed, holding his frail hand, I couldn't help but think about the countless mornings we spent together, poring over the daily newspaper. Those moments, once taken for granted, now seemed precious. His eyes, once bright with curiosity, had grown weary, but his spirit remained unbroken. I realized that the traditions he instilled in me were not just habits, but a legacy.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Late, Later, and Relatively Lost: The White Rabbit's Timely Mishap in the Name of Science. AI-Generated.
The tale of how I, the White Rabbit, came to dabble in the decidedly unnatural pursuit of educational videos (of all things) began, as most good misadventures do, with a misunderstanding of cosmic proportions. I was, of course, running late. For what, I couldn't say, but my pocket watch had never ticked quite so mercilessly, practically spitting out each second like a snobbish metronome.
By ScienceStyled2 years ago in Fiction
