AAAAaaarrggghhhuuuuurrrgggghhhh it burns! Continue reading “The Earth Died Swearing | Microfiction”
I’m taking a break from writing/posting for a couple of weeks because my brain’s being a real piece of shit at the moment. Plus, I’m going on my jolly holidays to Cornwall next week and I’ll be too busy soothing my soul with Cornish cream teas, catching up with family, and writing “Ellie Rulez” repeatedly in the sand on the beach.
In the meantime, here’s a really stupid story that I posted on Medium last week and forgot to link here. I thought it was funny when I wrote it… you be the judge.
Ta ta for now.
Well there I was, hanging out with my friends after school, all of us bored out of our minds, when some bright spark decided we should play Chicken.
You know what Chicken is? It’s this dumb game where you run out into a road in front of a car and try to get to the other side without getting hit. Stupid, right?
What’s stupider is that I didn’t know how to play. Never heard of the so-called ‘game’ before in my entire 16-year-long life. But I didn’t tell the guys that, did I?
“You go first,” they said, since I was the new kid in town.
And I was all like, “Yeah, sure, cool, awesome,” without actually clarifying the rules of the game. I just wanted to fit in with the idiots, okay? In hindsight I did a pretty good job.
Teensy-weensy stories I wrote on social media this week.
Molten liquid bubbles in the #crucible while the evil villain looks on.
“Time to sacrifice another. Boil away!”
Cackling, she tosses the next victim to its death.
“Lucy! My best saucepan… look at the mess! Turn off that hob and put those gummy bears down.”
— Ellie Scott (@itsemscott) June 2, 2019
“They stole our name?”
“How dare they?”
“Their gall is astounding, boss.”
“And I suppose they expect to take over our turf?”
“We can’t say for sure, boss. But it’s a serious possibility.”
“I am incandescent with rage.”
“I’m sure, boss.”
“Bring one of them to me.”
This week’s silly, stupid stories from Instagram and Twitter.
View this post on Instagram
The corpse, stretched out on its back on the kitchen floor, twitched.
“Seeing things,” said the detective, rubbing at weary eyes. She turned away to examine the pattern of blood spatters on the tiled walls.
When she turned back the corpse was sitting upright.
I tried to explain John Dies at the End to my husband by describing it as “The Hitckhikers Guide to The Galaxy but with horror instead of sci-fi and way more fucked up,” and I’ll stand by that statement for this review.
“So we’re on this date, right, fancy restaurant, posh wine, candlelight so dim she can’t see my face – we’re onto a winner, is all I’m saying.”
Tumbleweed. This crowd is the worst.
“Then the waiter comes over and brings us a menu. And I open it, and I’m looking through, and it all sounds lovely. Posh shit, but lovely. Tiny things on massive plates, with green stuff smeared on the side like baby poo. You know the sort of stuff.” Continue reading “Stand Up, Please”