It's hot in the savannah._Cat Me If You Can_The Gap Year_Heads I Win, Tails You Lose
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It's hot in the savannah.
It's terribly hot on the savannah. Lions like me are having a rough time. I should lose weight as it's getting harder than ever to carry those antelope up the tree. I remember the days where it used to be a walk on the park (no pun intended). And these flies! I don't want to get in a bad mood but where the heck is the wind? My tail hurts since Zoopie, the baboon bit it. It used to work well against the flies on my back. I think i got a tooth abscess, more to contend with. Last time it took three weeks to go away and i had to eat snails and fruits all of that time. It's not easy. Now i got Putt...
Cat Me If You Can
“I came as quickly as I could. I’m really sorry.”Cotton Clayborne looks up at Kirk Chapman, his eyes hollow with worry and fear.Clayborne hooks his thumbs in his bib overalls, shifting his oil-stained CAT cap. “You know I want to help, Kirk. I’m a patriot and a veteran like you, and I want to win the war against Zirconia. But she’s a threat to the safety of my family, and that goes beyond the call of duty.”“Where is she?”Clayborne grimaces as if he’s reliving a horrific memory. “In the barn.”“Again, I’m sorry. I know she didn’t mean for this to happen,” Kirk says, putting his hands on Claybor...
The Gap Year
This story contains swearing.One day Wendy, the woman from the Human Resources department (whom I loathed), leaned over me while I worked through the hundreds of emails pinging into my Iwww.onedoor.ccnbox, all demanding immediate answers. ‘Have you heard the news? she asked.‘No’, trying to keep the dislike and coldness off my face.‘I’m going to Namibia to dig toilets’.Horror struck; I stopped typing and looked at her full in the face.‘What d’ya mean? Going to dig toilets?’‘I’m taking a senior gap year.’A year off to dig toilets? Honestly, I thought I would hit her. How could she take a year off when I was...
Heads I Win, Tails You Lose
Town of Torrington Wyoming Territory 1882Gower Gaston races down the sidewalk, his boots clomping against the sidewalk’s wooden planks, his spurs jingling out a frenzied beat. Rushing through the door of the Marshal’s office, the tousle-haired young deputy points at the cover of his dime novel shouting, “It’s him! It’s The Preacher!” Marshal Myles Gaston adjusts his specs, looking at the cover of “Say Your Prayers… The Preacher’s Coming,” which depicts a well-dressed dandy brandishing a pair of smoking pearl-handled guns. The pair step outside and Gower points at a handsome, immaculately dres...