It was a Graveyard Smash_The Thinking Part_Feathers and Fur_Winning at Chicken
Catalog Guide:
It was a Graveyard Smash
“Brilliant!” I cried, looking down at my son gleefully. “This has got to be the best lightning generator I’ve ever seen!”The most beautiful bolt leapt across the sky like a startled deer, before splitting into a cascade of electric tributaries. It silhouetted the daunting manor on the horizon in a way that could only have been perfected by one man. Well, monster.“Dracula has really nailed it this year! You wait until we get inside Ludwig, this party is gonna blow your brains out! He’s invited every single monster in Transylvania!”My son grinned and his adorably horrific teeth reflected another...
The Thinking Part
TW: Writer’s block, and mild swearing (caused by the writer’s block).“This is going to suck,” I involuntarily announce. Immediately, I wince at the discreet (and not-so-discreet) glares I get from the quiet patrons around me. Shit!The northwest side of the library is congested with people. This section of the branch seems to be the quietest, or it is the ambience offered by its floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the sun to luminate the room and warm up the cushiowww.onedoor.ccned community chairs and study desks, that make it feel more peaceful than the rest of the building. The view out the windows is mund...
Feathers and Fur
Feathers and FurThis is a tale,Of forbidden love,Condemned by all creatures,And doomed from above.Noah understood. It wasn’t just man that should not be alone. All of God’s creatures crave companionship. Life is constructed in pairs.The farm was a veritable smorgasbord of livestock- cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. A small army of cats patrolled the area in search of rats, mice, ground squirrels, and other undesirable forms of life. Farmer John and his wife Betsy lived in the big old house up near the road. The only lonely soul was Monty, the barnyard dog.Lonely days and lonely nights. Occasi...
Winning at Chicken
Warning: Contains profanity, mildly grotesque imagery, and an infant in peril. Backyard barbeque, Fourth of July. My family and I are deep into a game of asshole chicken. The only rule of asshole chicken: First one to talk loses. At the professional level, asshole chicken is an art form. Awkward silence doesn’t matter. Heat pressing on all parts of your body doesn’t matter. Questionable potato salad bubbling in your belly doesn’t matter. All that matters is that sustained, combative silence. To win at asshole chicken, you have to be a pitiless asshole. But do I have what it takes?My opponents ...