#9 - The Frog

Today’s words: Correspondent, Frog, Assault, Hospital
Today’s genre: Drama/Mystery
Word count: 475

“For the past few weeks, several people have been assaulted by people in a manic state asking variations of the same question: “Where is the frog?” However, this is no fairy tale. The people who are on this mission to speak to ‘the frog’ have turned violent once their victims deny knowledge or the whereabouts of said frog. This strange phenomenon is spreading, not just in the UK, but worldwide. Doctors are stumped, as are other health professionals. So, the question on everyone’s lips is...who or what is ‘the frog’?”

It felt like the world had undergone some 28 Days Later  spin-off, but in a really lame way. I turned off the television, watching as the correspondent’s face faded away on my TV screen. Why was it that every reporter, no matter what the news story was, rarely smiled? If I had my cock in her, she would smile.

I picked up a bottle of vodka to wash down the ridiculous imagery and bit down on my bottom lip, hard.

The girl on her knees looked up at me, tears clouding her eyes. She looked...what was the word, ‘sad’? “I love you.”

“I love you too, but it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

“It isn’t--"

I pushed her head down. “It is, now.”

The bars on Saturday nights were like a pic ‘n’ mix bowl in a supermarket: soft ones, sour ones...sweet ones that made your tongue wet and your dick hard. I’m talking candy, you dig? I’d go shopping for candy nearly every week and that night was no different. There was a lot of candy, I remember that much.

I had decided to buy a new drink that had been released the month before: Spawn. The adverts always showed people swallowing this drink, close-ups on their throats, various moans of pleasure drifting from their nostrils before dark green lettering floated onto the screen: ‘Spawn – It Goes Down a Treat.’ As a fan of my liquor, I gave it a shot. It went down better than a slut in heat. From that point onwards, recall was impossible.

“Did you find the frog?”

My eyes opened and all I could see was whiteness. This wasn’t my bedroom, I thought. I turned my groggy head in the direction of the foreign voice. “Where am I?”

“You’re in hospital.”

I looked around: white curtains, steady sounds of beeping, an anti-bacterial smell wafting through the air. What the fuck had happened?

“The frog, did you find it?”

I narrowed my eyes. Was this dude fucking with me?

“You came in a week ago shouting about needing to speak to a frog, you don’t remember?” he laughed slightly. “You had about six guys trying to retrain you on the floor over there,” he nodded to somewhere past my head. “Well...did you find it? Your precious frog?”

#8 - The Captain

Today’s words: Content, Kidney, Jam, Scope
Today’s genre: Sci-Fi/Comedy/Fantasy
Words: 474

“I scope an interesting planet over there, so’s I does, Cap’n!”

The Captain leant over the navigator’s shoulder with a keen stare in his eyes, lower lip jutting out slightly, eyebrow raised. “Excellent work, Squivvy, you never let me down, do you?”

“Well, sir, I do try an’ all. I’ve become veeeery observant these past few months, wouldn’t you say so, sir? I’ve been searching out planets and moons by way of the constellations, you see? Old trick from --”

“The question was rhetoric, Squivvy; I don’t care how you do it, just as long as you get me to where I need to go, are we clear?”

“Yessir.”

“ I did not bring an old stuffed lizard to life for the purpose of entertaining me with chitter chatter, you are here to work, and if you must natter would you kindly banter to yourself because what you say does not matter to me. ”

They stopped and stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before the Captain repositioned his cap and folded his arms. “Savvy?”

“Squivvy.”

“Savvy?!”

“Oh, yessir Cap’n, you got it Cap’n.”

Alien (the alien) continued to steer the ship, smiling slightly as countless stars and nebula whizzed passed them in a flurry of soft colour. Squivvy had always been cheery and talkative, even when they were stuck in a space jam for hours, he would find endless amusement in playing ‘I Spy.’ Alien and the Captain would be noticeably bored, but Squivvy would continue to smile and laugh like every game was his first go.

After a while, the Captain spoke up: “You know, I uh, I used to snuggle you to death when I was a kid.”

“You did, Cappy, sir?”

“Don’t call me ‘Cappy’.”

“Apologies, Cap...”

“I’d be so content with you, back when my captain’s hat still didn’t fit on my head and I had no concept of what it was like to be in charge of a ship or a crew...or how to us the potty without playing with my faeces.”

“Uh...huh...”

“ You spent most of the day and night in my arms, and you were my toy of choice - the one and only toy who could console me when I contracted an unfortunate kidney disease. I was about eight-years-old, do you recall this, Squiv?”

“I’ve no memory, sir.”

“Yes... You wouldn't, would you?” The Captain stroked the back of his neck as he gazed out of the front window while the orange and red planet glowed warmly ahead of them with its inviting light. “You can be a pain in my backside at times, you know? But I’ll never give you up...not never, you hear?”

“I loves you, so’s I do, Cap.”

A flush of red. “Shut up and look sharp, we’re approaching...”

“Right you are, sir.”

“...Happy-go-lucky bastard.”

#7 - Eloise Grantham

Today’s words: Postage, Dual, Wake, Farewell
Today’s genre: Sci-Fi/Historical
Word count: 368

In a cobbled and cold, small city of London is where we meet our 'heroine'. It’s 1871; the boom of the industrial revolution increased Britain’s rate of production in ways no-one could imagine, but with the revolution emerged a woman who would take the world in her hands and provide it with several useful gadgets, remedies for complex diseases, and time-effective solutions for basic chores, things that shouldn’t have been invented until at least two decades after.

Her name? Eloise Grantham. A genius in her – and the world’s – own right. If something that she wanted hadn’t been invented yet, it would be standing in her make-shift laboratory by the beginning of the next week.

Eloise had dual personalities working in tandem – her professional character was extremely hard-working, enthusiastic, and determined; endless lists would be created – tasks that she couldn’t go to bed without completing. However, her day off wouldn’t just be a day off, it would be a day off, you understand? She spent barely any time of the day awake and her lust for life would be sucked away. Yes, she was great at all of these fantastic inventions – all of her appliances at home were self-cleaning, whatever food she was craving would instantly appear in a little transparent grey box, and she had a ‘Clothes-Master 800’ that would stitch and create clothes unassisted whenever she wanted a new outfit.

She knew she was talented but she hated all of the praise that came with it – people would hail her as some sort of queen among peasants and mass amounts of adoring letters would arrive daily at her door (delivered using the postage system that she helped to mould…no-one hated late deliveries).

One night she decided that she had done enough for the masses; they had accumulated inventions, toys, machines, aids and cures that she had perfected and produced for over forty years. Her legacy was already set in stone and still is to this day. So, she said a silent farewell before allegedly ingesting a small red pill that she had designed to shut down all of the user’s internal organs.

I closed the holographic history book that I was revising from and sighed; how tragic.

#6 - Baby Doll

Today’s words: Condition, Superiority, Beat, Inevitable
Today’s genre: Fantasy/Horror
Word count: 472

Trigger warning: Contains (non-graphic) implications of sexual abuse

I, like many people, was adopted.

I, unlike many people, was adopted by a fairy.

It sounds ideal, right? A cheery little Tinkerbell-like person who carried a trail of fairy dust wherever they went. A flawless, superior being who everyone adored...

This fairy looked beautiful on the outside (long blonde hair, sparkling eyes, slim little waist, you know), but possessed a very ugly inside; a secret side. He thrived on others’ misfortune to appear superior, he’d sprinkle black fairy dust on people for no justifiable reason, and he made it an almost daily occurrence to beat me. It became a routine, an inevitable activity that I would have to endure lest I be chained up in the attic until my bones became part of the furniture. Eventually the beatings evolved into something worse.

The first night that it happened, I was asleep in my bed after a particularly energetic day at primary school; we had had our annual Sports Day and I had tired myself out so much that I almost fainted during the long distance run. All that kept me going was the thought of my soft mattress, big warm duvet, and the unconscious state that I would be in, away from the world, away from him. I had never been woken up to be abused before, it always occurred just before dinner or when I had done something to annoy him, like when I forgot to buy the right brand of cereal.

At first I thought it was a realistic nightmare, I’d get those a lot – the kind of dreams where I could hear myself mumbling out loud and my body would spasm violently, creating new bruises on top of old ones. I could feel those bony fingers trail up my side and tried to push them away, but my body wouldn’t move. There’s a condition called sleep paralysis which I’d experienced a few times, but never like that. Usually it would pass after a few seconds, but that night it felt like it lasted for hours. A multitude of voices whispered over each other in my head but I was forced into silence. My body was useless...my eyes, my mouth, too; I was like an inanimate sex doll that wasn’t required to speak or move, just to lay there and take it, but dolls didn’t cry.

Just when I thought it was over, I felt him again as his hair brushed against my face and his chapped lips grazed my cheek. I think my mouth got away with a few whimpers that may not have been audible, but inside I was screeching, begging for something, anything to happen that would make him stop, just stop, please stop already, Daddy!

He closed in on me and then I was his; his baby doll to play with whenever he got bored.

#5 - Oh God . . .

Today’s words: Reign, Crisp, Chapel, Chance
Today’s genre: Historical/Comedy
Words: 429

It was customary to attend the chapel service every Sunday, a rule for the whole town. Those that didn’t were looked down on as heathens, even if they still believed in the word of God and those who went were admired, even if they didn’t believe in God. Like me. I’d never say, though, oh no, not if I didn’t want a beating. Only you and I know that little secret.

I have no idea what the old man who’s enthusiastically waving his arms about and shouting was moaning about, but he’s clearly very passionate about it. The man in question is the current reigning priest (is ‘reigning’ the right word? ‘Appointed’, maybe) who is ranting about something to do with Hell and eternal damnation. This is why I switch off.

My boredom or lack of enthusiasm must have been evident to my mother because as of late, she’s brought with her a book for me to read and half a loaf of bread in case I got hungry. She’d never admit to herself that I just didn’t care about chapel, just that I was confused or going through a weird phase. I know a family a few doors down whose daughter stopped attending church – since then, everyone has avoided the house as if it carried a horrific smell.

The priest paused and I took my chance, fishing the bit of bread from my mother’s bag and taking a small secret bite from it. It wasn’t as soft as it usually was, so a few crumbs fell onto my lap as I took my crisp – and very loud – bite. Everyone stared. I looked accusingly at my mother as if she made the bread crunchy on purpose, she looked back as if we weren’t related and shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. Tilting my head up a little, I smiled apologetically at the priest and bowed my head slightly.

As we broke eye contact, I could have sworn I saw him write something down...maybe his list of people who he would ask God to send to Hell. Could priests do that? Even if he wasn’t allowed to, would he? Would that mean that the priest would also go to Hell for sending me to Hell?

“...Silence!”

I involuntarily screamed a little, immediately excusing my mouth with both hands as the priest, mouth still open, said: “I repeat,” he looked at me, “’God shall come manifestly: our God shall come, and shall not keep silence. A fire shall burn before him: and a mighty tempest shall be round about him.’”

Oh God...

#4 - The Simple Life

Today’s words: Forecasting, Food, Radar, Breakfast
Today’s genre: Fantasy/Mystery/Historical
Word count: 415

The weather outside the small stone building was very sunny, and it would be for a few days more; at that time however, I was forecasting a dull, dreary day with constant showers and low temperatures – I was right. I am not referring to the weather when I mention an unfavourable outlook, rather I am talking about the family inside that building of stone – a family of five with barely enough food to sustain a singleton. Each and every day they’d make their way to the dining area for breakfast, wooden bowls and spoons held out ready for the broth from mother’s ladle; the children would be dressed in oversized rags and slacks, father would be donning the same dirty shirt and braced trousers that he had worn to the factory every day, and mother would be wearing a very worn dress with a grey-white apron that frayed at all edges. Unclean faces, sunken cheeks, bony limbs...

One awful morning, the wind ravaged and roared through the building, bursting through their uncovered windows and making the overhead cutlery rattle and clang nervously, and something was very different about the broth. Once all of the family’s portions had been rationed out, mother turned around to look into the empty black pot – it was as full as it had been before the first serving. The same thing happened each and every morning after.

The broth had an unusual texture and was the definition of ‘bland’, but they could sustain themselves on it while they afforded other commodities: another set of clothes for the children, some shoes with proper soles, and even a little bracelet for the eldest daughter.

No-one knew how the unending broth was conjured up or why it had decided to happen at the time that it did, but they were extremely thankful. Mother concluded that it was God taking mercy on them; the scuffs on her knees from praying night and day grew, as did her children (into handsome young men and women, let me bear witness).

That family had been on my radar for a long time before I decided that I wanted to intervene – they were very modest, kind, and never complained about their situation, even though they suffered more than most. Using up the only magic that I could exert until the next century, I made it so that they would never run out of food.

No thanks is necessary, it’s what any decent person – or witch – would do if they could.

#3 - Oh Baby . . .

Today’s words: Stereo, Entertainment, Present, Profile
Today’s genre: Comedy/Historical
Words: 499



A few days ago, my boyfriend managed to create a fully-functioning time machine and since Thursday we’ve been living in the Tudor period. The rules are stricter, the people are poorer, and the houses are smaller. We hailed from East London, so it was a big change of scenery...well, we had travelled 500 years into the past, so that was to be expected, regardless of where we’d originated. The best way to describe where we’re lodging is like a third world country – there’s no electricity, sewage system, and there is only one room inside to accommodate everything; bit of a shithole, to use present wording. I wanted to leave almost right away, but my boyfriend insisted we stay and have a first-hand history lesson; hard to disagree when he’s in the process of going down on you...

As people around here had no idea what electricity was, I was surviving on batteries: I had my laptop, a small stereo-like speaker system for my mp3 player, and my DS for entertainment (lucky, that – jousting and public executions weren’t really my thing, but the theatre was a good laugh). Soon enough though, I wanted to kick it up a notch, so I brought my mp3 player to a jester’s performance for the King in the main courtyard and pressed play. There was a big crowd and the atmosphere was merry, so I figured that everyone would start dancing to this strange futuristic music that would lift the mood even further. I had no idea what would play first because I always had it on shuffle, but Justin Bieber’s Baby started playing. A few strange looks and comments were to be expected...

“This music, from whence does it play?”

“What is that queer contraption that that fellow is holding?”

Then the chorus kicked in...

Baby baby baby, ooohh...

A man that was standing in profile next to me suddenly yelled, “What is this?? This young maiden is singing about lusting after a baby?”

Baby baby baby, NOOOO...

“In the name of all that is holy, is this heathen singing of raping a baby? THIS IS DEVIL’S MUSIC!” a woman shrieked.

Thought you’d always be mine, mine...

Then the King spoke up... “A travesty! A travesty, I say!! Burn the infidels at once, AT ONCE, GO TO!”

Out of nowhere, some men in helmets and uniformed clothing seized me by the arms and dragged me away from the crowd. A tiny bit of wee escaped my urethra.

My boyfriend, being a quick thinker, pulled out his laptop and shouted. “WAIT! Hear this out before you make any rash decisions!”

A fast 8-bit tune began playing and immediately I recognised it. He thrust his laptop in the direction of the King and his face softened. He motioned for the guards to let me go as he continued to stare at the laptop with raised eyebrows.

Sunday 25th of September 1523 – the day that my boyfriend saved my life by playing Henry VIII Nyan Cat.