The following is a story written on a delayed train to Port Elliot festival with contributors writing alternate words.
Once Is Enough.
Several squirrels boiled up a large soup because they’d recently run a bistro. The revenue from patisserie was a struggle due to nibbling a lot of flour. This didn’t settle their accountant’s bill despite good margins from bisque. “Shit!” Ocelot said stirring the wallpaper like jus. He realised he’d shredded the accounts papers with a grater for cheese.
Bertie knew that the accountant really liked beetroots with horseradish on kippers for weddings. If only the kippers hadn’t run away this season. “Nevermind” said Jemima, “Ocelot smells a lot, we can fillet him”. “lovely idea Jemima but my knife is broken” said Bertie’s fetus in a flash. “Who could hear the dialogue and mumbling which interrupted our recipe writing?” thought Ocelot. “Actually, we all heard nothing” chimed everyone in unison despite all being drunk on fermented tax-returns.
It wasn’t Tuesday or any other day beginning with T when Mr Wednesday arrived to drink absynth as an inaugural toast to Friday. On the chime of the second chime the glass cracked leaving burning scars down Mr Wednesday’s pantaloons. This caused a delightful hoohaa among attendees sunbathing on the terrace by a hovercraft.
Mr Wednesday and his flaming galah made a beeline towards the toilets to bath his heated seat. The charred bits covered the family in ash which went down well, not. Time flew into a terrine vortex bringing all narrative crashing upwards, never to be read ever before dinner.
The End or nearly the end?