A MYSTERIOUS TALE.

It was a tremulous, squelchy night, the kind you might find in a soggy
matchbox the size of a town hall. The mansion smelled like burnt
eggs. The clouds clapped together like so many frog buttocks. The
windows prattled and the doors went eeuurnnnnrrg. 
    A storm had hobbled home.
    The master of the house, a man the colour of balloon squeaks, rose
puddingly and crept to the window. He clutched in his pocket some
cake. Something was afoot. It was his foot. But something else was 
afoot, and that was certainly bigger than a foot. The thunder bounced
outside. 
    All of a sudden, the doors knocked. In rolled the most
extraextraordinary woman he had ever set sail on. He could scarcely
believe his yes.
    She was coated in a mouldy fuzz, the kind which one might 
scrape from the underside of a carpet salesman. Her hair shone like
owl droppings. She had a face like a plastic fireplace, a body like the 
structure of a Dickens serialisation and an expression that could hang 
parliament.
    As she she sloped towards him, burbling her querulous nothings into
the acrid air, arms spread dreadfully like a burst twig, the sky burped.
    'This,' thought the wretched and torrified man, 'must surely rank as
the most peculiar strippogram in history.'

---

Added on June 5 2012. 

I wrote this a long time ago for my book. That's right, it's a sneak preview!

Copyright 2010 Astonishing Sod. 
Tell your friends.   

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