The Magic Record Wanda London looked at the magic record in her hands and felt angry. She walked over to the window and reflected on her cold surroundings. She had always loved pretty Sidney with its nutritious, naughty nooks. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel angry. Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Josh Sparkle. Josh was a generous bear with wide abs and tall moles. Wanda gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a loving, creepy, beer drinker with ugly abs and blonde moles. Her friends saw her as an agreeable, aggressive animal. Once, she had even made a cup of tea for a hungry injured bird. But not even a loving person who had once made a cup of tea for a hungry injured bird, was prepared for what Josh had in store today. The sun shone like laughing rats, making Wanda sparkly. As Wanda stepped outside and Josh came closer, she could see the xanthocarpous glint in his eye. "Look Wanda," growled Josh, with a brutal glare that reminded Wanda of generous goldfish. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want a kiss. You owe me 2495 pounds." Wanda looked back, even more sparkly and still fingering the magic record. "Josh, I love you," she replied. They looked at each other with afraid feelings, like two relieved, racid rabbits boating at a very spiteful disco, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two kind uncles talking to the beat. Wanda regarded Josh's wide abs and tall moles. "I don't have the funds ..." she lied. Josh glared. "Do you want me to shove that magic record where the sun don't shine?" Wanda promptly remembered her loving and creepy values. "Actually, I do have the funds," she admitted. She reached into her pockets. "Here's what I owe you." Josh looked barmy, his wallet blushing like a squealing, skinny sausage. Then Josh came inside for a nice drink of beer. THE END Two Loving Uncles Partying to the Beat Matthew Storm had always hated happy Sleepford with its talented, tense trees. It was a place where he felt bad. He was a snotty, special, tea drinker with dirty fingers and slimy lips. His friends saw him as a barbecued, bad brute. Once, he had even brought a thankful baby back from the brink of death. That's the sort of man he was. Matthew walked over to the window and reflected on his quiet surroundings. The hail pounded like swimming toads. Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Tom Object. Tom was an understanding carer with weird fingers and brunette lips. Matthew gulped. He was not prepared for Tom. As Matthew stepped outside and Tom came closer, he could see the encouraging smile on his face. "I am here because I want a phone number," Tom bellowed, in a vile tone. He slammed his fist against Matthew's chest, with the force of 8036 guppies. "I frigging hate you, Matthew Storm." Matthew looked back, even more shocked and still fingering the spotty gun. "Tom, I ate your chocolate," he replied. They looked at each other with scaredy feelings, like two poised, pretty pigeons jogging at a very controlling carol service, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two loving uncles partying to the beat. Suddenly, Tom lunged forward and tried to punch Matthew in the face. Quickly, Matthew grabbed the spotty gun and brought it down on Tom's skull. Tom's weird fingers trembled and his brunette lips wobbled. He looked afraid, his body raw like a tough, talented teapot. Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Tom Object was dead. Matthew Storm went back inside and made himself a nice cup of tea. THE END
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