#5MinuteFiction Week 39

And we call it 5MinuteFiction because you write a nice little piece of fiction in five minutes. Crazy people that we are. Are you new? Get in there and start scrapping!

The Rules

* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre

* You must directly reference today’s prompt: teapot

(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for decoration/inspiration.)

* Post your entry as a comment to this post.

I’ll close the contest at 1:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.

At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, the talented Monica B.W., @Monica_BW–soon to be famous YA author– will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:00 EST tomorrow I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.

For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.

What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.

A Few Notes:

* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.

* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.

* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

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21 Responses to #5MinuteFiction Week 39

  1. You are clearly the strangest person I have ever met. You are strange and you hang out with strange people, therefore you are even stranger.

    Teapot? You’re kidding me, right? Teapot? Who writes about teapots? Who would ever WANT to write about teapots?

    You write about teapots therefore you are strange. You induce others to write about teapots therefore you are demented.

    I don’t know why I come here. Every week. And write these things too. It’s some strange borg-assimilation mind-control telepathic power thing. Because I am not strange.

    Teapots. *snort*

  2. I’m a little teapot.
    I am short.
    I am stout.
    She grabs my handle.
    She pinches my spout.
    Now I am all steamed up.
    I try to shout.
    She tips me over.
    She pours me out.
    She drops the knife.
    I watch the red tea spread from underneath me.
    I look up at her. My eyes are steamed up. I think she is smiling. She is not sorry.
    She has no reason to be.
    I close my eyes and feel the steaming burn in my side. I try to scoop the red tea and force it back inside. Too late. Too late.
    I am a teapot. I should never have burned her. It was all my fault.


  3. Bronwynk says:

    My grandmother loved to drink hot tea. She was always very proper about it. Grandma would boil water on the stove, pour boiling water in to her Rose print porcelain teapot only to pour it out and refill it with more boiling water. She would add the tea leaves and let it steep for what seemed like forever to an 8 year old. While the tea was steeping, she would move to the kitchen and bring back cookies and finger sandwiches. Grandma always loved having company for tea. When she would sit back down, she would pour the tea in to our matching tea cups. After adding a lot of honey and milk to mine, I would gingerly sip my hot tea, trying to mimic how Grandma would stick out her pinky. But my hands were always too small. We would sit there quietly sipping our tea and eating our snack.

    Grandma and I didn’t live near each other, so tea time only happened when I would visit. Grandma passed almost 15 years ago and left me her beautiful tea set. I still occasionally pull it out and make tea for my self. I can’t wait to share the tradition with my brother’s children, when he finally has them.

  4. Jules Carey says:

    I thought when I died it would be pearly gates and gold lined streets. My Sunday School teachers told me stories of the wonderful place that was heaven when I was a child. I held onto those thoughts my hold life through.

    Who would’ve thought it? They lied!

    I suppose I should be pissed off at all those priests and ministers who told me I was saved. “If you just let Jesus into your heart, all your sins are forgiven”. I listened. I wasn’t a bad person, but I had my vices. Now I sit in this place that looks like my house from when I was alive (though I know it’s not because I’m dead) and spend my days trying to detach the teapot from my hand.

    I shake it, I bang it, I naw at it with my teeth. Still, it’s stuck there day after day. It really gets in the way.

    After everything I try, I go to bed (but don’t sleep cuz I’m dead) and ponder the great irony I’m faced with. Who would’ve thought it? The Mormons were right.


  5. Sally lifted the teapot with both hands. She grinned. “More tea, Mr. Boo?” she asked, tipping her head at the large green bear. His head was tipped to match and she gripped the handle with white knuckles as she poured into his pink plastic cup. Her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth and her blue eyes were focused with life and death intensity as she struggled not to splash a single drop. “It’s magic tea,” she whispered as she set the teapot down with relief.

    Leaning across the tiny table she nodded her head in earnest.

    Grace missed the rest of the whispered conversation as she sat at her own table, sipping her own tea, but she knew what Sally was saying. It was magic tea. It was the tea that had made them a family.


  6. J.D. says:

    “I’m a little teapot, short and stout~”
    The song echoed through out the house, as Will took a hesitant step forward. The pitter-patter of a child’s feet rang to his left, causing him to swing the beam of his flash light. The light touched dusty paintings and broken furniture, before resting on the little girl in the door way.
    Will screamed and turned to run, but the girl was already in front of him again. She gripped the bloody knife easily in her small hands, and raised it.
    “Here is my handle, Here is my spout~”


  7. “A teapot?” Grand Warlord Glarg scowled over the alien word. “What does it do?”

    “Well, your highness,” Major Marok said, pointing at the strange, round device before him. “Apparently, it is used in a strange ritual.”

    The major lifted up the top of the ceramic pot, revealing it was hollow inside.

    “Water is placed in here,” Marok said, and Glarg nodded. Water storage was important, but this would not serve as storage. The container had a long tube with a hole on the end, and no stopper that he could see.

    “And then the container is placed over,” Marok said, then hesitated. “Fire, m’lord.”

    “Fire?” Glarg said, pushing himself backwards into his chair. “Does this work have so much water that they can burn it?”

    “Indeed they do, m’lord,” Marok said, bowing and wiggling his antenna in an apologetic manor.

    “And you say this is used in rituals?” Glarg said. “Do they sacrifice the water to their heathen gods?”

    “No, m’lord,” Marok said, his antenna waiving even more frantically now. “It get’s even more… perverse. I hesitate to continue.”

    “I order you to tell me,” Glarg said.

    “M’lord,” Marok said, standing at attention and getting his antenna under control. “The Earthlings take the now hot water,” he flinched at the word hot, “And then pour it into a cup, over leaves.”

    “Leaves?” Glarg asked. “As from a tree?”

    “Yes, m’lord,” Marok said, and his eyes were turning a pale green, as if he were feeling ill. Glarg couldn’t blame him, he felt slightly ill himself.

    “And then comes the worst part,” Marok said.

    “Don’t tell me,” Glarg said.

    “I’m afraid so, m’lord,” Marok said. “They drink it.”


  8. Casi says:

    Christina smiled at Sophie and said, “Well, I think we’ve solved all the world’s problems. Now what about yours?” As she finished speaking the tea pot whistled and called her away.

    Sophie, alone in the sun room, stared out into the night. “I don’t want to tell her my problems,” the woman thought rebelliously. “If I tell her my problems, she’ll figure out a solution and then they wouldn’t be my problems any more. They’d be everyone’s problems.”

    From deeper within came an insidious little voice that she was beginning to think wasn’t a part of her at all. “If you tell her, then every one will die.” The thought felt hot, almost fiery. That’s how Sophie knew the thought wasn’t hers. But for weeks she hadn’t been able to pin point who the source was.

    Footsteps signaled Christina’s return to the room. “Something’s coming to kill the town. Blood everywhere.” Sophie blurted.


  9. James dove into the car with several comically large tan bags with dollar signs on them. He didn’t think they actually had those at banks, but this was an entire day of firsts for him: Robbing a bank, threatening a pretty bank teller with a gun, slipping his phone number hastily scratched onto a business card into said bank teller’s hands as he made his getaway. Now all that was left was exciting car chase from the police.

    “Step on it, Frank!” James yelled as he pulled the back door shut.

    “I’m a little teapot short and stout–” Frank sang timidly, his voice faltering once. The car remained in park.

    James sighed. He forgot that when Frank got really nervous he would sing children’s songs. “We don’t have time for this, Frank!”

    “–here is my handle–” Frank continued.

    “Frank?” The police had arrived and began surrounding the car.

    “–HERE IS MY SPOUT!” Frank screamed more than sang.

    “Shut your spout and punch it!”

    Suddenly Frank popped the car into first and slammed on the gas. “WHEN I GET ALL STEAMED UP HEAR ME SHOUT!” He ran over three policemen. “TIP ME OVER AND POUR ME OUT!”

    James sighed in relief. They made it out. Not as clean as he hoped, but out nonetheless.

    …Then he remembered the business card he had slipped the teller had come from his own pocket.


  10. RB Wood says:

    The Green-Wood cemetery in Brooklyn is one of the oldest and largest final resting places in the United States. I consider it a privilege to be a gravedigger here. It pays the rent and allows me time to do what I’m best at.

    I’m a Ghost Mediator.

    Jennifer Love Hewett stars in a show called “The Ghost Whisperer.” It’s been my experience that helping troubled spirits move on rarely involves whispering.

    And despite what you might see on the vagazzled Ms. Love Hewett’s show, most of the stories are tragic and rarely affect the material world.

    Take Ricky, for instance.

    Ricky was a boy of about ten. Stabbed to death in 1790 (he’d been crying over his grave when I first found him), by a gang of youths not much older than he was, he’d been searching for his mother for centuries. Since he was buried in an unmarked grave and only knew his first name, it’s been near impossible to help him find peace.

    Which is why I’ve adopted him as my Ghost Mediator sidekick. See, having a ghost boy following me around tends to give me credibility with the rest of the wandering spirits at Green-Wood.

    I’ve met some famous people during my duties around the cemetery. Some refuse to move on, not accepting they’re dead. Others, like Leonard Bernstein, hang around to listen to the concerts that are performed here during the summer.

    I met the nefarious Boss Tweed once. The first and only time I felt ‘pure evil’ coming from one of the spirits that have stayed behind.

    Anyway–it was a typical twilight in May when I swung by Ricky’s grave to see how he was doing. I had three graves to dig up that evening, and I knew it’d be a long night. The kids’ company was always welcome.

    “Ricky,” I said simply as my old tractor pulled to a stop by his grave. He was sitting on his dad’s tombstone next to his waiting for me.

    “Winston,” he nodded and hopped off the marker. He moved like a normal kid, except for the fact that he was a slightly luminescent and dressed in his old-fashioned clothes.

    “Gotta lot of work to do tonight kid,” I said. “So no distractions, okay?”

    “Hmm,” the specter said, but nothing more.

    In silence we trundled to our first stop. A grave we needed to reopen to bury the recently departed wife of a man who’d been dead since the fifties.

    “Sad,” I said. “This poor woman’d been alone since 1958. Finally rejoining her husband though after a long life. Guess that’s okay.”

    “No, she’s pretty upset about it,” said Ricky. “He used to beat her. She killed him for it and now she’s afraid.”

    “What are you talking about?” I asked my dead companion.

    The ghost shrugged his shoulders and pointed. Hidden behind an old Elm (this was Elm Street after all—all the roads in Green-Wood were named after trees), I could make out a slightly glowing figure of a main in a fedora. His body language—if you don’t have a body anymore, do you still have ‘body language?’—was all fury.

    I looked at the grave I was about to reopen. “Clyde Parker” had been buried here in 1958.

    “Clyde,” I called out. “C’mon over hear so we can chat.”

    The spirit was angry, no doubt about that. His wife poisoned him back in the day and she’d gotten away with it.

    I spent the better part of an hour listened to the foul-mouthed tirade of the ghost. I noticed Ricky stayed back from us and seemed to be fascinated by a particular blade of grass near my old tractor.

    “Now it seems to me,” I said when the ghost finally finished his rant. “That you were a pretty nasty man to her when you were alive. I think what’s done has been done and you need to get over it. She’s dead now too and will be buried here tomorrow. I think you both need to come to terms with what happened so you can move on.”

    The ghost of the man vanished.

    I looked back a Ricky and he shrugged his shoulders.

    Ricky and I went on with my work in silence for the rest of that evening.

    The next night, I had no dirt-related activities scheduled, so I went about a tour of the cemetery to check on any graves that might need maintenance. I picked up my young, dead companion as usual. Around midnight we found ourselves by the Parker’s gravesite. Both the spirits of Clyde and his recently deceased wife, Florence, were there. They were sipping tea, an old-fashioned flowered teapot between them.

    Florence just beamed at me.

    “Just like when we were first married. Sipping tea and catching up on the day. Before…the problems started. I don’t what you said to him sir, but we’ve worked it all out. We just wanted to say goodbye before we left. And thank you.”

    With a little wave from her and a tip of his fedora from Clyde, they, and the old-fashioned tea set, were gone.

    And that’s how it goes at Green-Wood. Sometimes things are easy, sometimes, not so much.

    “Well, that was okay, wasn’t it Ricky?”

    “Yeah Winston, not bad. But I met a fellow over on Sycamore who’s looking for his lost hounds. Wanna go talk with him?”

    I sighed. People and their pets. “Yeah kid. Let’s go.”


  11. Johnson D says:

    “I’m a little teapot, short and stout,” Roger started, his chiming voice incredibly off key. “Here is my my handle-”

    “Ah, dude!” I bellowed, disgusted. Roger gripped his little friend and waved him through the room like a steel saber. “Put that thing away!”

    Roger was a drunk hobo on the bus – MY dunk hobo on the bus. He was my responsibility; I fed him, clothed him, and supplied him with plenty of liquid courage. During his erotic rendition of the child’s song, I suspected Roger had drank his fair share of today’s ration of whiskey.

    “I think you’ve had enough,” I whispered firmly in his ear. The sour tinge of margaritas hung in the air between us.

    Margaritas? I thought to myself. That bastard…

    “You’ve got another patron, don’t you?” I shouted. My accusation silenced the other patrons who rode with us. Their hobos didn’t look up. “Who is it?”

    Roger stammered, his wiry beard dripping with alcoholic residue.

    “Doesn’t matter,” he managed to spit out viciously, “because she buys Grey Goose and you buy shit! I’m taking my talents elsewhere!”

    And that’s how I lost my hobo.


  12. R.C. Murphy says:

    She bore a striking resemblance to a teapot. Narrow chest, slight bulge at the stomach… and those hips? I wanted to grab hold and ride until we were both completely exhausted. The pressure against my fly let me know I wasn’t the only member of this two-man crew cooking up fantasies for later.

    “What are you staring at, Stan?” Linda tugged at the hem of her shirt. The self conscious move made me grind my teeth.

    “I’m staring at the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth and wondering what I can do to her once we get back to the hotel.” It was rude. I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

    My forward statement was blessed with a blush that crept up her neck and stained her cheeks. If not for the table between us, I would kiss those blushing cheeks. Linda did not know how precious she really was.

    “Stop talking out of your ass.” A hand drew through her blonde hair. “You were checking out the waitress not five minutes ago.”

    The look on my face made her frown. It’s the one I assumed when Linda insisted on belittling herself. “Only ’cause she’s holding my damn food hostage.”

    Linda’s laugh broke the tension hovering over the table. “Always thinking with your stomach, baby.”

    I grinned and leaned over to capture one of her hands. “I was, until you smiled. Now I’m back to being a lecherous hornball. What color are your panties?”


  13. Tauisha Nicole @shells2003 says:

    Carlie sighed when she sat on the terrace of her parent’s elaborate home. She looked out on the grounds of the emaculate lawn that she remembers as a child. Though she hasn’t lived here for years, she still has fond memories of her childhood.

    Which was why she couldn’t understand what she discovered. And it was why she needed to speak with her mother.

    “Carlie, dear!” a cheery voice greeted her. Walking briskly towards her in a Chanel pantsuit was her mother.

    Carlie stood and hugged the woman, who kissed her cheeks. “Such a pleasure and surprise to see you, honey. Had I known you were free, you could have joined me at the club this morning for breakfast.”

    They both took their seats and her mother removed her hat. Carlie replied, “It’s ok. It’s not everyday I get to just spend time with you.”

    “Once Gladys told me you were here, I asked her to bring out a snack.”

    As if on cue, Gladys rolled a cart out to the table. She placed scones in front of them, along with china cups. “I thought today would be a nice day for tea,” Gladys said, while placing a veriety of tea bags before them.

    After the ladies chose their tea selections, Gladys lifted the teapot and pour water in their cups. Then, she excused herself. “You did always like Chamomile,” her mother noted.

    Carlie nodded. “There’s…there’s a reason why I needed to see you, mom.”

    “Oh?” her mother put butter on her scone.

    “It’s about dad.”

    After taking a bite and a dainty sip of tea, her mother asked, “What about your father?”

    “He’s…he’s having an afair, mom.”

    Her mother froze for only a second. Her face revealing a distant pain for only a moment. Then, she smiled her prettiest of smiles and said, “I know, honey.”

    Carlie nearly dropped her tea. “You know.”

    “He has for years. It’s how we stay sane. It’s how he stays happy.”

    “But, he’s cheating! He shouldn’t be with anyone else when he has you!”

    Her mother shrugged. “So, I comfront him. And then what? He ask me for a divorce? He leaves? And I’m stuck alone and in worse conditions than now?”

    “Maybe he’d stop-”

    Her mother grabbed her hands and sighed. “Carlie, baby. Don’t be so naive. Husbands are still men, and men have needs. Sometimes, those are needs I can’t supply. But, he supplies all of mine.”

    Carlie was surpised to feel her mother’s fingers brush the tears away from her face. “The way he stays happy, my dear, is that he has a mistress. And the way I stay happy is I pretend not to know about it.”

  14. Raziel Moore says:

    Megan was a repurposer. Very few things in her apartemnt, in her life, were used in the capacieties for which they were designed. Her clothing, almost all of it, belonged to blue collar professions that probably didn’t even exist anymore, but still looked like they were designed for her. Her bed was packing foam covered in old tent canvas, on replaced plywood roof panels, yet it was surprisingly comfortable for both fucking and sleeping.

    I watched, fascninated as she spooned out the grounds into cheesecloth and tied the bundle together with unwaxed dental floss. She took the makeshift filter and lowered it into a chipped ceramic teapot, wrapping the floss line around the middle of the spout a few times before taking the frying pan filled with water off the stove and pouring the just-boiled contents, very carefully in.

    She turned to her cabinet, pulling out a laboratory 250ml beaker with a handle and spout, and small fowerpot, with the holle on the bottom topped by cork.

    As we waited for the coffee to steep, I wondered what ‘boyfirend’ or ‘lover’ translated to in her world.


  15. Paul Freeman says:

    Jimmy stood in the centre of the ruined house, scorch marks ran up the sides of the walls and across the timbers on the ceiling. Debris that once been furniture and treasured possessions of a family littered the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old tea pot lying in front of the fire place, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it lovingly as if it were a priceless relic. Memories flooded back of sitting around the big oak kitchen table, his mother hovering over them, fussing as usual, doling out steaming mugs of tea and thick wedges of jam and bread.

    The conversation and banter would flow back and forth, good natured ribbing. There was always a visitor in the house, the welcome and hospitality was famous in the neighbourhood. A tear flowed freely down Jimmy’s cheek as he wiped a spot of soot from the teapot.

    “It’s not safe in here, sir. You’ll have to leave,” the voice of a fireman interrupted his thoughts. He wanted to turn and yell, it’s my house, this is my fucking home, leave me be. But he didn’t, he simply turned and allowed himself to be led from the house.

    Outside a throng of people had gathered, they whispered in hushed tones behind their hands, ‘no survivors,’ he heard someone say, ‘all dead.’ ‘his whole family.’

    He pushed past the crowd, avoiding their gazes.

    “Excuse me, sir. Could we have a word?” Jimmy stopped and looked at the police officer. They knew, he thought. Somehow they had found out.

    “Okay,” he said.

    “Sorry, sir we know it’s a bad time. Maybe we can leave it til later.” The police man smiled reassuingly.

    As he walked away he dug his hands into his pockets. The box of matches rattled there. He couldn’t remember when the searing heat of a blazing fire first drew his interest How he became mesmerized by the dancing yellow flames.

    Fire, he thought, only fire can cleanse the soul.

  16. His ears and face was burning red. Why was he on the verge of tears? Was it fear or shame? Was it the thought of bearing his father’s disappointment? Poor kid. But the teapot…

    The teapot had been always been in my life. It was a great loss. I couldn’t even speak to him about it yet. It wasn’t that I was angry with him. Loss is just…loss. I could still see the bright green, pottery teapot sitting on my grandmother’s stove. I could see her pouring out the afternoon tea. Feel the steam of it on my young face.

    It didn’t matter whether or not he’d been careless. I just needed to look at it for a moment trying to imagine how it could be repaired. He would have my forgiveness soon, but first the loss. What would my mother say if she saw it lying here in pieces? That it didn’t matter? That Grannie didn’t really like this teapot that much anyway? That accidents happen? Probably.

    “Come help me clean this up, ok?”

    He didn’t look at me. I could tell he was trying to hide his reddened cheeks and teary eyes from me.

    As we collected the broken pieces, I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled his face up to mine.

    “Hey, accidents happen. Don’t take it so hard.”

    In my own voice, I could here my mother’s and her mother’s. It was ok.

  17. What a strange entry from me this week. O.o

    Well, strange or not, time’s up!

    And LOOK! New faces! Hi, new faces. Welcome.

    See you at 3:00 when we post the finalists.

  18. Cathy Donovan says:

    After four years of marriage all he ever heard when she opened her mouth was the song “I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle, here is my spout.” Some days he even thought she resembled a teapot. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to get to know your spouse, he mused after hanging up the phone with her. She was off to her friends house, ‘tea time.’

    How had he ever found her so captivating. Pheromones must be some powerful things. After all, four years isn’t so long, and they’d only dated for six months beforehand. He’d been so sure, so sure he’d wanted to spend a lifetime, drinking tea.

    Nowadays he woke up wondering how long it would take to die. It was even worse when the tea party movement became popular. Hell, she wanted to join just because it mentioned ‘tea.’ Clueless, just clueless. He still laughed thinking back to the time when the first ‘tea party’ rally showed up on the evening news, she had been determined to watch it. There she sat, teacup in hand, waiting for the segment to come on the news. When it did, she looked utterly perplexed, there was no tea.

    Even after all this time she still didn’t understand what tea or tea parties had to do with politics. Hell, maybe he should try to explain it. But he was long past bothering. He’d spent so many times trying to explain things on a larger scale than her own little social network that he’d had enough. It was like talking to a wall. “Know when to cut your losses.” He could hear his father now.

    If only that were possible. He opened the thermos and poured the tea out into the cup. She’d insisted on making him tea everyday. Drinking it was his penance, his penance for bad decision making, for poor forethought when making commitments. Maybe even for not trying anymore. His penance for giving up.

    He upended the cup into his mouth. Taking a big gulp as if to chase these feelings away. He gagged, but he couldn’t breathe. He dropped the cup. He tried coughing and couldn’t. Tea went everywhere as his arms flailed about knocking the thermos over. Panic set in as he realized he was alone and choking. Moments seemed like hours as the realization hit him, he was going to die,.. choking on a tea bag.

  19. Holly says:

    “Look, Kara, there’s your mom’s work,” Tyler says through panted breaths. He grabs my hand, and we pick up the pace.
    I’ve always hated running. Last year, when I was just a stupid freshman, I joined the track team to get Tyler’s attention. It worked. I credit the teeny-tiny gym shorts. Too bad I quit after a week. Otherwise I’d be in much better shape right now—when it really matters.
    Tyler tugs on the handle on the glass door. “It’s locked!”
    “It’s badge operated, dumbass!” I yell. I slide my mom’s work badge out of my jeans pocket and run it over the scanner. The door clicks, and we trip over each other trying to get inside. I jerk the door closed, and it makes another clicking noise to confirm that it’s locked again.
    Tyler leans against the door and puts his hands on his knees. “Is your mom here?” “No.” I smooth some stray hairs out of my face. They’re matted down by sweat.
    So much for looking cute in front of Tyler. Zombies have a way of ruining everything. “My mom got sick, like the others. And so did her boyfriend, Bill. Not that I care about him. He was always an asshole, even before he wanted to eat my face off.”
    “Sorry,” Tyler says, squeezing my shoulder.
    Just then we hear a crash come from an office at the end of the building. A teapot rolls out of the room and into the hallway.
    “Hello?” I say. “Is someone there?”

  20. Mehry Inett says:

    The bong was full, the smoke curling like djinns. Ricki put her lips to the tube and sucked hard. Too hard. The cool smoke blasted into her lungs and the demons inside slipped into her body, possessing her organs, her bones, her blood.

    Sure, she had smoked weed before, and got high, and giggly, but this was something else. She put the bong down, stunned, as the walls of the room tightened and squashed. John became part of the wall. He was laughing. At her.

    “I think this is the perfect time to play this.”

    He flicked the remote at his iPod and a trail of remotes followed it in the air from his arm. Ricki felt sick.

    “Gnome…. gnome… gnome…”

    What. The. Fuck.

    “I’m going to be sick,” she said.


    “Up in the sky. A cup of tea. Flying saucer. Flying teapot. From outer space. What do you see? Flying saucer. Flying teapot.”

    And the djinns laughed and put slices of lemon in her eyes.

  21. Mehry, I hope you’re joining us next week. That was great.

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