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Don’t remind me of The Well, that becursed haunt of scheming devilry. I should never have gone there. Ug. What was I thinking? I should never have listened to that yabber-mouthed scallywag, Milo Musselwhite – he was the one who persuaded me to go.
“G-g-g-give it-it a try!” he said.
“You m-m-m-might be s-s-s-surprised!” he said.
“M-m-m-miracles can hap-p-p-pen!” he said.
Milo has a stutter, which can arouse feelings of sympathy, but make no mistake: he’s a meddling rapscallion. So why-oh-why did I listen to him? Why was I taken in by his hushed cha-cha-chatter and the idiotic prospect of mystical wish-bunkum? A fool is always fooled, I guess. Mad as a hatter I must be. Ug.
You must tiptoe through the tulips slinking like a ginger tom, he said, with whiskers twitching and tail erect.
I did.
You must have clasped between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand a stolen silver coin, he said, preferably lifted from the bulging purse of a well-to-do housewife.
I did.
You must approach The Well bathed in the serene luster of a full(ish) moon, he said.
I did.
You must circle The Well in an anti-clockwise direction, he said, until the tu-whit tu-whoo, tu-whit tu-whoo of an owl is heard.
I did.
On hearing the nightspeech of the owl you must flick the silver coin into The Well whispering the magic word: Toidi.
I did.
Then you must swiftly c*ck your left ear to The Well’s opening and await the coin’s inevitable plop in the water below.
I did.
Lastly, and most importantly, he said, (twirling my ponytail with a shaven twig), you must proclaim in the booming voice of a town crier your deepest and most heartfelt wish.
So I did.
I WISH VICAR McLINTOCK WOULD FALL HEAD-OVER-HEELS IN LOVE WITH ME!!
Milo and his twenty-strong gang of shadow-hiding eavesdroppers fell about in the surrounding rhododendrons splitting-their-sides like bursting balloons.
Mug.
So what did I do? What did I do?
Did I run away, skedaddle, tail between legs, red-faced and shrieking like a craven ninny-whippet? – Nay!
Did I karate chopper and roundhouse kicker them one-by-treacherous-one mid a swirl of kung-fu ballyhoo? – Sadly, nay.
Did I freeze on the spot like a floppy-eared bunny dumbstruck in the headlights of a thundering juggernaut? – Nay, thrice nay.
This is what I did: I jumped down The Well like the perky pixie acrobat that I am. Of course I did.
down,
down,
down,
head-over-heels,
tush-over-nipples,
down,
down,
undesirable brick-scuffing cartwheel,
snig-snag,
grind,
-j-a-g-g-e-r-
snig-snagged panties,
-j-u-d-d-e-r-
STOP!
feet – east,
head – west:
supine,
gasp.
…So there I was, quivering like a quaver, precariously wedged halfway down a well: stuck in a grotty hole miles away from home: jammed in the narrow funnel of a wishing-well wishing I could get out!
Ug, ug, ugly night: ugly cold shivering clinging-on night… Is this it? I murmured, as pathetic as a dying fly. Is-this-it? A black mist swamped my eyes and filled my mouth. Ugugg. Until (starflash: on/off) – until (starflash: on/off, on/off!) - un-tilllll: dawn, and the c*ckerel cry of my saviour:
“Zora, I’ve got rope! I’m here to rescue you!”
I climbed the dangling twine like a scrambling scamp. Up, up, up - bruised, scratched, smudged in slime – and in the drizzle of daybreak my bedraggled frame emerged from the well and slumped into the arms of my knight in shining armour, my redeemer in black robes: Vicar McLintock, handsome prince of virtue, saver of my soul!
Haw.
Milo the scoundrel was right: church bells, confetti, and a sunny honeymoon later, “M-m-m-miracles can h-h-h-happen.” So take that, bullyboy! You have unwittingly given this good Christian girl everything she could ever want, and more.
Yes I’ve lied, but only little white lies. Forgive me. The Well isn’t just a haunt of scheming rascals, it’s also a special place, a very special place indeed, it’s the place where my greatest wish in all the world came utterly true in a way I’ll never forget. Hoo-ha, happy ending!
-Signed, Zora.
“G-g-g-give it-it a try!” he said.
“You m-m-m-might be s-s-s-surprised!” he said.
“M-m-m-miracles can hap-p-p-pen!” he said.
Milo has a stutter, which can arouse feelings of sympathy, but make no mistake: he’s a meddling rapscallion. So why-oh-why did I listen to him? Why was I taken in by his hushed cha-cha-chatter and the idiotic prospect of mystical wish-bunkum? A fool is always fooled, I guess. Mad as a hatter I must be. Ug.
You must tiptoe through the tulips slinking like a ginger tom, he said, with whiskers twitching and tail erect.
I did.
You must have clasped between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand a stolen silver coin, he said, preferably lifted from the bulging purse of a well-to-do housewife.
I did.
You must approach The Well bathed in the serene luster of a full(ish) moon, he said.
I did.
You must circle The Well in an anti-clockwise direction, he said, until the tu-whit tu-whoo, tu-whit tu-whoo of an owl is heard.
I did.
On hearing the nightspeech of the owl you must flick the silver coin into The Well whispering the magic word: Toidi.
I did.
Then you must swiftly c*ck your left ear to The Well’s opening and await the coin’s inevitable plop in the water below.
I did.
Lastly, and most importantly, he said, (twirling my ponytail with a shaven twig), you must proclaim in the booming voice of a town crier your deepest and most heartfelt wish.
So I did.
I WISH VICAR McLINTOCK WOULD FALL HEAD-OVER-HEELS IN LOVE WITH ME!!
Milo and his twenty-strong gang of shadow-hiding eavesdroppers fell about in the surrounding rhododendrons splitting-their-sides like bursting balloons.
Mug.
So what did I do? What did I do?
Did I run away, skedaddle, tail between legs, red-faced and shrieking like a craven ninny-whippet? – Nay!
Did I karate chopper and roundhouse kicker them one-by-treacherous-one mid a swirl of kung-fu ballyhoo? – Sadly, nay.
Did I freeze on the spot like a floppy-eared bunny dumbstruck in the headlights of a thundering juggernaut? – Nay, thrice nay.
This is what I did: I jumped down The Well like the perky pixie acrobat that I am. Of course I did.
down,
down,
down,
head-over-heels,
tush-over-nipples,
down,
down,
undesirable brick-scuffing cartwheel,
snig-snag,
grind,
-j-a-g-g-e-r-
snig-snagged panties,
-j-u-d-d-e-r-
STOP!
feet – east,
head – west:
supine,
gasp.
…So there I was, quivering like a quaver, precariously wedged halfway down a well: stuck in a grotty hole miles away from home: jammed in the narrow funnel of a wishing-well wishing I could get out!
Ug, ug, ugly night: ugly cold shivering clinging-on night… Is this it? I murmured, as pathetic as a dying fly. Is-this-it? A black mist swamped my eyes and filled my mouth. Ugugg. Until (starflash: on/off) – until (starflash: on/off, on/off!) - un-tilllll: dawn, and the c*ckerel cry of my saviour:
“Zora, I’ve got rope! I’m here to rescue you!”
I climbed the dangling twine like a scrambling scamp. Up, up, up - bruised, scratched, smudged in slime – and in the drizzle of daybreak my bedraggled frame emerged from the well and slumped into the arms of my knight in shining armour, my redeemer in black robes: Vicar McLintock, handsome prince of virtue, saver of my soul!
Haw.
Milo the scoundrel was right: church bells, confetti, and a sunny honeymoon later, “M-m-m-miracles can h-h-h-happen.” So take that, bullyboy! You have unwittingly given this good Christian girl everything she could ever want, and more.
Yes I’ve lied, but only little white lies. Forgive me. The Well isn’t just a haunt of scheming rascals, it’s also a special place, a very special place indeed, it’s the place where my greatest wish in all the world came utterly true in a way I’ll never forget. Hoo-ha, happy ending!
-Signed, Zora.
Page:
Wonderful.
I was just about to say it was to short - but, in fact, it was nigh-on perfect.
I was just about to say it was to short - but, in fact, it was nigh-on perfect.
Damnit you talented git! :D Fantastic writing, I seriously wish I could write like this.
E-e-e-excellent!
Don’t remind me of The Well, that becursed haunt of scheming devilry. I should never have gone there. Ug. What was I thinking? I should never have listened to that yabber-mouthed scallywag, Milo Musselwhite – he was the one who persuaded me to go.
“G-g-g-give it-it a try!” he said.
“You m-m-m-might be s-s-s-surprised!” he said.
“M-m-m-miracles can hap-p-p-pen!” he said.
Milo has a stutter, which can arouse feelings of sympathy, but make no mistake: he’s a meddling rapscallion. So why-oh-why did I listen to him? Why was I taken in by his hushed cha-cha-chatter and the idiotic prospect of mystical wish-bunkum? A fool is always fooled, I guess. Mad as a hatter I must be. Ug.
You must tiptoe through the tulips slinking like a ginger tom, he said, with whiskers twitching and tail erect.
I did.
You must have clasped between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand a stolen silver coin, he said, preferably lifted from the bulging purse of a well-to-do housewife.
I did.
You must approach The Well bathed in the serene luster of a full(ish) moon, he said.
I did.
You must circle The Well in an anti-clockwise direction, he said, until the tu-whit tu-whoo, tu-whit tu-whoo of an owl is heard.
I did.
On hearing the nightspeech of the owl you must flick the silver coin into The Well whispering the magic word: Toidi.
I did.
Then you must swiftly c*ck your left ear to The Well’s opening and await the coin’s inevitable plop in the water below.
I did.
Lastly, and most importantly, he said, (twirling my ponytail with a shaven twig), you must proclaim in the booming voice of a town crier your deepest and most heartfelt wish.
So I did.
I WISH VICAR McLINTOCK WOULD FALL HEAD-OVER-HEELS IN LOVE WITH ME!!
Milo and his twenty-strong gang of shadow-hiding eavesdroppers fell about in the surrounding rhododendrons splitting-their-sides like bursting balloons.
Mug.
So what did I do? What did I do?
Did I run away, skedaddle, tail between legs, red-faced and shrieking like a craven ninny-whippet? – Nay!
Did I karate chopper and roundhouse kicker them one-by-treacherous-one mid a swirl of kung-fu ballyhoo? – Sadly, nay.
Did I freeze on the spot like a floppy-eared bunny dumbstruck in the headlights of a thundering juggernaut? – Nay, thrice nay.
This is what I did: I jumped down The Well like the perky pixie acrobat that I am. Of course I did.
down,
down,
down,
head-over-heels,
tush-over-nipples,
down,
down,
undesirable brick-scuffing cartwheel,
snig-snag,
grind,
-j-a-g-g-e-r-
snig-snagged panties,
-j-u-d-d-e-r-
STOP!
feet – east,
head – west:
supine,
gasp.
…So there I was, quivering like a quaver, precariously wedged halfway down a well: stuck in a grotty hole miles away from home: jammed in the narrow funnel of a wishing-well wishing I could get out!
Ug, ug, ugly night: ugly cold shivering clinging-on night… Is this it? I murmured, as pathetic as a dying fly. Is-this-it? A black mist swamped my eyes and filled my mouth. Ugugg. Until (starflash: on/off) – until (starflash: on/off, on/off!) - un-tilllll: dawn, and the c*ckerel cry of my saviour:
“Zora, I’ve got rope! I’m here to rescue you!”
I climbed the dangling twine like a scrambling scamp. Up, up, up - bruised, scratched, smudged in slime – and in the drizzle of daybreak my bedraggled frame emerged from the well and slumped into the arms of my knight in shining armour, my redeemer in black robes: Vicar McLintock, handsome prince of virtue, saver of my soul!
Haw.
Milo the scoundrel was right: church bells, confetti, and a sunny honeymoon later, “M-m-m-miracles can h-h-h-happen.” So take that, bullyboy! You have unwittingly given this good Christian girl everything she could ever want, and more.
Yes I’ve lied, but only little white lies. Forgive me. The Well isn’t just a haunt of scheming rascals, it’s also a special place, a very special place indeed, it’s the place where my greatest wish in all the world came utterly true in a way I’ll never forget. Hoo-ha, happy ending!
-Signed, Zora.
“G-g-g-give it-it a try!” he said.
“You m-m-m-might be s-s-s-surprised!” he said.
“M-m-m-miracles can hap-p-p-pen!” he said.
Milo has a stutter, which can arouse feelings of sympathy, but make no mistake: he’s a meddling rapscallion. So why-oh-why did I listen to him? Why was I taken in by his hushed cha-cha-chatter and the idiotic prospect of mystical wish-bunkum? A fool is always fooled, I guess. Mad as a hatter I must be. Ug.
You must tiptoe through the tulips slinking like a ginger tom, he said, with whiskers twitching and tail erect.
I did.
You must have clasped between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand a stolen silver coin, he said, preferably lifted from the bulging purse of a well-to-do housewife.
I did.
You must approach The Well bathed in the serene luster of a full(ish) moon, he said.
I did.
You must circle The Well in an anti-clockwise direction, he said, until the tu-whit tu-whoo, tu-whit tu-whoo of an owl is heard.
I did.
On hearing the nightspeech of the owl you must flick the silver coin into The Well whispering the magic word: Toidi.
I did.
Then you must swiftly c*ck your left ear to The Well’s opening and await the coin’s inevitable plop in the water below.
I did.
Lastly, and most importantly, he said, (twirling my ponytail with a shaven twig), you must proclaim in the booming voice of a town crier your deepest and most heartfelt wish.
So I did.
I WISH VICAR McLINTOCK WOULD FALL HEAD-OVER-HEELS IN LOVE WITH ME!!
Milo and his twenty-strong gang of shadow-hiding eavesdroppers fell about in the surrounding rhododendrons splitting-their-sides like bursting balloons.
Mug.
So what did I do? What did I do?
Did I run away, skedaddle, tail between legs, red-faced and shrieking like a craven ninny-whippet? – Nay!
Did I karate chopper and roundhouse kicker them one-by-treacherous-one mid a swirl of kung-fu ballyhoo? – Sadly, nay.
Did I freeze on the spot like a floppy-eared bunny dumbstruck in the headlights of a thundering juggernaut? – Nay, thrice nay.
This is what I did: I jumped down The Well like the perky pixie acrobat that I am. Of course I did.
down,
down,
down,
head-over-heels,
tush-over-nipples,
down,
down,
undesirable brick-scuffing cartwheel,
snig-snag,
grind,
-j-a-g-g-e-r-
snig-snagged panties,
-j-u-d-d-e-r-
STOP!
feet – east,
head – west:
supine,
gasp.
…So there I was, quivering like a quaver, precariously wedged halfway down a well: stuck in a grotty hole miles away from home: jammed in the narrow funnel of a wishing-well wishing I could get out!
Ug, ug, ugly night: ugly cold shivering clinging-on night… Is this it? I murmured, as pathetic as a dying fly. Is-this-it? A black mist swamped my eyes and filled my mouth. Ugugg. Until (starflash: on/off) – until (starflash: on/off, on/off!) - un-tilllll: dawn, and the c*ckerel cry of my saviour:
“Zora, I’ve got rope! I’m here to rescue you!”
I climbed the dangling twine like a scrambling scamp. Up, up, up - bruised, scratched, smudged in slime – and in the drizzle of daybreak my bedraggled frame emerged from the well and slumped into the arms of my knight in shining armour, my redeemer in black robes: Vicar McLintock, handsome prince of virtue, saver of my soul!
Haw.
Milo the scoundrel was right: church bells, confetti, and a sunny honeymoon later, “M-m-m-miracles can h-h-h-happen.” So take that, bullyboy! You have unwittingly given this good Christian girl everything she could ever want, and more.
Yes I’ve lied, but only little white lies. Forgive me. The Well isn’t just a haunt of scheming rascals, it’s also a special place, a very special place indeed, it’s the place where my greatest wish in all the world came utterly true in a way I’ll never forget. Hoo-ha, happy ending!
-Signed, Zora.
Page: