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Chapter 4

The Story The Authors

And with that God rose up and with a clap of heavenly thunder called forth a tempest of fire which comsumed this sad collection of riven souls so completely that not even the vapour of an atom remained. And it was good. Ned

But the shrapnel was not about to give up so easily. It had made the leap to the spinal cord before, it could make the leap to the colon as well. The shrapnel gathered all the strength it possessed and at the very moment that God yanked old Mike's soul out of his body, causing the body to flop face down on the floor, the shrapnel made the great jump to the left which landed him square in the colon. Upon impact with the floor, Mike's body let out one final blast of gas which sent the shrapnel flying past the king of sphinctors and straight into the belly of the dwarf. cuddles (with some help from Happy Boy)

".....butter? Vashondra? Vashondra!?" Looking up from the swirling brownie mix Vashondra snapped out of an intoxicating reverie to find everyone looking at her in silence. Lydia repeated her request. "Vashondra hon', you ok? Could you please pass the butter?" Vashondra reached over and handed the waxpaper enclosed cube of saturated hydrocarbons to Lydia. She then returned to her search for a nail file. Perhaps she could use the knife sharpening stone. Like Pavlov's dogs the mere thought of the brownies made her salivary glands begin to water. ph

An hour passed. Outside, Lucille, the stonechat, broke horse-chestnuts open on a flat slab of wind-smoothed granite protruding from the earth, and scolded Desdemona, the magpie, whenever she passed, for her scandalous ways of a slut among the nests of the neighborhood. She whistled the old John's Children song as a pre-T.Rex, smooth-cheeked Marc Bolan had sung it -- Des-de-mona...Lift up your skirt and -- scream!
Inside the brownies were finally cool enough to eat. Vashondra cut meager slices for each of her friends, and with one deft flick of a spatula air-lifted a brownie comprising half the pan onto her own plate.
Her friends sighed, rolled their eyes; that they were used to this sort of behavior did not in any way negate the degree of pity they felt for poor Vashondra. She'd put on sixty-five pounds already this year, and it was only mid-May. It just had to stop.
This was perhaps the most popular topic of conversation among the other four whenever Vashondra was not around.
Other favorite topics included "Men and What Insincere Bastards They Really Are," "Do You Think He Likes Me?" and "I Finally Found My G-Spot."
Now, in V's kitchen, they picked at their midget brownies one rodentlike nibble at a time, while Vashondra devoured hers in vast whale-like inhalations, spraying showers of brown crumbs across the table like crickets.
"Owwwwwwwwwww, damn!" she suddenly exclaimed, drenching her friends in a veritable plague of saliva-sodden brownie particles.
"What, 'Shondra?" they implored her pale, wide-eyed countenance. "What is it? Are you choking? Is it a bone? Should one or more of us attempt to perform the Heimlich manuever, as it was demonstrated to us so many, many years ago, centuries it seems, back when we all lived in the forest and spent our days stringing garlands of flowers and our nights dancing upon toad-stools and sprinkling the smooth brows of sleeping human children with fairy-dust..."
She shook her head, swallowing hard several times in succession, and seeming to root quite dilligently around among the myriad rocky contours of her mouth with that great, fleshy, many-lobed appendage, her tongue, all with an expression of great concentration on her face. Finally, she spoke: "I think I -- I must have swallowed a filling. I'm sure I felt something metal go down my throat..."
The shrapnel, now safely yachting across the tempestuous surface of Vashondra's stomach, smiled as it took in the view.
Philip Welsh

Half-digested bits of this morning's ketchup-smothered steak and eggs and hash-browns and toast, mouthfuls of brownie, oily pools of coffee, a random lone peanut M&Ms bobbed on the easy waters of Vashonadra's stomach-acid. Gulls cried and wheedled in the salt-air, and off in the distance the shrapnel could hear the clanging of a ship's bell. none

The Story	The Authors
And with that God rose up and with a clap of heavenly thunder called forth a tempest of fire which comsumed this sad collection of riven souls so completely that not even the vapour of an atom remained. And it was good.	Ned
But the shrapnel was not about to give up so easily. It had made the leap to the spinal cord before, it could make the leap to the colon as well. The shrapnel gathered all the strength it possessed and at the very moment that God yanked old Mike's soul out of his body, causing the body to flop face down on the floor, the shrapnel made the great jump to the left which landed him square in the colon. Upon impact with the floor, Mike's body let out one final blast of gas which sent the shrapnel flying past the king of sphinctors and straight into the belly of the dwarf.	cuddles (with some help from Happy Boy)
".....butter? Vashondra? Vashondra!?" Looking up from the swirling brownie mix Vashondra snapped out of an intoxicating reverie to find everyone looking at her in silence. Lydia repeated her request. "Vashondra hon', you ok? Could you please pass the butter?" Vashondra reached over and handed the waxpaper enclosed cube of saturated hydrocarbons to Lydia. She then returned to her search for a nail file. Perhaps she could use the knife sharpening stone. Like Pavlov's dogs the mere thought of the brownies made her salivary glands begin to water.	ph
An hour passed. Outside, Lucille, the stonechat, broke horse-chestnuts open on a flat slab of wind-smoothed granite protruding from the earth, and scolded Desdemona, the magpie, whenever she passed, for her scandalous ways of a slut among the nests of the neighborhood. She whistled the old John's Children song as a pre-T.Rex, smooth-cheeked Marc Bolan had sung it -- Des-de-mona...Lift up your skirt and -- scream! Inside the brownies were finally cool enough to eat. Vashondra cut meager slices for each of her friends, and with one deft flick of a spatula air-lifted a brownie comprising half the pan onto her own plate. Her friends sighed, rolled their eyes; that they were used to this sort of behavior did not in any way negate the degree of pity they felt for poor Vashondra. She'd put on sixty-five pounds already this year, and it was only mid-May. It just had to stop. This was perhaps the most popular topic of conversation among the other four whenever Vashondra was not around. Other favorite topics included "Men and What Insincere Bastards They Really Are," "Do You Think He Likes Me?" and "I Finally Found My G-Spot." Now, in V's kitchen, they picked at their midget brownies one rodentlike nibble at a time, while Vashondra devoured hers in vast whale-like inhalations, spraying showers of brown crumbs across the table like crickets. "Owwwwwwwwwww, damn!" she suddenly exclaimed, drenching her friends in a veritable plague of saliva-sodden brownie particles. "What, 'Shondra?" they implored her pale, wide-eyed countenance. "What is it? Are you choking? Is it a bone? Should one or more of us attempt to perform the Heimlich manuever, as it was demonstrated to us so many, many years ago, centuries it seems, back when we all lived in the forest and spent our days stringing garlands of flowers and our nights dancing upon toad-stools and sprinkling the smooth brows of sleeping human children with fairy-dust..." She shook her head, swallowing hard several times in succession, and seeming to root quite dilligently around among the myriad rocky contours of her mouth with that great, fleshy, many-lobed appendage, her tongue, all with an expression of great concentration on her face. Finally, she spoke: "I think I -- I must have swallowed a filling. I'm sure I felt something metal go down my throat..." The shrapnel, now safely yachting across the tempestuous surface of Vashondra's stomach, smiled as it took in the view.	Philip Welsh
Half-digested bits of this morning's ketchup-smothered steak and eggs and hash-browns and toast, mouthfuls of brownie, oily pools of coffee, a random lone peanut M&Ms bobbed on the easy waters of Vashonadra's stomach-acid. Gulls cried and wheedled in the salt-air, and off in the distance the shrapnel could hear the clanging of a ship's bell.	none

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