sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

A small shadow flitted across the Sun.

"This doesn't bode well," thought George with a puzzled look on his face, as George was a rather ill and irresponsibly thought out character.
Of course, what George didn't know was that his name was supposed to initially be Felipe, and he was supposed to be a Spanish flamenco dancer that sometimes paid the rent by washing windows.
Or, truth be told, was a window-washer who sometimes, completely unbidden and usually in crowded public places where such behaviour isn't entirely sensible, would flamenco dance.
This didn't matter a whole lot, though, as his name wound up being George, and he lost the thought and preparation that had gone into the character that would have been known as Felipe, the Spanish flamenco dancer. He possibly retained a little bit, as he wore a frilly shirt (for which he received a lot of teasing and generally avoided crowds of more than one person), and tended to salivate upon hearing castanets (a rare, if Pavlovian-esque occurence, as he lived in Leeds, but his reaction never failed to frighten little children. Though the children could just as well have been frightened by the sound of the castanets, which are hardly ever played with aplomb in Leeds, or the general northern reaches of the British Isles.).

George, possibly irrationally, ducked, and attempted to follow the shadow across the Sun (which, yes, had already flitted, but it was the last place he'd seen the shadow, and so he looked there first, and, as he'd looked directly at the Sun, anyway, he couldn't very well see much of anything, except big, blotchy, black spots, so he was really just left crouching down on the ground, with his eyes turned towards the big blotchy black spots and more specifically, the big blotchy black spots where he remembered the sky to be (and a little bit of which he could see through the undulating blobs (which were aforementioned as big blotchy black spots).

Which is how he remained, regaining his sight only to lose it again when he realised he was looking directly at the Sun again once his vision cleared off the blobs, until later in the day.
That was when the ghost of Tom Jones (of the Fielding novel, not the singer, as, by all accounts, he's still alive, and most certainly not Irish) happened by and gained his eternal freedom by pulling George's frilly shirt over his head and tugging him into the nearest mud puddle (which was nearly dried, seeing as it'd been sunny all day).

disclaimer:
The small shadow, by the way, turned out to be only a small little sparrow.

And it didn't bode well, indeed. (Nor does the Sun really ever shine in Leeds, we're just a pack of lies this week.)

And kids, don't go looking directly at the Sun.


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				Slippery When Hyper
		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		A small shadow flitted across the Sun. "This doesn't bode well," thought George with a puzzled look on his face, as George was a rather ill and irresponsibly thought out character. Of course, what George didn't know was that his name was supposed to initially be Felipe, and he was supposed to be a Spanish flamenco dancer that sometimes paid the rent by washing windows. Or, truth be told, was a window-washer who sometimes, completely unbidden and usually in crowded public places where such behaviour isn't entirely sensible, would flamenco dance. This didn't matter a whole lot, though, as his name wound up being George, and he lost the thought and preparation that had gone into the character that would have been known as Felipe, the Spanish flamenco dancer. He possibly retained a little bit, as he wore a frilly shirt (for which he received a lot of teasing and generally avoided crowds of more than one person), and tended to salivate upon hearing castanets (a rare, if Pavlovian-esque occurence, as he lived in Leeds, but his reaction never failed to frighten little children. Though the children could just as well have been frightened by the sound of the castanets, which are hardly ever played with aplomb in Leeds, or the general northern reaches of the British Isles.). George, possibly irrationally, ducked, and attempted to follow the shadow across the Sun (which, yes, had already flitted, but it was the last place he'd seen the shadow, and so he looked there first, and, as he'd looked directly at the Sun, anyway, he couldn't very well see much of anything, except big, blotchy, black spots, so he was really just left crouching down on the ground, with his eyes turned towards the big blotchy black spots and more specifically, the big blotchy black spots where he remembered the sky to be (and a little bit of which he could see through the undulating blobs (which were aforementioned as big blotchy black spots). Which is how he remained, regaining his sight only to lose it again when he realised he was looking directly at the Sun again once his vision cleared off the blobs, until later in the day. That was when the ghost of Tom Jones (of the Fielding novel, not the singer, as, by all accounts, he's still alive, and most certainly not Irish) happened by and gained his eternal freedom by pulling George's frilly shirt over his head and tugging him into the nearest mud puddle (which was nearly dried, seeing as it'd been sunny all day). disclaimer: The small shadow, by the way, turned out to be only a small little sparrow. And it didn't bode well, indeed. (Nor does the Sun really ever shine in Leeds, we're just a pack of lies this week.) And kids, don't go looking directly at the Sun.

Slippery When Hyper