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A short story of textured life
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  Little Meredith Gruber Strolled casually into the sweet-shop. Carrie
the Cat hopped in after her, her skull brimming over with rice
pudding. Meredith was served by the six foot dwarf. She brought
singing chocolate, happy death chewing gum and sweet granite
hand-grenades, the kind that are purple and taste like the colour of
music. They crawled out of the store, which was starting to bob and
swim around them and bounced down the marshmallow street, waving to
the break-dancing dairy cows that chuckled over the hills. Everything
was beautiful. They slid to just the right spot. It was a traffic
island of infinite wine-saturation. The grass was yellow and blue.
They sat down to eat their candy  and watch the clowns killing
themselves over and over again. It was a lovely day, the lemonade sun
hanged high in the nitric acid. A small cardigan with a moustache and
shoulder pads gibbered by. The chocolate began to scream when they
bit into it, but they ate it anyway, the milk-chocolate blood
dribbling down their chins. They talked for a while about the tensile
strength of liver and bon-bons, then set off for their home, an
aluminium carrot in the magic cactus factory. When they were half way
home, over the Sultan's underground jam-jar vaults something unusual
happened: Meredith coughed-up a giant clockwork head-louse, which
coughed-up Tangiers, which coughed-up ribbon, which coughed-up
tarmac, which coughed-up a magic missile. They knew it was magic,
because it turned inside-out and chirped with wild abandon.

  They were so surprised that they chewed neutron razor blades and
bled liquid satin for three whole days. "WOW,WOW,WOO! A magic
missile!" said Meredith. "Cool! Now we can fly and kill like God, you
bitch!" said Carrie. So They climbed aboard and kicked it into life
with their star-spangled winkle-pickers. Everything was still
beautiful.

  They fizzed along at great speed through the nitric sky, cutting
through the purple clouds of ether-syrup and bowler hats in drag.
They were up to ludicrous speeds when they passed the brass band that
exploded in slow motion. The inflatable vinyl scottie dogs nipped
their bubbling heels. Quotes from "The Importance Of Being Ernest"
were being beamed into their skulls by John Cleese. They flopped and
whined over the bone-orchards as the glowing harvesters sang "Nice
One Cyril", and the pickled glue-sticks galloped after a herd of wild
mangos. Burning crab apples were shrivelling in the distance when
they sighted their target:

  The Cucumber-Robin's butterscotch storage depot. It was a large
toffee that pulsed orange and green in the sub-sonic, non-existent
moonlight. "By flippery, I think we're Cilla Black now! Excelsior!"
screamed Carrie. They went down and hit it dead-centre at
mould-rubbing speed. It partially exploded one week to the left in
sugar-coated balls of flame and bass guitar strings. The other half
deflated like a burst nun, spewing forth  illiterate hamster tails
and sweet-smelling cupboards of star dust. A month before all this
occurred they choked to death on their own vanity.
It's still beautiful out there.

{spr:l07}
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