Tea and Crackers

💀 Daily Obit: Tea and Crackers 💀
He was cheesed off.
She’s completely crackers, painting with pin heads all bloody day, on tea bags no less.
He squared off – the confrontation brewing.
She sipped and smiled a hibiscus kiss at him.
You’re just a tempest, aren’t you love?
Cham’o’mil’ere ya, – have a cuppa –
As she split yet another tea bag, pinning it to the wall.
Daub hand she returned to her creations, whistling with the kettle.
He strangled her from behind, with the coffee grinder electric cord. In the ensuing struggle, her eyes bulging, he slipped on the slop pile of loose leaf tea, puddling on the floor, cracked his head on the granite counter’s edge – and was no more.
When questioned by police, Gypsy Rose Teazle, caretaker of the flats at 66 Brewster’s lane, replied, “I knew it would come to this, something not quite right with the miss, and poor lad just wantin’ a cup of coffee, with his mornin’ kiss – I foresaw this me self, read it in the leaves.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

Stiff and Utter Nonsense

She brambled about the kitchen, stitching time, considering if her adventures were all in her mind. She was testy and munchy, and was considering crunching on something, but what – grumpy in pain, her mind took a left turn and jumped over the moon.
What if, what if – she licked a spliff and lit up, she beat out time on the counter with a silver spoon.
Would the pain of falling off the wall allow her to crawl back up this hill? – no king’s horses or king’s men,
“oh smack it Jack, you naughty boy” _ _ _ _ _ _

where to venture, where to go, let the mirror reflect your soul


Alice pointed and pouted out, “nothing worth going on about in Miss Mary Mary’s garden, it’s all rather boring and contrarian, best to walk wild -” she looked at me, “don’t you agree?”
I for my mind, had knelt down and was frowning as I spied a blue caterpillar, who was rolling a paper thin leaf, in a rose sheath, so I asked him – “is it worth the tumble?”
He stretched his feelers and wiggled his spines, smiled a broad smile, “all in great time, quite the delight, you will soon bee” – he passed me the smoke, I took a hit, swallowed hard, looked to the sky in exhalation, the mists roses as the shadows froze, a watermelon smile lighting my face.

I noticed a big fat goose waddling by – without so much as a “by your leave”

And my eyes they danced, as I was entranced, as the wild roses petalled themselves undone, burlesque strip tease with charming ease, falling to the light summer’s breeze, as a band of blue caterpillars played smokey blues.
I looked up from the show and watched the steam clouds grow, jumping this ship shop in shape, trawling my way to the sea shore – casting about for shells and glass, but – “guh – ugh – what’s this? a fat thick slug? ugh – no no, you can’t hug me” – I squealed and jumped back 3 steps, as a shadow crashed my head, the blackest of crows rustling in-line swoop and swallow-tailed up, with a crunching gulp – alighting in a tall pine. “Fine dining this” he cawed to me, “you’ll bee-see – and yes, you talk to angels, they call you by name -” he nodded sagely at me, and winged a wink, “ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall.”

But then a pull and tug danced at my wriggling toes, burying themselves in the sand, crabby legged landing, and “why, hello, who’s this -” zip and zizz – a rainbow blue bodied steed came to land on her upper arch – fluttered a most charming silver smile – “embark my fair lady queen, we will ride the sail of the sea skies” – and before my eyes this dragonfly grew, and I shrank to a size – little one, but not small – a two-handed posey, of peonies all blousy drowsy – and with a watermelon sweet smile, I slipped into his stream, as he sizzle-kicked, up we booted, in the thrust and rush of a mounted ride.

Oh how we rode – she atop his hard-sleek body, her eyes wide as sails, when she heard his words carry on above his wings, “let yourself fly off the rails” – so she clamped her thighs tighter and rocked forward a lick, and stretched herself erect and let her arms slip – straight out like arrows true – wings – oh wings – I have wings – and on they flew, racing higher and higher, she felt her blue buttons slip a notch, open and fall – mother of pearls – tumbling seeds, dropped and sprouted white wildflower daisies – so far down below, yet still they flew up to dizzying heights, – she split herself wide – laughed a lightning flash trill in a thundercloud head – spilled herself into a feathery realm, a hushing blushed bed, so soft and cradling, a fine place to rest her head – evermore.


I bramble about the kitchen, stitching time, scratching and pecking, hunting for the eggs, bacon and hash, toast and marmalade, – yes, this would suit me just fine this mid-summer’s eve, a dash of salt and pepper, fantasy needs feeding – and birds of a feather must doff their yellow starred mad hatter’s chapeau -“oh Rubia oh Rubia, how you do glow, by what unearthly moon light will you sow – so ’tis madness this, oh non sense be true, to thine own heart, wish upon a star, a silver spoon and a fat goose.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver #127: nursery rhyme rifts 

image of Rubia tinctorum (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Rubia tinctorum: Rubia is a genus of flowering plants in the Rubiaceae family. It is commonly known as madder and is a source of red dye. 


Out-takes and Doppelgängers

I was sitting and thinking on – when there was a ruckus outside my door, a pounding upon the timbers confirmed, and with a splintering crack and rush, they came tumbling in, landing in a heap, at my feet.

I blinked, once, then again, and not to my great surprise, watched as they settled themselves upright. Assembled before me, standing in the twilight, the largest of the lot, cleared his throat, and in a low rumbling, grumbling voice, spoke:

“You’re the stitchwitchy wordy,” and a small, tinny voiced piped in, “nerdy” – “yeah thanks Franklin, that’s all we need right now,” the large one glared at the long whiskered mouse, and turned back to me, “woman, right? We got the right place? And you’re about to re-write another Fairy Tale for a Weaver’s prompt?”

I relaxed, sat back and stretched into my long-necked chair, and carefully considered the group at my feet – 3 mice, one whom I believed was blind, he had dark glasses and a white cane, and 4 fruit, of the rounded, orange and rather large sized kind – pumpkins, which was a bit odd, considering it was Spring and not Fall. “Yup, I’m her, so what’s up fellas? What brings you here?”

They shuffled a bit closer and the largest pumpkin spoke again, “We’re here to tell ya, we’re staging a Wild Cat Strike,” at which 2 of the 3 mice, shivered and squeaked.

“Guys, get a grip, there’s no cat here, so it’a all good.” I looked to the Big Pumpkin, he hadn’t offered his name, and nodded my head, “Wild Cat Strike? Go on – ”

“Yeah, the thing of it is, we’re fed up with all this ditzing about because of Crimparella’s mad whims and flights of fancy, and you know, it’s never cool to be pulled out of the patch by that damn old Hag, and hey, you know, we have rights and feelings, and it’s noted in our trade union’s collective agreement, Section 5.7239, Article 44 dash 88, subsection 6 -”

I raised my hand and waved my pen, wand-like with a flourish, and said, “Look guys, I don’t need the particulars, but what’s this got to do with me. Seems to me you need to take this up with your union rep – and hey, what’s with the name ‘Crimparella’?”

“Hey! Look Lady, we came here in good faith – you’re about to re-write – we need to cut this off at the head – before it gets out of hand – again,” the smallest of the pumpkins pucked up, in a pie-sliced tone –

“Jack, chill man, no need to be so dicey with the fine layyy-dee,” the blind mouse purred in a smooth jazzy voice, which, I admit, did surprise me.

“Yeah, well, as I was saying,” continued the Big Pumpkin, “this whole shtick is running us thin, in the patch, and the mice, they ain’t too happy either. As for Crimpie? See, that’s where you folks on the outside have no clue, none at all, as to the real nature of “your beloved” characters – and us, leather-bound as we are, on the inside? We live the out-takes and scenes, and it ain’t so picture perfect, ya know.”

I cocked an eyebrow and nodded with a sly smile, “I bet. Anyhow, so what do you want?”

“Look, the thing is, Crimpie is throwing another hissy fit, wanting to go to the Spring Ball, but the mice are busy Saturday night and we -”

“Yeah, man, we’re playing the Mouse Trap,” the blind one purred again, “Me and the boys are burning it down on the wrong side of town, and there just ain’t no time for being hitched to this story scene .” The other mice twitched their whiskers and squeaked with delight, humming a few bars to some tune. “I tell ya, the place is going to be s-m-o-king – you come on out and see us honey, tell the doorman you’re friends of the band, – ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ – and that Rickie issued a p-urr-s-o-nal invitation,” Rickie cooed in my direction.

“Yeah, I was saying,” the Big Pumpkin butt in, ” we ALL have plans – and lives. Me and the fellas are playing the Rolling Rutabagas – ”

I raised my eyebrow, “Another bar?”

“Nope, they’re our rivals – bowling tournament, ya know – it’s a ‘death match’ – and everyone this side of the wild stroll is going to be out, rooting for us. So Crimpie’s latest whim? It’s a total no show – no go – no way – hence, the Wild Cat Strike.”

“So, whaddya say honey, you on side with us?” The Big Pumpkin asked, as 2 of the 3 mice started humming, “we’re not gonna take it, no we ain’t gonna take it” – and before I could answer, there was another crash through the door. An Old Hag, dressed in a red hooded cloak, which was oddly fluttery at her back, landed in a crumpled heap, at my feet.

“Ellie? What the hell happened to you?” The Big Pumpkin asked, “and what’s with the big green frog-wart on your face – and what? lacy fairy wings?”

She hiccuped a breath, looked up through her dreadlocked hair, and muttered, “spell backfired and rebounded , caught myself in the mirror – this bloody overtime and doubling as doppelgängers is murder.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver: reverse/naughty fairy tales


No Child, Little Man

Hush child hush, come close, nanny is here, listening, why the tears?
Look how you shake and tremble like a birch leaf blowing in the wind –
what ‘s that you mumble,
Look up at me child,
let those beautiful brown eyes smile like the yellow sun –
no need to be afraid now, gather yourself together and speak quietly, nanny is listening, so dry your tears

What’s that you whisper, it’s hard to be sure between your sniffles and hiccups, shush shush, yes child, I know it hurts when you can’t catch your breath,
but calm yourself little one, and go on, tell nanny what’s wrong –

What’s that you stutter? speak clearly, yes you can, for you are a little man, and nothing scares little men, so compose yourself, stand up straight and tell me what’s wrong –

No – no, we will have no more of those fanciful small fibs, and little white lies, good little boys tell the truth and don’t spread tall tales, of what now? skirted scutting whumple blunks? did you say?

No – No, no more about gollywobbles and scooting marbly bobbles, or dished fishcraclamps, with angry red pinchers and steel tempered skewered hooks, claws and jaws – no, no more nonsense about firthergilled frothy lipped monsters lying in wait under your bed –

What’s that you say? you’re not telling fibs, these aren’t the same stories, you repeat night after day, when you don’t want to be a good little man and let sleep slip you away to sugar dreams – it must be that you aren’t saying your prayers just right, did you pray to the Lord and God before bed tonight?

No, listen to nanny, I have told you time and time again, there are no purple puckered thicketyrickets or white sloops slinking dinking with cold groping grabbing feelers shshushing ooze, snailing a trail up the blankets, looking to smother your angel face –

No Child, Little Man, there are NO such things as go bump in the night –

What’s that you whisper and stutter about ballcockerels who poke at the mattress springs, or dixie dock mockrels who shrilly laugh under your bed, until you wake screaming with such fright, and when I come running and turn on the light find nothing but polished floor?

No little man, it does no good to tell fibs or little white lies and nanny isn’t pleased –
what’s that you say, stop sniffling and whistling through your baby teeth, it’s hard to understand –

What mumblings are these, you spit in excited fear, stop child – no more lies – what are fanged flamhsures? What of scaled wings and smelly sock breath? And garbleblablasters with fire pit eyes – all such wild imaginings – and I tell you, there are NO such things as mad masters who imprison the moon – why look outside child and see for yourself, is she crying or dying?

No small child, listen well to nanny for I tell the truth, this is utter nonsense, and I tell you again, there are NO  such things that go bump in the night, now wash your face and get back to bed, and god forbid you rise again before morning light – and no, you may not have Mr. Bear or Miss Peep honey, for they aren’t real friends, and a child of 3 has no need of a stuffed teddy bear or woolly sheep, little man.

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver: making sense of the nonsense: flamhsures

I love nonsense words, they spark so much creativity & flamhsures has totally captured my imagination 

Peter Bagged Himself A ….?


What if Peter hadn’t picked a peck of pickled peppers?

What if Peter wasn’t a piper, but rather played the mandolin, and one fine summer’s day, was strolling through the hay, sweet smelling fields, ready for the plucking, and had stopped to admire, the squire’s daughter, thumbing an early ripening plum?

His interest piqued, he felt a pricking on his skin, as a gentle breeze wafted over him, and suddenly dizzy with sin, he felt a longing and stirring at the sight of her flowing golden hair, and billowing dress, as she strained and reached high up, over her head, her breasts running the cups of her bodice in lace – why, there was a flush and rush of a pink staining blush creeping heat along Peter’s face.

Feeling the tickling stare of a stranger drawing near, this fair girl turned, her dress caught in the swirling carousel of her hips, and pouty lipped and plying, causally sidled closer to Peter, and shly asked, “Kind sir, would you oblige?”

So where indeed is the peck of pickled peppers that Peter didn’t pick?

The wandering ministral did bow low, and most courteously, and graciously obliged the young lady.

As to what happened later that day, in the sweet smelling fields, only this is certain: Peter played with his pickle and pecked the fair rosy cheeked girl, and left her with a bun in the oven, and a hot cross father.

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver: what if?