Mellow Yellow Episode 29: Why Is It Called Mellow Yellow?

MASTER (skipping into LENA’s room): Guess what?

LENA: WHAT?! (pulls out her earbuds, annoyed, with her annoying annoyed face)

MASTER (his face lighting up, as well as his fluffy hat): It’s the 29th episode! Can you believe it?

LENA (rolling her eyes): How could I forget? (She drawls on with a sarcastic tone) The 29th episode of… (she pauses and her eyes widen)…Mellow Yellow?

MASTER is in an animal-like trance, his hat on his back like a turtle shell. He chuckles, ignoring LENA in his joy. LENA briefly wonders why it’s called Mellow Yellow.

LENA: Master? Are you okay?

KYR (suddenly appearing): Master’s favorite number is twenty-nine. He goes back to his caveman instincts on the 29th of each month.

LENA (raising an eyebrow): It’s the 22nd.

KYR: Precisely.

LENA (shaking her head and deciding to move on): Kyr…you’re pretty smart. Do you know why our show is called Mellow Yellow?

KYR: You don’t know? (laughs)

UNKNOWN VOICES: We know!

The unknown voices are revealed to be TICK and TOCK, the two sticking their heads out the door.

LENA (hungry for answers): Why?

TOCK: Precisely.

TICK falls asleep.

MASTER (revived from his trance): You guys don’t know anything?

LENA (screaming): PRECISELY! Now, why is it called Mellow Yellow?

MASTER: According to Wikipedia, Mello Yello is a highly caffeinated, sugar-filled, citrus drink. As a group we are also a highly caffeinated, sugar-filled citrus drink, so to avoid copyright violations I named this thing Mellow Yellow.

TICK, TOCK, LENA, and KYR: That makes sense.

Jackie Part 3

The Giant’s P.O.V.

Oh! I peered through the eye-spot, watching a girl with a certain interest, It’s her.

“Jackie.” The word played with my tongue. I decided I liked the name, much how I appreciate the light pink flowers and the blooming scents around me. Red hair was how I remembered her, a short flash of red down to her shoulders, followed by a white shirt and overalls that had a rough texture to them, as I scanned my way down. She was a bit taller than when I encountered her last, with bread crumbs freckling her already dotted cheeks. Bored, she was throwing the last of her bread crumbs into a fire, finished with her morning meal.

The eye spot seemed to open from the chimney, in a bird’s eye view, wonderfully convenient, for this was the first time it had opened upon the girl. Particularly, I’ve been interested in her for many years, after her incident. It was amazing how humans could still stand after such crisis and problems for being such a small race. I knew for sure it was her— after all, who else could have such a rosy red appearance?

In my stalking, I heard the odd sound of lost magic: a whimsical whimper of waterfalling energy. Blue rays of light drip dropped, from my fingertips into the cloudy floor which I rested on everyday. The magic flickered under the egg white of the clouds like underground lighting.

“Am I doing too much?” I asked, frightened, staring into the waves of angry flowers. I was being too selfish again, keeping my magic from their leaves. It was better to share with others.

Their scent overtook my senses, the thick vanilla coating my lips, branching out slowly as the vines flew out towards me. They hastily grew over my figure, restraining any further action. The once peaceful set of vines quickly buckled into me, harsh thorns piercing into my skin and bone. The sensation tickled, like tiny monsters. Pain whittled in all parts of my body.

Thump! I flopped over, power draining from my consciousness, clouds bouncing upward with my descent. With panic, I scoured my cloud, overgrown with stringy green vines, blushing blurbs of blooming and budding flowers, in a sprawling spiral pattern. All suctioning my power away, ready to get me.

“Sorry.” I let my magic flow out, tending to my garden.

The vines edged away, flowers fluttering back to their sprawling legged arrangement, colors vibrant against the blank puffy cloudscape. Everything was back to normal again as if nothing had ever happened. Except for the low whistles of the blue light aggressively pumping itself back into the flowers again. A warning. Grumpily, I took a patch of the overgrowth and pushed it in my mouth, slurping it down so the awful somewhat bittersweet taste couldn’t reach my tastebuds. Vines dangled, flowers fell at my distasteful chews, and I crossed my arms, my face swelling in anger.

-By watching the antics of humans I have seemed to adopt some traits.

Magic was what kept me alive, along with the plants in the jungle like meadow—but sometimes I took too much for myself. It had so much more capabilities than just simple nutrition, such as using the middle of a flower as a telescope to watch people go by.

“Please…” I put my hands together like a begging human , “Today is a day that people congregate around for the Storytelling of Jack, and I really want to see!” I let a part of my hair fall on my blue skinned complexion, sighing. The vines hadn’t even moved in response!

“Please?” My eyes bubbled up. They loosened—however slightly, in approval. That was a good answer for me!

Blue light coursed through my body, from the very ends of my frayed white hair to the pear shape of my hips, manifested in a pleasurable moan. My hands cascaded down the bump of my neck, energy satisfyingly quenching my dry throat after the short absence of magical waves. Glowing bright, my eyes transformed into a new, ambitious shade of blue.

Feeling a breeze of relief, I gently grabbed another flower, caressing its petals. It glowed with blue light, the light drawing blue lines upon them. My thumb brushed its yellow center, dashing it with a bit of magic. Slowly, the flower telescope opened up, this time from a flower’s perspective, low down on the beanstalk.

Her back faced me, letting me take in all the mystical bits of her springy red hair, small natural ringlets formed towards the bottom. As red as ever. For some reason the thought made me want to find out more. I love the color red, fiery, ambitious, frightful, fierce, passionate… the list goes on and on. Of course, I just had to be blue! I gazed down at my knees, dark blue in its pigment and my hair also a lighter, but equally blue shade.

From behind Jackie’s figure, I saw a tiny boy. Who was this? My interest rocketed to him, his stubborn nose and a mischievous smile, strings of brown emerging from his head. And what did he want from Jackie? He appeared to be holding her hand and was certainly out of breath, huffing and puffing.

Fortunately, Jackie seemed to be in her own world, nostrils widening, (We have all heard “eyes widening” before! Why not give it a change?) to smell the scent of vanilla, whirling in the air. She enjoyed my scent! Following her nose, she ended up staring into my eyes hypnotically, through the eyespot, ready to catch a fresh whiff.

I scrambled back, a flustered blush swaying on my cheeks. Magic, having its repercussions, blasted from my fingers to the flower I was using as a telescope. Boom! It exploded, yellow pollen and seeds blanketing my bosom, as chaotic vines grew up from there. In panic, I frantically tore out the crazy plants, trying to minimize the magic I recently reloaded myself with.

Magic does two things: it either reacts with magic quickly and easily, or reacts with normal items slowly and with hard spells. – a note taken from the Witch’s Handbook.

As I tore at the flowers, more and more grew in an endless cycle, the overwhelming scent that I used to love burning the insides of my nose. They continued growing, vines swiftly edging up my torso. If I didn’t do something quickly, the plants would encase me! I shuddered at that thought, gagging at the smell as a barricade of flowers bloomed above my chest.

“Stop!” I giggled, a single leaf tickling my belly button, “Stop it!” My giggles escalated to painful stomach hollers, “hWOoo… If you don’t stop?” I was getting drunk on the scent— that’s what I get, I guess, for making such a simple mistake. They climbed up further, into strands of my hair, and circling around my neck. Everything was turning foggy, pink blobs of flowers fluttering in my face like lethal butterflies, with delusions intoxicating my mind, painting it with ink.

“STOP!” A ragged yell pranced from the corners of my mouth.

BOOM! Magic roared from up above. BANG! BOOSH!

The flowers stopped growing, doused in an infinite amount of magic. Even the cloud seemed to be exhausted from my explosion. I was out of breath, holding onto everything I could manage to grasp, every part of my body pulsing with pain, my eyes hurting the most, now dulled of their once vibrant color.  Naughtily, I gave a tired smirk, thinking, It’s all okay! If I could just…

I blacked out.

Part 1

Part 2

-Spinette Spyder

Jackie

I saw that Arachnid was putting her story A Dreamer in the Darkness up here, so I decided to put up my story Jackie here too. I hope you enjoy it!

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me—- I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

The girl’s shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe, quickening my departure.


Part 2


©SPINETTE SPYDER

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 3 (Short Story)

Part 1

Part 2


I’m curled up on the cold, cement floor of a small, windowless room in the basement. After Blue left, Shabby pulled me inside, his grip even tighter than Blue’s, and shut the door. I tried to memorize the stars. It felt like the last time I’d see the sky. He didn’t talk to me at all, he just shoved me in this little room and left. I didn’t get any food and my stomach is growling.

I have nightmares when I finally fall into the darkness that has been tugging on me, tearing me to shreds.

 

Three days have passed, and I’ve started to fall into a routine. Twice a day, I’m given bowls of cold oatmeal that slide down my throat like an eel. It’s always slipped in through a panel on the door. The food is disgusting, but I still eat it. Every other time I’m given food, I make a nick on my sword with a rusty nail I found to keep track of the days that have passed. There’s a small bathroom attached to this room where I bathe and get my water. My sword is always clutched tightly in my hand.

No one has come to rescue me. I burst into tears quite often. Obviously, I’m upset I’m still here, but I’m more upset that I didn’t tell Mother and Father that I love them before they left. I can’t help but think that was goodbye forever and I did it wrong.

Once, a long time ago, Mother told me, “Don’t ever get into a stranger’s car.” I forgot and I’m cursing myself.

 

It’s my birthday today. I’m finally actually six. My sword tells me three months have passed. I cannot remember the color of Father’s eyes or the smell of Mother’s hair, but my tears have dried up. There’s nothing left. I’m having trouble sleeping. Whatever brief moments of rest I do manage to capture are plagued by dreams of dark shapes that try to steal me away and rip me apart as Mother and Father watch. There are tears, but nothing can be done.

 

I’ve been staring at the wall for a few minutes, or possibly a couple hours, when I hear the door open. The sound claws at my ears until they bleed scarlet and I drown in my moon-warmed blood.

I don’t turn around, so Shabby walks across the room until he’s in front of the wall. I haven’t seen another human in around 94 days. Shabby doesn’t quite fit his name anymore. He’s in much better hygiene. He’s taken a shower and cut his hair and shaved and his teeth are still white and straight. He’s wearing new clothing.

He smiles at me in a way that tells me I’ve just seen evil’s face. It’s so much worse than poisoned candy. He’s hiding something behind his back and won’t let me see it. I don’t think I want to.

“I’ve drained all the ransom money I could from your dear parents, so you’re of no use to me anymore,” he sneers. He sees a treasure to take when he looks at me. I shiver.

He steps forward and his smile is scary and I don’t know what he’s got behind his back and I’m scared. I scream and swing my sword.

My left-hand shudders as the sword hits his head and he stumbles, tripping over a crate, and he falls and groans. What was in his hand has fallen and it’s a gun.

I freeze, but I have to act now, before he can hurt me. I run forward, fast enough that you cannot see anything of me but my essence, and I grab the keys to my dungeon from a hook on Shabby’s pocket. He lunges at me, but he’s disoriented and I’m fast and I skitter out of his way, but I stumble and fall to the cold stone floor. I scramble up and hurry to the thick door trapping me here, away from the moon, and shove the key into the hole and dart outside and slam the door shut behind me, locking Shabby inside. I can feel the vibrations through the door as he bangs on it.

I run up the stairs to the main floor and I make it as far as the porch when my knees give up and the tears come. They don’t stop until water fills my lungs and steals all my air, but Mother isn’t here and Shabby’s in the basement and I have to get far away. I clutch my sword and I dry my tears on my dirty sleeve and I march on.

The house isn’t in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a tiny neighborhood and there are street lights and other signs of life. Really, the house looks like every other house here, even though it’s actually a prison.

I’ve been walking for awhile when I see another person at a street corner, and I quicken my pace despite my dying muscles. As I approach the man on the corner, I slow down. Can I trust him? But then I see he’s wearing a uniform and he has a sirencar next to him. He’s an officer. Mother says that I can trust officers above all other adults. They don’t count as strangers. I’m still wary. I’ve learned my lesson.

I tap his elbow and he glances down at me and stares.

“I’ve just run away from a dungeon,” I tell him, pointing at the direction from which I’ve come. “There’s a man who stole me and he tried to hurt me with a gun.”

He blinks three more times then says in an awed voice, “You’re Sam Warner. Everyone thought you were dead.” But I am clearly alive.

 

The officer said something into his walkie-talkie and more officers came. They asked me to tell them what the house and Shabby and Blue looked like. Now, I’m in the backseat of a sirencar with a dark-haired officer lady. She says she’s going to bring me to my parents.

***

Mother, Father, and I sit by the fireplace and we watch the snowflakes drift outside like puffy miniature clouds. I sip my hot chocolate, burning my tongue. I love it anyway.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 2 (Short Story)

Part 1


I stare at him. My mind has gone blank. Mother and Father are so strong. Who could hurt them? There’s urgency in his eyes. He keeps glancing around my house and then back outside. I can tell he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s an adult. I can trust adults, so he must be telling the truth, and my parents are in danger. I still haven’t grasped this impossible possibility.

“I’ll be a moment,” I say. “I need to grab something to help.” He gestures for me to be quick.

I run upstairs and rummage through my toy chest, scattering my things throughout my room. I find what I need and tug it out. It’s a wooden sword Father made last summer after he read The Three Musketeers to me.

As I’m walking down the sweeping staircase, I notice the man reaching toward the oil painting on the wall. I slow down for a moment, but I shake away any doubts. He’s an adult, and adults always do what’s right.

Father says I walk like a cat, my steps near-silent, but now I stomp down the rest of the stairs. The man is startled, but he quickly collects himself. He clears his throat and says, “Shall we go, Sam?” For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows my name. I tell myself it’s nothing.

 

His car is a couple houses down from mine. He could’ve parked it closer; it’s not as if we have guests over in the middle of the night. The man’s car is a rusty truck with two rows of seats. It looks like his clothing: old and well-used.

The man opens the back door and motions for me to get inside. I stare at him. He looks at me like I’m insane and asks, scowling slightly, “What?” He’s getting more hurried. I can tell by the way his brow is furrowed. He keeps glancing left and right.

“There’s no car seat,” I say.

“Car seats aren’t important,” he replies. I disagree, but I’m not supposed to talk back. I get into the car, but without a car seat, I can’t see out the window. It’s too high up.

We drive for twenty minutes and it seems like the man, who I’ve decided to call Blue for his clothing, is trying to hit every pothole in the road. Each bump and break is jarring and I slam against the seat belt. I shove my sword inside my jacket to protect it from the rough ride.

When we finally stop, Blue opens the car door and my eyes trace up the long gravel drive to a ghostly house in the midst of nothing. The vinyl is a putrid shade of gray, like a graveyard’s tears. I look at Blue, bewildered, and say, “This isn’t the restaurant.” My parents had taken me there with them before. It was nice with flickering candles and a sweet smell, although I never found out what the scent was.

Blue ignores me and grabs my forearm. He’s hurting me, but I fail to wriggle from his grasp. I have to half-run to keep up with Blue’s long strides as he leads me up the long gravel drive.

 

I stumble on the porch steps, but Blue yanks me forward. He pounds on the door, so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t go through the frail wood. When no one answers, he knocks on the door again, this time so loud that I would shield my ears if Blue weren’t holding my arm so tightly.

The door is opened by a glowering man who’s even shabbier than Blue. He’s narrow and he’s got long and scraggly hair that’s in dire need of a brush. When his grayish eyes find my face, the frown disappears and is replaced with a crooked grin. His teeth are extremely white and they clash with the rest of him. I decide to call him Shabby in my head.

Shabby is still looking at me and I shrink under his searing gaze. He asks Blue, “Is this the Warner kid?” Blue nods and Shabby gives him money.

Blue hands me to Shabby then heads down the long gravel drive and gets in his truck and drives away. I suddenly want him to come back. I want him to take me back to evil Emmica.

Part 3


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 1 (Short Story)

Hey guys! I recently wrote a short story, but it’s far too long to put in one post because humans have short attention spans, so I’m going to break it up into a couple parts. As you are reading it, the beginning may tickle your memory because I did post the first page or so when the story was still a fledgling, but now it has been completed and is somewhat different.


Ihug my blue teddy bear, Zachy, tightly as my parents prepare to leave. Mother says his name is actually Zachary, but my little two-year-old tongue couldn’t say so many syllables and he became Zachy from then on.I like “Zachary” much better. It sounds more refined, but Zachy will forever be “Zachy.” It’s too late to change it.

My parents are going on a date tonight. I asked them not to. It’s cold and cloudy tonight, and I can tell I’m going to have nightmares. Father said I’m a strong boy and as long as I have Zachy and Emmica I can do anything. I said I’d be brave for him.

Mother hands Emmica, my babysitter, some money. She smiles at them. Her smile is like poisoned candy. I don’t like her, but my parents think she is lovely. Mother says to trust Emmica, that she’ll always do what’s best for me.

Emmica is a pretty girl, like the kind you see on TV. She has straight, white teeth and green eyes and dark brown hair. One streak is pink and blue. I haven’t figured out how she makes her hair colorful. I’ve tried concentrating, but my hair has not turned orange yet. My floppy yellow hair always stays floppy and yellow no matter how much I try to change it.

My parents hug me and then leave. I flinch as the door slams, locking me inside with Emmica. As soon as the front door is shut, Emmica’s pleasant smile morphs into a scowl. I grimace. She doesn’t like to be here, but she also loves to collect money. She says, her voice sweet, “If you need anything, I’ll be at Izzy’s,” and heads out the door. I flinch again as it closes.

I gape at where she used to be. I don’t think Emmica is supposed to leave me alone, as I’m only five—nearly six—and children are always supposed to be with someone older. I’ll tell Mother about her when they get back. Maybe then I’ll get a new babysitter who has a pleasant smile.

Izzy lives close by and Emmica likes her much more than me. I don’t like Izzy. Sometimes, she plays loud music at night and makes it hard to sleep. I can feel it echo in my bones.

Emmica has never left before, and I’m alone for the first time. Usually, she never pays attention to me, but she stays with me. I’m scared, but I’m almost six. I can do things by myself and I’m strong.

I’m hungry. I may be almost-six and I may be able to do things by myself and I may be strong, but I cannot cook. It’s already an hour past my dinner time and the door doesn’t open. Mother gave Emmica a key a few weeks ago, so she shouldn’t need my help to come inside.

I’m at war with myself. I want to find Emmica because I want food, but I’m not supposed to leave by myself. My hunger wins. I grab my sweater and a set of keys from the closet and I head outside. My friend, the moon, is hidden by heavy clouds that hang low in the dark sky. A biting breeze blows litter and dead leaves across my feet. I shiver.

I walk down the porch steps and the driveway until I’m on the sidewalk. I run, unsettled by the night, next door to Izzy’s house and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The music is playing today and I can feel the porch shaking under my feet. I count 120 seconds then ring the bell again. There are neon lights in the windows behind the curtains.

This time Emmica answers. The door flies open and she leans against the frame. There’s a fading smirk on her electric-blue lips and her eyes are glittering. She’s wearing a short maroon dress and shoes that make her look like a giraffe. I have to tilt my head back to see her face. Music pounds behind her and I can hear people shouting.

“Well?” she asks. The happiness has drained from her face and has been replaced with her usual expression. It looks like she’s eaten a sour grape.

“I’m hungry.”

She smiles that ugly smile and says, “You’re a smart boy, Sammy, right? You can figure it out.” I wince. No one but Mother is allowed to call me Sammy.

She slams the door in my face.

Emmica told me I could figure this out. I look at my kitchen and think it’s improbable.I’m not allowed to touch the knives or the oven or the microwave and I don’t know how to cook.

I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. There’s milk, but I can’t make cereal since the milk jug is too heavy for me to lift. The freezer is too high for me to reach and I’m not supposed to stand on the chairs since I fell one time and broke my arm.

The clock says it’s past my bedtime. I sigh, giving the kitchen one last long look before heading upstairs to brush my teeth and head to bed.

I spit into the sink and when I look up, I see that I’m frowning, so I make a silly face and smile. Smiling is so much more pleasant than frowning unless you smile like Emmica.

I’ve just slid between the freezingcovers when the doorbell rings. It must be Emmica. She’d want to return before Mother and Father come back, but she has a key. She shouldn’t need to ring the bell, but maybe she left her key at home.

I slip out of bed and pad down the stairs, but I stop before reaching the door. Usually, Mother or Father answers the door and they always look through the peephole, but I can’t reach it without standing on a chair. But if it’s Emmica and she doesn’t have a key I need to open the door for her because she can’t spend the next three or four hours on the porch and I need her to make me food.

The door bows open and it isn’t Emmica standing on the other side of the threshold. The street lamp on the far side of the road flickers, turning the tall man in front of me into a shadow. He takes up too much space.I have to take a step back to breathe.

The street lamp flickers for a bit longer, caught between light and darkness. It chooses darkness, but the light from inside casts a warm glow on the man’s face.

“Hello,” I say. It comes out meeker than I intended, so I try again, stronger.

The man is strangely dressed in a baby blue suit. Father always wears black or white, or if he’s feeling spontaneous, a color like vanilla pudding. The suit is sharp and creased in all the right places, but it’s old. It’s worn so thoroughly in some places there’s only thread and I can almost see his white shirt beneath. The edges of the sleeves are frayed enough that it looks like he’s decided to tape his dog’s shed fur to the edges of his sleeves. The man doesn’t have a beard, but he doesn’t not have a beard either.

He says, “Quick, come with me, Sam. Your parents are in danger. Only you can save them.”

Part 2


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

Spirals

Spirals are really scary shapes. I’m not sure why or how, but they just send the heebie jeebies down my spine. Endless staircases are the same way— I never know what’s at the end, but that uncertainty is what scares me. I can never find anything definite with these things, nothing solid I know would be shocking.

I remember this specific Super Mario 64 game on my DS. There was an endless staircase leading up to Bowser’s lair, and I vividly recall my fear after seeing the same portraits lining the terribly animated 3D walls. A wall of black seemed to hold my Mario character back ominously. Needless to say, I had a lot of nightmares about that night.

So the other day, I was looking up a little something about insanity. Besides random workout videos with Dwayne Johnson-type muscle men and girls whose stomachs represent pieces of paper, a particular thing showed up. It was an odd picture of a weird lady with a spiraled face.

I searched up the picture, stumbling across this horror manga artist by the name of Junji Ito. The spiral face lady came from his manga, Uzumaki, about a man who slowly becomes obsessed with spirals.

Soon, everything around him becomes a spiral from a girl’s hair, to the ground, all the way to even him. This abstract shape gradually shaves its way into every single thing on page.

It may not seem as scary in words, but trust me, this story gets me trembling. Also, Junji Ito has a collection of a lot of short scary stories, one of my favorites detailing an ice cream man.

Imagine this: It’s a dark night, and you, a single father, is walking down the street with your small child. You see a big group of children smiling, gathered together as you hear a peculiar tone you’ve never heard before.

“Daddy!” Your child says, pulling you towards the congregation, “Ice cream! Can I have some ice cream?”

You see a white truck wheel up, with a smiling man giving ice cream to a girl with petite curls. Your son practically drags you towards the truck as you stare at man inside. He seems perfect, almost too perfect, like a member of boy band. His eyelashes are long, feminine, and his hair compliments his ice cream vendor-hat as if he has been wearing that hat all his life. Of course, you shrug it off, realizing that your kid is lost in the crowd.

You ask the mothers of the other children, busy swooning over the ice cream man. “Where is my child?”

One mother responds, “He’ll come back after he takes a ride! You’re boy is new, but he’ll love it.”

You, not completely knowing what she meant, wait for your son. Then the ice cream man opens the door of his truck and the kids barrel in like animals, eyes struck with instinct. “Wait!” You object, squealing children drowning your voice out, “Where are you taking them?”

An old lady replies this time, “He is just taking them for a ride around the neighborhood.”

The truck comes back as expected, but you see something different in your child’s smile. Ice cream paints his hands and shirt in a way that feels off, as if you were teetering on a tightrope trying to balance.

To be continued. (Not really)

Mellow Yellow Episode 19: Pool Party

In CYRA’s homely cottage, setting up a kiddie pool

CYRA: (whipping LUR) All done! I think your blood has filled up the pool!

LUR (weakly): Get me out of here.

CYRA: Yay! I’m going to change into my swimsuit, okay? You wait here.

LUR: I’m tied up! (struggles with the ropes)

 

***

 

CYRA: I’m back! (Now dressed in a green bikini, and is untying LUR)

LUR: What is this? A pool party?

CYRA: Yeah! I got the drinks too! (holds up a wine glass filled with blood. ZHAN’s eyeball floats on top) Want one?

LUR: No.

CYRA: Not even with these silver noodles he had clenched in his hands? (slurps TICK’s hair) They are quite tasty.

LUR: NO.

CYRA: Don’t you want to have some fun? (Puts hand on his shoulder)

LUR: … (Flashbacking wildly)

CYRA: Hello? Lur? (waving her hands frantically in front of his face) Oh well, I guess I could just look in that bag that you have…

LUR: … (Lost in the land of Flashback)

CYRA: (rummaging through his bag) Let’s see… bullets, an array of forks from different countries that don’t exist, Slugventures, and a single by Katy Perry. (Rubbing dust off the cover) Ooooh! California Gurls! This is perfect!

LUR: (back from his journey) Hey! What are you doing?

CYRA places the disk into a conveniently placed disk player.

California Gurls plays

LUR (Singing along): CALIFORNIA GURLS, WE’RE UNDENIABLE, DAISY DUKES… (Looks from his swim trousers to her bikini frantically)

CYRA: EIFFEL TOWERS ON TOP! (An Eiffel Tower grows out of the ground behind them)

QUINN is in the bushes with popsicles, ready to fire, along with his army men, JOHN, and LENA.

CYRA and LUR: FUN, FRESH, FIERCE, SO HOT. WE’LL—

QUINN: FIREEEEEWEEE! (JOHN fires the popsicles, but they melt in the air)

CYRA and LUR: MELT YOUR POPSICLE!

QUINN: So this is the true power of the Fire Nation.

JOHN: Yes, they are almost untouchable!

LENA: But it looks like they are having a lot of fun. Look at those yummy snacks they have!

JOHN: Let’s go!

JOHN and LENA rip off their clothing (they are wearing bathing suits), running toward the pool party, leaving QUINN all alone.

QUINN: Hello darkness, my old friend.

LENA: (wearing a blue bathing suit, settling down in the blood pool) Hey guys, what’cha up to?

JOHN: Yeah. What up? (In red swim trousers)

LUR: (with an idiotic smile) The Eiffel Tower!

JOHN’s eyes narrow.

CYRA sucks on ZHAN’s disembodied finger

JOHN: You are supposed to say “the ceiling” (Disgraced, he leaves the pool, tripping over the finished glasses of ZHAN’s blood)

LENA: I guess it’s just us now, huh?

LUR: Hey! I just realized now that I can escape!

CYRA takes LUR, folds him into a sandwich, and sits on him. She finishes him off with a dagger to the cheek.

LUR: Ow.

LENA: (Petrified) What? Is this stuff not fruit punch?

CYRA grabs LENA’s swimming suit, folds her into a burrito, and uses her as a footrest. She slurps her ZHAN-blood desperately trying to fit the eyeball into her mouth.

JOHN: (In the bushes with QUINN) The Fire Nation is truly despicable.

QUINN: Yes. (bites Bread Snadwhich three)

 

~~~END

 

Boredom

Boredom is infectious, there is no doubt about that. Once a single person catches it, it just goes on to someone else, little by little, before the whole place is painted with the expression of “meh”.

As the certified doctor I am, I will diagnose symptoms of this viral disease and finally find an end to the epidemic.

Let’s start with an example:

A group of girls are sitting on a bed. They talk up a storm, singing even with cheeks red, drunk on the fun they are having. Then one girl says she needs to go and eat dinner. Once she comes back, everyone looks at her with jaded, grey and boring expressions while two tap along on their phones and the other is staring blankly at a wall. The girl who went to go eat (let’s call her Spinette) pales, seeing the disease take over her dear friends.

Her eyes dart around the room, searching for the boredom starter. First, her pupils land on the phones resting like kings in two girls’ soft hands. But then she remembers singing a Kpop song with her friend with earbuds and a phone. She looks closer at one of the songs her friends are listening to.

Dean’s instagram. The song details the separation one feels when on his phone from the rest of the world and how miserable he feels. However, Spinette loves the song. Why would it plunge anyone into boredom?

Next, her eyes land on Fishy, the other girl on her phone. She is doing a role-play sort of game that involves long texts of story. Jokingly, Spinette waggles eyebrows and says,”You texting your boyfriend?” She adds an unhinged “rrr” to the sentence to make it extra flirtatious.

“No! I’m doing a role-playing game,” Fishy cries.

“I heard he’s pretty hot.”

Ignore.

“I’m quite jealous,” then she says, “You doing it tonight?”

“Oh Morgan Freeman, Spinette! You need holy water!” She freaks out at my implied statement and throws a post onto Wattpads that I need holy water, whatever that is.

And boredom ensues.

So Spinette keeps on joking, hoping it would take the boredom away, but it doesn’t go, not even after she leaves.

Ever since that incident (which was yesterday) I have been determined to find the root of boredom and cure it.

After extensive research I have discovered that boredom blossoms by routine, by doing something over and over again, or keeping things the same. The two constant things in that bedroom were the Hamilton music playing on the speakers and the arrangement of which we were on the bed. So Trapezoid (one staring at the wall) must have gotten bored by the Hamilton music or the arrangement and that spread onto to Mew (one listening to Dean’s instagram) and that spread onto to Fishy.

But it didn’t spread to me.

I was lying down next Fishy, one of the people infected. I was touching her skin! (She’s really warm) But it didn’t spread.

Maybe it was because I was making jokes. By this logic, joking around, keeping oneself occupied is sort of vaccine. It’s like a flu shot people get at the doctors. You get a flu shot to prevent the flu, not to cure it.

So keep yourself occupied this winter to chase away the boredom!

Gardening

Dear nonexistent readers,

Due to the impending doom and sneaky approach of midterms, it seems as though the days have inexplicably shrunk.

Apologies to all who have been here long enough to have read this post before, but I will be reposting an old post.

 

Midterms are over and this is the last old post! We’ll have new content starting Monday (and Mellow Yellow on Sunday).

 

I am probably the least qualified person to answer your nonexistent gardening questions, but I’m literate and I’ve got a keyboard, so I can write about gardening!

When I said, “I am probably the least qualified person to answer your nonexistent gardening questions,” you probably didn’t wonder why I am probably the least qualified person to answer your nonexistent gardening questions, but I will answer the question you didn’t wonder about anyway after the colon:

I am probably the least qualified person to answer your nonexistent gardening questions because I am the worst gardener I know (then again, I don’t know that many gardeners. I don’t even know that many people to begin with…). I have had many pet plants (which I mentioned in my previous post, My Pet Cactus) and all of them (other than my cactus) have suffered the same morose fate: death (in which I had a hand).

My first pet plants (that I can remember, at least) were some tomato plants that I got for my fifth-grade science fair project (“for” meaning I used the tomato plant in the science fair project. I did not get a tomato plant as a present for my science fair project. That would be idiotic, as science fair projects are inanimate objects and thus cannot feel emotions, including the happiness that makes giving gifts worthwhile for some). I forgot to water these tomato plants and they shriveled up and died from neglect.

My next plants were some Morning Glories that I kept in a little terra cotta pot and grew from a seed (I grew the tomatoes from a seed as well). But once they sprouted, I kept pulling off the leaves and they eventually died. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to pull off the leaves because I wanted my Morning Glories to flourish more than anything else, and pulling off the leaves seems very counterproductive.

After that, I made a lovely fairy garden with pretty light green plants. I watered it too much and it rotted from the inside out.

My Pet Moths

Dear nonexistent readers,

Due to the impending doom and sneaky approach of midterms, it seems as though the days have inexplicably shrunk.

Apologies to all who have been here long enough to have read this post before, but I will be reposting an old post.

 

When I said that my only pets were plants, I lied. Unintentionally, of course. I also had some pet moths.

Way back a long time ago, in kindergarten to be specific, everyone in my class received a board game. I mean, technically it was a board game, but it was printed on regular printing paper, which, as the name implies, is used for printing upon. Usually. Printing paper has a plethora of other uses too, which I’m sure you can use your own imagination to figure out.

So anyway, returning to the point at hand, my lovely kindergarten teacher gave us all a board game and Mexican Jumping Beans. I was entranced by the beans. My five-year-old mind could not process the magic of legumes that moved on their own. Usually, legumes require people to move them.

We were not told that Mexican Jumping Beans are not, in fact, beans, but rather they are moth larvae.

So I brought four or five moth larvae home, convinced that they were magical beans.

For a few minutes, days, or weeks, I can’t remember, we all played this lovely board game with my magical beans. It was brilliant.

Then, one morning, I wake up, as most people do on most mornings, and I decided to play my lovely board game. I was very surprised to find that the little plastic box where I kept my magic beans were full of moths.

 

(Not) Brushing Your Hair

When I was little, I absolutely detested (and rarely) brushed my hair. It was so painful. Like stabbing porcupines into your skull. (I had the fine-toothed combs.) I was (and am) one to favor comfort over fanciness, so I never brushed my hair. Maybe once a month if it was a lucky one.

I didn’t like it when my mother brushed my hair for me because it always hurt more so than if I were to brush my own hair. Therefore, when I was forced by my mother to brush my hair, I would pick the lesser of the two evils and brush my own hair.

But I never did it well enough. I never really tried. So it always looked the same before and after I brushed it and my mother would insist that she do it again herself.

I never did well enough because “brushing hair well=pain,” so I shirked my brushing duties and usually only brushed the top layer of my hair.

So I thought of a new idea to get rid of the accursed knots in my hair.

I would brush my hair myself, and whenever I came across a knot, I cut it out.

Eventually, I did learn to like brushing my hair.

In fact, I loved it.

This sudden change in attitude to hair-brushing was due to a very special brush. It came in a craft kit and it was a little compact brush that you could put sequins on. AND THIS BRUSH DIDN’T HURT!

I was mystified. I was entranced. I was lost in the magical depths of this hairbrush.

I would spend all my waking hours brushing my hair until it was really soft and shiny and people commented, “How lovely. I wish I could have hair as lustrous as yours. What shampoo are you using?”. (I didn’t use shampoo that often.)

But this time of ignorant bliss was coming to a close.

We went on vacation.

I was in the bathroom, brushing my hair when the brush flew out of my hand and fell into the toilet.

Lending Possessions

When I read Spinette’s post How To Create a Difficult Time For A Person Who Wants to Borrow Your Pencil, one memory kept flitting through my head and I thought, Hey, I could write a post about that!

Since I hadn’t yet read Spinette’s post at the time of this story, I sadly did not take revenge on this person. Let’s call him Kevin.

So Kevin was a tall, lanky guy. He always reminded me of Kilorn from Red Queen. Have you ever noticed how tall people sometimes have a hunch from always having to literally look down upon people whilst communicating to make eye contact?

Anyway, he sat to my right, which is the important part of the story, and he asked me for a writing utensil. Now, I had my pencil case open and right in front of me so I couldn’t claim to not to have any extras. I didn’t particularly want to share my writing utensils either because ever since Luke bit my pink crayon in half in second grade, I’ve been reluctant to lend my possessions.

So, by the rules of politeness, I was forced to lend Kevin my purple gel pen.

I should’ve blatantly lied.

Throughout the course of the class, I noticed him chewing on the end of my pen.

Suffice it to say that I inconspicuously disposed of it.

Jackie- A Short Story

If can’t already guess by the title, this post will be about a story of mine.

Description:

A retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk!

Kicking rocks along the street, boots worn, and short ginger colored hair-this is the outward look of a girl with many secrets, most of which she doesn’t even know.

Jackie is a rough seventeen year old girl, hardened by the loss of her parents. Today is the ceremony of the Storytelling of Jack, a warrior who protected her quaint village from an aggressive giant. Every year the once poor orphaned boy is celebrated for his achievements. Jackie looks on to Jack for inspiration, and dreams to climb up the Beanstalk just like him. But she can’t. Or at least, not without some help.

Magic flowing to the tips of her fingers, huddled over a leather notebook, scrambling with a ink pen is the Giant, so far in the sky. She sits on her cloud, sighing as she nostalgically feels something she cannot remember. It’s fluid like soothing water, but passionately burning like fire at same time, a magic she can’t even begin to place. The memories are so palpable, yet so far away—a still emptiness.

Who will fill the void in her heart?

(I know, it’s corny)

Prologue: 

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me— I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

A shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry that I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe,  quickening my departure.

 

So… that’s my story! If you want to check out more of it, the story is on Wattpad too. I hope you guys will like it!

 

 

 

 

Second Grade Stories

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land that is fairly close, there lived a second grader named Arachnid Weaver.

Arachnid was an averagely normal second grader; average height, average amount of letters in her name, average age (7-years-old).

Now, Arachnid Weaver was different in one way. She had misread the school supply list, so instead of having one 48-pack of crayons, she had two 24-packs of crayons. Arachnid, being a kind second-grader, shared her crayons with her friend, Ava, who hadn’t read the supply list at all and had no crayons. What was Arachnid to do with her second pack of crayons anyway?

Ava was a very nice second grader as well, and she treated her friend’s crayons with respect, using them for coloring purposes and nothing else. Since Arachnid always got her crayons back at the end of the day all in one piece, she didn’t mind Ava using her crayons.

Until one day.

Ava returned her crayons to Arachnid as usual, but when she opened the box, one of the crayons were missing.

“What happened to the bubblegum pink?” Arachnid asked. Maybe it had rolled under the table or Ava had misplaced it.

Ava held out a decapitated bubblegum pink crayon in her palm.

Little Arachnid took the pieces and clutched them in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. “What happened?”

Ava replied, “I dared Luke to bite the pink crayon in half.”

Arachnid yelped and thrust the potentially slobbery crayons into the nearby Luke’s hands and stomped away, ferociously wiping her eyes and mumbling, “You can keep it.”

It is safe to say that Arachnid refrained from sharing her crayons from then on for the fear of saliva contaminating her possessions.

And they didn’t live happily ever after.

The end.

Mellow Yellow Episode 6: Filler

John, Lena, and Ara are in the living room

John: Let’s go to the beach!

Lena: NO.

John: Why ever not?

Lena: (Slaps him across the face) NO. I want to know what happens next to Tick, Tock, Zhan, and Quinn. Weren’t you just captivated by that drama?

John: But I want to go to the beach!

Lena: (second blow) NO. This episode is just a time waster!

Ara: (on her phone) Same. I want to know what happens next in ESCAPE, but the author is not adding anything! I’m trying to text Chloe for information, but she’s not telling me! She says I’ve betrayed her and I’m dead and to never speak to her again.

Lena: (Suddenly interested) How about Jay?

Ara: Oh, Jay is human all of a sudden and now the two have a child. Honestly, I don’t ship it.

Lena: IS THIS FILLER EPISODE THAT LONG!? WE ARE JUST WASTING TIME! END THIS THING RIGHT NOW!

John: I still want to go to the beach…

Lena: Fine. At least I will have something to slap there.

 

~~~END

 

Lena: What? It ends right now! Come on!

 

~~~~~~~ENNDNDHDHDHHEHDHHD (Nothing happened. It’s a filler)

Halloween is Finally Here!

Halloween is finally here! The one day of the year where it is culturally acceptable to go door to door (often dressed as a maniac) and beg for candy. It’s my second favorite holiday, after my birthday, of course.

This year, Spinette is dressing up as a unicorn dressing up as Akatsuki.

I am going to wear a cape. Well, I’m going to be a huntress. They only had two options in my size at the store.

Spinette and I were planning to tell ghost stories for Halloween, but due to writer’s block and not planning things in advance and sheer laziness, I’m just going to direct you to this spooky story.

His story is probably spookier than anything I could come up with anyway. Note: All of my possibilities for my story revolved around cantaloupe.

So, instead of gracing you with a terrifying story that would cause you to pee your pants, I’m just going to define a bunch of different fears.

Androphobia- An abnormal fear of men.

Anatidaephobia- The fear of being watched by a duck.

Hylophobia- The fear of trees.

Omphalophobia- The fear of belly buttons.

Pogonophobia- The fear of beards.

Deipnophobia- The fear of dinner parties.

Genuphobia- The fear of knees.

Scriptophobia- The fear of writing in public.

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia- Fear of ze number 666 (Illuminati confirmed).

Sesquipedalophobia- The fear of long words. Would a person with this be afraid of “Sesquipedalophobia” and “Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia”?

Aulophobia- The fear of flutes.

Samhainophobia- A fear of Halloween.

Metrophobia- The fear of poetry.

Phobophobia- The fear of phobias.

 

How are you going to scare yourself this Halloween?

My Irrational Fears #4

This is probably the fourth My Irrational Fears post, but I may have lost count. I’m not sure and I don’t particularly care.

I strongly dislike walking into gymnasiums because I am afraid that I will be hit by falling basketballs.

This fear is not entirely unfounded. I have been hit on the head by falling basketballs about a fourth of the times that I decide to visit various gymnasiums.

This fear has been useful to me before. Once, my friend asked me to come to the gymnasium with her, but I refused because I was afraid that I would be hit by a falling basketball. She was hit in the face by a basketball and broke her tooth.

(Told you so.)

And plus, basketballs are red-orange. This isn’t a reason I’m afraid of them, it’s just a fact that they are red-orange.

To clarify, I am not afraid of basketballs when they stay still, only when someone throws one and I happen to be standing directly in the line of the parabola. Then I am afraid on my teeth’s behalf.

Revenge

I poke Spinette’s body in the side, making sure she is actually asleep in case her chainsaw-snores are actually a ruse. A rare smile blooms over my face as I contemplate the revenge I am about to take.

Spinette has recently dragged me to a party, as she does every so often.

It was not pretty.

I crouch down and let a beautiful spider climb onto my palm. I whisper to it, telling it what I want it to do. The spider descends on a silken thread from my hand to the floor to gather my other friends.

I slip out the front door and head to my house to wait for the scream…

Foopy the Fruit Fly

As mentioned in my post Gardening, I once had a fairy garden that I watered too much and drowned. The roots of my plant rotted from the inside out.

Well, many fruit flies were attracted to my fairy garden and they would swarm around my fairy garden, for what purpose, I have no idea. I was quite fond of one particular fruit fly and I dubbed it Foopy.

Obviously, I had no way to tell the difference between Foopy and every other fruit fly and thus many, many fruit flies were named Foopy, but one at a time, of course.

As Foopy was not one fruit fly (as I believed), but many, Foopy lived far past the average life expectancy of a fruit fly.

 

On the note of life expectancy, look up the immortal jellyfish. It is my favorite animal (aside from spiders, obviously).