now this is what we should call golden

chip

CAMPING IN BUNDEENA WITH CAROLINE, BRONTE, JESS, STEF, EMMA, AND SARAH

 

A bunny hopped over the fence in the middle of the night. The farm dog saw her move and followed, curious as to where the bunny might go. Together dog and bunny wandered through the empty moonlit town.

Dog limped slightly, meaning bunny had to slow her hops to keep pace with him. Although the absence of people was a relief, there remained something distinctly sinister about the silence.

It pervaded down to the tips of the toes and up to the slight points of their ears. A ginger cat walked by, stopped briefly, then seemed to shiver before darting away. An owl fluttered down into a nearby tree, coughed, and said, “Owl miss you.” “That’s too creepy for me,” the cat said.

Then it kept on hearing itself speak, even after it had finished using its mouth. It said, “Deep fried cats taste yummy. More golden even than real chips.”

“At times there is a dislocating mouthfeel because of the hair, but you just need to chew hard and hopefully the hot oil has crunched the follicles up enough for them to crackle quite pleasantly amongst the molars. Yum.”

The ginger cat abruptly paused. She felt saddened, regretting that her wisdom teeth had been extracted 3 months prior. How they would be missed by the molars. Now she understood the trauma of her owner Suzi- they’d spent many late nights together discussing Suzi’s woeful teeth.

Suzi had had braces when she was a child. Her straight-toothed friends mocked her in the cinemas, their white pearly teeth catching popcorn as they threw the kernels up into the air. Some would land on Suzi’s lap, buttery and tempting, but her mum would yell if she came home with them stuck in her braces. Now she could catch 32 in a row in front of the mirror, a grin on her face.

But one day while practicing she noticed a large lettuce leaf wedged in her teeth; a factor far less grin-worthy, for she had only just returned from her coffee date with dynamite dan. What a sexy beast.

He made you feel quite weak at the knees. And when he sang! It was no secret that dynamite dan could sing like a mockingbird in the morning. How she wished that he would sing to her every morning upon waking and every evening before bed!

And eventually he did- even followed a strict vocal health diet of no chips etc., so his voice sounded like a scattering of wildflowers along the path to sleeplandia.

Onwards and outwards he went, his voice spreading in spirals dropping roots into the earth which wormed deeper and wider, becoming shelter for some little worms along the way. His head bowed.

The worms ate away at his heart. He died. He was happy in death.

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