This week’s challenge is to write a story, limerick or poem on the subject of:
Dreams
Last week’s challenge was to write about pets. You sent in some entertaining pieces. Here are a few:
Here’s a witty limerick from Keith Channing:
When a friend had to go to UK
She said, “Can my pups with you stay?”
We said, “What’s two more?
It’ll only make four.”
So now w’re outnumbered – hooray!
Kevin has written an amusing limerick:
There was a young man called Nile
Who stole my pet crocodile.
I felt very sad
For this poor young lad
While the crocodile he did smile …
Jason Moody will raise a smile with his quartet:
I’m Dad to a dog we call Boomer
He’s no friend of the local pet groomer
He sheds all his hair
Lets it fill the house air
A moulter ? I wish we’d known sooner!
–
Brian sat, tail thrashing the couch
His pose, an elaborate slouch
His human came home
So he let out a moan
As she opened his favourite food pouch.
–
His claws punched through her new jeans
This illicited rude words and a scream
She leapt to her feet
In the air flew poor Pete
But he landed and licked himself clean.
–
Jimmy threw Bobbys stick quite a way
Convinced he’d retrieve it to play
But Bobby ran to the right
Gave a granny a fright
And misbehaved the rest of the day.
And here’s a great piece of prose from Martin Strike:
FURBY
I smile as I make the final click. There; my cat now had his own Facebook page: Furby Phillips, with the cutest photo of him playing with a ball of wool as his profile picture. I think of how much my friends are going to love it.
I’m admiring my work and quirky sense of humour when there is a ping, and Furby already has a friend request – just like that! I’m amazed this can happen so quickly. It says it’s from Feline09, with a picture of a cat, his face largely covered by dark glasses. I laugh and click to accept it, which reveals an underlying text message:
‘Fite. Tonite. No prizzoners.’
I am shocked – at the spelling of course, but at who would send such a disturbing message? I look down at Furby lying on his cushion, licking his paw. I am deciding how to reply, if at all, when another friend request pops up. It’s another cat, this time wearing a balaclava.
‘Yor ded meete.’
I’m trying to work out whether ‘meete’ is intended as an invitation or as deceased animal tissue, when another request comes up. I think it’s from a canary. It looks like Mrs Rogers’ Joey from number 17, but I can’t be sure as his eyes have been pixelated. The name Jailbird69 offers no more clues other than someone’s warped sense of humour.
Over the next half hour, a dozen more requests come, mainly cats – all heavily disguised, but also a couple of dogs making threats against him and his kittens, past and future. My poor Furby, sitting there, rubbing the back of his ear with this paw in that irresistible way of his, oblivious to all this hatred.
I’m scared to let him out and move silently into the kitchen, bending to quietly turn the dial on the catflap to ‘lock’.
‘What do you think you are doing? Bitch.’
It’s Furby – he must have sensed what I’m up to and is watching me from the doorway.
‘It’s for your own protection,’ I offer, knowing that he’s not going to be impressed. He isn’t.
‘You remember what happened last time you pulled this kind of stunt don’t you?’
‘The cushions. No Furby. Please -not the new cushions.’
‘Then set the blinkin’ flap to ‘open’, or it’ll be cushion time again. Get it?’
Reluctantly I obey – I have no real option. Furby slinks arrogantly across to the cat flap.
‘Wh-Where are you going?’
‘You don’t need to know,’ he answers without even looking at me.
‘Furby!’ I call in despair, but in a leap and a moment he is gone, the clu-clunk noise of the flap closing behind him.
I hate it when he leaves me this way.
Later on and I’m still worried about him when a thought enters my mind. That time that I came down that morning and found my hair extensions and empty lipstick by the computer – perhaps it wasn’t my ex after all.
***
Photo credit: quotesgram.com
Esther Chilton 
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