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  • #2844

    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves


      Well trained by the dictates of his religion, Luigi was unaccustomed to listening to his intuition (it was the work of the devil and the weakness of his sinful self, he believed), but as he mopped up the spilled coffee, he had an impulse so strong that he was unable to control it, and picked the book up and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He checked his watch ~ what! it was 7:57 already! Where had the time gone? Five minutes later he emerged into the rosy glow of the early morning sunshine, making his way accross the square to the cafe where he customarily had coffee after his night shift at the Library. The occupants of the tents in the square were rustling about inside the tents, some of the early risers were sitting on folding chairs brewing up coffee on primus camping stoves. As Petronella poked her tousled head out of her tent, dreams of banana puddings in polystyrene cups still in her head, an old man shuffled past. A flock of pigeons swooped down at that moment, causing the old man to lurch. A book slid to the ground from under his jacket but he didn’t notice as he carried on accross the square. Petronella picked the book up, and retreated back into her tent.


      Fwick’s bladder was boiling, and pressing him for a release. That was that little minute of inattention that cost him the equally little spider, and nearly his life.

      While he was blaming and swearing at the bitter butter, he had not noticed that the amount of butter he’d prepared wouldn’t nearly have been enough to bread the spider, since the spider had already ingested the mighty yeast —as much by an insane curiosity as by bouts of bloody hunger— and as it happens, the yeast was starting to take effect.

      As the weather was still a tad on the cold side in Peasland, there was a sane amount of logs piled up against the stove, which was roaring in delight well-fed as it was. It was giving the little spider ideas, as well as a newfound strength and breadth (and some beard too, but it didn’t really matter… yet, at least).

      So while Fwick was moaning of delight at emptying said bladder into the loo, a bloody blunder was looming more than he could see.

      The little spider started to outgrow the little matchbox, which ceded without much resistance, nor any noise.
      The middle-sized spider then started to outgrow the table, which in turn ceded in a mild crack.
      Finally, the big-sized spider now dying for a breakfast the size of a cow jumped by the window which jarred at the impact and finally, as all objects learn in good time when dealing with the spider, ceded to release the hungry bearded nine-eyed now-not-so-little deadly spider with a squeaking mwahahing voice.

      That was the voice of the spider by the way, not that of the window, which didn’t have a voice to start with, even in Peasland.


        “It’s the Interjection Intersection, TOOT TOOT coming through!” Baked Bean called gaily, holding her wine glass aloft as she squeezed through the crowd of revellers.

        “Gotta get some more of those Kwon Tum Fizz Sticks, TOOT TOOT! Coming through!”

        Baked Bean Barb was more than a little tipsy, but so was everyone else at Bea and Leonora’s Day of the Dead gathering. The Boulder Moving Party had had to be cancelled, due to the rain, but many of the guests had arrived anyway and the cottage was packed.

        Bea was still cackling madly and having a hoot with the guests into the wee hours, but Leonora was beginning to fade in and out. Sitting next to the woodstove, she closed her eyes, random snippets of conversations wafting through her mind interspersed with snatches of dreams.

        “…it’s the blanket prediction festival today…”

        “…they all say the same sling…”

        “…its The Absolute Sling!”

        “…not that there is some portals, or there isn’t any portals, not that it’s any predictions or any non-prediction, but you see, the watermelons are better than orange in the new energy…”

        “…cakes are great Bea, what are they called?”

        Yuki Buns they are, and that’s an Araili Tart…French recipe actually…the Armelle Caramel isn’t French though, dunno where….”

        Someone snorted with laughter and said “I had Ogean Porridge for breakfast this morning…”

        “…bloody porridge, man, you’re in Spain now, you should be eating Paella Patel…”

        “Fran Fritters and Baruch Kebabs for me, mate, I like Obarbecued best…”

        “…Kai Jon Prawns and Creole Opancakes…”

        Hoots of laughter: “…oh a mergence…”

        “…Frags Legs…”

        “Take one aspect of Araili and one eye of Oba….
        One pinch of Snoot…”

        “…a tablesnoot…”

        “…and a cup of glukenitch droppings…”

        “Not that much!!”

        “Here, have some banoonanawananas and badulnuts” Bea said, passing round a bowl of, well, banoonanawananas and badulnuts. “Anyone for Oonatchos?”

        All this talk of food was making Leonora hungry. She rubbed her eyes and made her way into the kitchen.


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