How stressful! Conchita was worried sick. Her husband was away for the afternoon and she was a mess. When he came home she had to tell him; she was in love with another man and she was going off with him. His name was Rex. As far as Conchita was concerned, her marriage was over.
Conchita’s husband arrived home. “Honey,” he said, “I’ve something to tell you. I went to the doctor’s this afternoon and I’ve got cancer. It’s terminal. I’ve been given three weeks at the most.”
It was one of those delightful discoveries. Professor Maybelle Wiggins was cleaning out a long overdue laboratory freezer when she discovered an unused collection of fertilized human eggs. Maybelle worked out that they could be well over a hundred years old. She wondered if they were still usable. If so, they were just what she was looking for. This was going to be a no strings attached pregnancy.
The first couple of implants “didn’t take”, but the third happily “took off”. Nine months later, Maybelle had a healthy baby boy! Congratulations! Maybelle discovered with a great deal of research that the biological father had passed on ninety-two years earlier, and the biological mother had died well-nigh fifty years ago aged eighty-three. The arrival of her little one was a modern marvel.
It was such a shame, years later, when he became a tyrant and exterminated ninety-two percent of the population.
There’s more than one way to spell Wraymound, said Jihll, and I have named my newborn, Ykjhasdbvsdflafaskjlhbsadf – which is pronounced “Ramon”. It will distinguish her from all the other Ramons in the world, and could easily become the feminine form of the boy’s name.
I’m having a difficult time in deciding on a middle name. I was thinking of Lhsadfkjhksadfijhwuefkljhsadf. What do you think? Sound-wise it seems to go well with Ykjhasdbvsdflafaskjlhbsadf. Ykjhasdbvsdflafaskjlhbsadf Lhsadfkjhksadfijhwuefkljhsadf Yjhgljhgwqrfkjhgwqhgwer-Blkjxzclhjsfadkjj sounds pretty attractive to me. I’m gravitating towards it.
Now I just have to convince my partner. She wanted to name the baby “Betty”. If she wants a Betty she should make one of her own.
You are such a lucky cat! said Leopold to his cat, Heidi.
Heidi was sitting on Leopold’s lap while Leopold typed.
You, said Leopold, will become a famous cat! You will be known all over the world as the cat that sat on my lap while I typed out my poetic masterpieces. You will be mentioned in every biography of me, and perhaps, if you’re lucky, there’ll be a photo. In fact, I shall take a photograph now of you on my lap. There! Perhaps such a photo might even grace the cover of my volume of poetry.
With a great deal of breathless anticipation, Leopold sent his collection of poems to a publisher. Perhaps, suggested Leopold, the cover could include a picture of my cat? The poems were rejected. Who buys poetry books these days, asked the publisher?
And then the cat got stuck up a tree and had to be rescued by the fire brigade. They hoisted a great big ladder in front of a huge assembled crowd. The press was there. Heidi’s photo was splashed all over the front page. It didn’t even say who the cat belonged to.
Everyone knew that Tommy wasn’t really an undercover agent, although he pretended to be. He would come into a room sometimes and say something enigmatic, like “The robin is on the bough” or “The curling rod is no good for a doctors’ conference”. He clearly intended these to sound like some secret code that only an anonymous agent in the room would understand. It was a bit silly but kind of fun! Most went along with it.
People would go up to Tommy and tell him all sorts of things. If they knew he was a real spy they would’ve made their facts up to put him off the scent. But since he wasn’t a real spy, but only a pretend, they frequently related who had stolen what and who avoided their income tax and where the best place was to get illegal drugs and so on.
That was why Tommy was in fact the most successful undercover agent in the country.
Jim White thought he might as well write a science fiction book. He did it, no trouble. It was published. The critics panned it. They said they’d never read anything so stupidly unscientific. If you’re going to write science fiction it still has to be based on scientific reality, they said.
Jim White laughed behind the palm of his hand. He was an undercover alien. He knew earthlings wouldn’t catch up with his science for another two and a half thousand years.
Melissa was going through the Seed Catalogue; at least that is what it was called. The photographs in it were magnificent! There were all colours and shapes and sizes. It was impossible to decide what to get. She would’ve liked to have got almost them all, but that was impossible! They were absolutely gorgeous. Of course, the expert photography helped.
Some were vegetables of course. She wasn’t looking for that. Some of the others looked too pink and prissy – frilly and silly, thought Melissa.
Space was the problem. If she had more room she could select more than one. But one it was. In the end she selected one with a reddish tinge. Delightful! Quite sexy, she thought. And besides, he was a famous concert pianist.