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Week in and week out, we at the Rising Stars sit and brainstorm for new ways to bring you more fun and hilarity on your Thursdays. Last week, we struck a blank, and so, Sabrina decided to put her crazy hat on, and had everyone pass around bits of paper with random words and phrases on them, until each of us ended up with a nonsense sentence to write about. This week, we bring you the results so you can laugh at our misery. Enjoy!

Laughing is Beautiful

THEY were noisy, rude little nuisances. And she was the wicked witch of the neighbourhood. The fact that she had a cat didn't help, either. The gang of children would always take care not to run into her as they trooped off to the park in the afternoons, and she would be returning home with heavy shopping bags. Alone.

'She scares me,' a tiny voice pipes up. One of the older ones offers in a mysterious tone- 'Rumour has it that she never smiles. She doesn't know how to.' This bit of information couldn't really be called rumour. It was true. She didn't smile. And it seemed that she didn't like children very much, either.

Ever since her son had died in a car crash all those years ago, she hadn't smiled. She lived by herself and talked very little, flipping through faded albums of her son's childhood until another day melted into oblivion. All that noise, that happiness, that laughter, what's the use of it if he wasn't there to enjoy it with her?

Her bitterness and cynicism of life in general meant that she was given a wide berth. The children had also learnt to avoid her. It was agreed that she was weird, creepy and probably evil. So what did little Joy do when a round, leather-bound ball whooshed off his bat, crashed through the window and landed right at the feet of the woman herself?

For a moment, he froze. Then, giving in to the others' jeering whispers, Joy walked up the path. The door was already open. 'Come inside,' somebody said. She poured her heart out to him, clutching the hard ball and reliving distant memories. Her son was just like him, she sighed. Little Joy didn't fidget. He listened. There were no witches, he realised. Only sad, suppressed truths. At the end of it all, he had asked her to come to the park sometime to watch them play. So here they were, under the afternoon sun. She cheered them on, bought them all ice-cream, and wouldn't you believe it-she had laughed. And the world didn't suddenly become a more beautiful place to live in; but now, it was definitely a lighter shade of grey.

By TheAlien4mEarth


Chilling is psychodermic
(A chilled granny's tale)

THESE days, kids talk in a cryptic language. They talk of completely crazy things like chills, wins, epics and whatnot. A few days ago, I asked my grandkid what 'chilling' really meant, since I tried chilling and couldn't really come up with any good results. I just ended up with a bad cold.

He started explaining chilling to me enthusiastically clearly not expecting someone as old as his granny to be interested in something of that sort. He put his PSP down and said, “Look, grandma, you just sit around, hang out with your buddies, surf the net, play video games or watch some TV. That's chilling.”

“That's it?” I asked. This is what they did all the time? Since this was considered to be something very pleasant to do. I'll try chilling then.

“Just remember, grandma, too much chilling can be psychodermic.” the kid yelled before putting his headphones back on again.

“Psychodermic? What's that? I'll try that another time. Now, I'll just chill.”

And so I started chilling. I borrowed a few DVDs from my grandkids and started watching them. Soon, I was what they call 'hooked'. All day I spent in front of the TV and soon dishes started to pile on the sink and mail stacked up in the mailbox. Time wasn't an issue when I realised chilling was fun.

One week passed, I hadn't been out of the house the whole time and had no idea about the outside world. And, my skin sort of turned white like and things started growing on it. I could quote Juno and Big Bang Theory, but I realised what too much chilling could do. I had experienced the psychodermic bit without even trying. And that wasn't a pretty sight.

By Orin


Eating is Euphoric

You hide it in both hands, crouching low with you head down no one should see. They could call you anything then, and what defence would you have? You hear them in your mind, calling you a goat, a sheep, the laughter like a fist in your face, and you think of putting it down and walking away. You could still walk away. But it's so red, and so small, and maybe this is what velvet feels like.

Your tongue darts out, a taste. But of course all you taste is dirt. You swallow the saliva gathering in your mouth and replace it with the redness. Nothing still, only dirt, and the soft feel of (maybe) velvet on your tongue. You push it between your teeth and relinquish that feel for a moment to bite down will it be sweet?

No, not sweet, not sour either. Not bitter as you feared but nothing at all, yet your heart thumps in your chest and your mouth waters with want. Fervently chewing, you wait for it to end what is that taste? wait for the rush to be over so you can pretend this never happened. Is it still red? If you take it out someone could see. They could see you eating a petal and savouring the taste, and you would be an animal. They wouldn't care that you hadn't eaten in two days and all you really wanted to do was taste something so beautiful, and it's not like you're enjoying it. Of course not. You don't know what to do swallow, or spit it out. You can't decide is that why your body tries to do both at once? Then suddenly there's no air in your lungs and it's stuck in your throat, you're choking and all you can think of is how you'll die because of a freaking rose petal!

Cough, spit it comes out of your throat and lodges in your mouth. Spit again, but you stop. Chew, taste it still tastes, so must you throw it away? Swallow, but then your mouth will be dry again; it's too small to fill your stomach. It feels like food. You can hear your stomach roaring in your ears.

A man appears sent from heaven? He'll pay if you push his car. You spit and run after him, the petal forgotten in anticipation of real food, and now you don't care if anyone realises that the mangled red thing in the mass of saliva on the ground is a petal, or if they think you're an animal. You can fill your mouth with rice and taste the euphoria again.

Maybe one day, when both your stomachs are empty and growling, you'll tell your little sister that roses taste like your mother's best cooking.
(Inspired by Starriecat's 'Breath Failure')

By Professor Spork

 

 
 

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