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Tales From Beyond The Enchanted Prong Hills

The Poetic Eels Of Lake Quimby


Page 3


"A wobbly playwright called Brian
Had three dozen fish but couldn't fry'em
He got out his pan
But eventually gave up and went down the road
to the chippy where he changed his mind and had
a jumbo sausage instead."

"No, Conrad, no," said Anglepoise, "It starts off OK but you're losing it before the end." He handed the poem back to the crest-fallen eel. "Try again," he said. "Now, what about you, Lucy? You've been working hard all night on that poem. Let's have a look."

"You know how it feels
When you live your life as eels
It's a bum deal."

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," despaired Anglepoise, "How many times have I told you - we're writing limericks, not Haiku."
Anglepoise sat down on a rock and heaved a heavy sigh. A cool breeze was blowing in from the lake causing Anglepoise to pull his cloak tightly around his shoulders. He shuddered. But was it the breeze that made him shudder, or was it his frustration in being unable to achieve his goal? Or was it the strange misty apparition that was slowly forming on the surface of the lake? A ghostly white figure of an old, old man. Gradually, the figure materialised into a more solid form hovering motionless about six inches above the lake's surface. A deep, hollow voice echoed around the bay.

"There once was a wise man called Norman
Who took on a job as a doorman
As part of a piss-take
He made up a cheesecake
Of loganberry for the old store man."

"Wh-wh-wh-what?" stammered Anglepoise, "Who're you?"
"Anglepoise Sneeze-Factor?" spoke the voice.
"Y-yes," Anglepoise trembled.
"Son of Goose-Decree?" intoned the voice of the old man.
"I have a message for you."
"For me?"
"From your father."
"My father is dead," said Anglepoise, confused but dauntless.
"He is very proud of you," the ghostly voice continued.
"You've spoken to him?"
"He is very pleased with what you are trying to do."
"Oh, er, good good. That's nice."
"You must go to the ball."
"I, I can't," said Anglepoise, "I have to teach these eels to write limericks. If you truly have spoken to my father then you'll know how important it is."
"I am aware," said the old man, "But that will be taken care of. You must go to the ball."
"Look, I hate to be rude or anything," said Anglepoise, "but just who exactly are you?"
"My name," said the man, "is Saint Pingy and this is my day and you must go to the ball."

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The Poetic Eels Of Lake Quimby
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