Pass The Ducats.

“Stick to your lanes – and no jostling”, hissed Coach Falconetti,

handing stocking caps and a crowbar to the 4th Grade Relay Team.

“Now, let’s bring home some silverware!”

~*~

Advertisement

Class Acts.

“Three Ds and a C”, Edgar mumbled, reluctantly

surrendering the Report Card. “Three Disinterments and a Cremation!”

exclaimed Father, dabbing his cheeks with a blindfold,

“Son, we may just get you that new bicycle after all!”.

~*~

Post Toasties.

Virgil slipped away from Toxicology class and was

discovered behind the bicycle shed, smoking.

“Polyester?”, panted Matron Böhmer, splashing on

some well water and beating him with a sack.

~*~

No-brainer.

Edna’s tenure as Head Girl was spectacular,

but short-lived. She dropped one from a float

during the Bastille Day Parade and mislaid another two

on a football pitch outside Arles.

~*~

Bonus Featurette: Oh, Crumbs! When Good Cakes Go Bad: A cakespy crime scene.

Not Waving.

“Oh, you’ll adore the Mary Celeste”

said Mother, applying a bloodied thumb to

my BTCTCF (Bermuda Triangle Class Trip Consent Form)

with unusual enthusiasm. “Now, let’s get you into

a lead vest, and some Dramamine.”

~*~

The Final Cut.

“Splendid news”, announced Edgar glumly,

“I’ve been cast as the Headless Horseman in our

end-of-term play. “Marvellous“, cooed Mother,

patting down his cowlick, “Father oiled

his guillotine just this morning.”

~*~

It’s Still Friday In… Guatemala.

“Is that what I think it is?”, rasped Edna

with a sideways glance at the prefect

face-down in his pudding bowl.

“Yes”, we chorused happily:

“Blaise Quimbly’s Custard Surprise!”

~*~

Better Late…

The Spanish Inquisition was

Ms. Bororquia’s favourite period in history.

She’d read passages from her diary while the rest of us

hogtied the hall monitor and warmed up

the curling tongs.

~*~

Okay. So Maybe I Meant ‘Thursday’.

I took first prize for needlework for the

third year in a row. I affixed my rosette and

Virgil paraded his extra digits around the schoolyard

until one fell off and reappeared in Ma Thickett’s

pickle urn the following Wednesday.

~*~

Extra! : Mourning Glories

“Lynda Renn turned the key in the ignition of the hearse of her dreams. Only moments before, it had dropped off its last corpse.”

The wonderful Obit Magazine celebrates those who prefer to roll with a little extra room in the trunk. (Via Metafilter)

The Tell-Tale Heart.

“I’ve met someone!” blurted Edna

from the drawbridge of the Sigh of Calcutta

Correctional Resort for Girls. And lowered

down a travel iron, a crampet, and a

small pair of sequinned trunks.

~*~