h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

This sounds like the beginning of something longer.

Though what, exactly I don't know.

"Middle-aged Man and the Sea," maybe...

Most reef fishing expeditions are just like that. You get past the reef and all of a sudden the water is 500 feet deep. You're minding your own business fishing and look over the side and there's something there that's three times the size of your boat sizing you up. Then it goes on its way, and you're still shaking the next day.

Luigi was eager to sing in the 42-note opera. Trouble was, the introduction was taking too long. By the time he got a chance to sing, all he could manage was "O, mio caro..." and then the opera was all over.

Made me shiver, KWDave. You wouldn't get me in a boat out there again.

A 42 note opera, paulh? Now there's an idea...

Anyway, January is now over, so everybody thus far is now entitled to put a January Create badge on their page:



We aren't finished with this though so keep 'em coming. I am going to give us a new theme to play with though...

"A 42 note opera, paulh? Now there's an idea..."

Not being fluent in Italian, I may have made some mistakes in gender endings for "mio caro." It would be safer to have the singer be a soprano, not a tenor, unless the reader wants to imagine an opera with a gay relationship.

[The Groundhog's Revenge]

Vast throngs of humans waited near Phil's burrow.
They wouldn't leave unless he made an appearance.
He stretched, yawned, and stuck out his head, squinting
in the bright sunlight. He went back inside, where he pushed
the "six weeks of snow" button.

Fate had been very kind to him, becoming a contributor to The Hitchhikers Pub Guide of Britain he was able to fund his 15 year stay on earth and also to maintain a level of drunkenness best suited to his life form.

Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings looked into her rear view mirror of her Ford Prefect, the car behind seemed to be following her. Her evening already had not been good, her poetry recital at the community hall had not gone down very well.

THE ANTIPODEAN


He appeared through the rain, full length waxed coat and matching hat.

“Are you George?” He asked.

I grunted.

“Roberto said you might have a room.”

“This is not a bloody hotel” I replied in my best Australian, and shut the door.

OK, so that is wonderfully intreiging (and one day I will learn how to spell that). Now the debate must rage between deciding if the best stories are those which manage to be a complete and satisfying whole in 42 words, and those which do not.

Great hitchikers' interest there, simetra, and I really like the way that you have used a whole four words for the woman's name.

Thank you, these where actually extracts from a greater body of work that has lay dormant for many months. http://h2g2.com/dna/h2g2/brunel/F63252?thread=531602..towards the end we gave up on the one line at a time bit

Sorry, didn't mean to puzzle, intended an essay on prejudice , inhospitability and man's inhumanity to man.

The Antipodean (version II)

He appeared through the rain, full length waxed coat and hat like some New Zealand farmer.

“George?”

“Maybe”

“Bob said you had a room.”

“This is not a bloody hotel” I replied like a true Australian and shut the door on him.

"Why is your horse weairng glass slippers, Your Highness?"

"This is Cinderella. My beloved. An absentminded Fairy Godmother
cast the wrong spell."

"Did the horse tell you that?"

"No. I had the same Fairy Godmother."

"That explains why you're a frog, Sire."

.

By the way, you can do these things in verse, but that's a whole different genre.

There was a young lady called Tess
who rode her new bike in a dress.
The skirt caught on the chain,
she fell down in some pain
and there was less of a dress upon Tess.

The ugly face across from me reminds me of that wart on my backside. The big, red, swollen one, the one I waged war against for weeks. With a deep, heavy sigh I turn away to leave. I can’t stand myself anymore.

I moan in pain. It’s happening again. I thought I’d gotten over it. In my mind, maybe. Not in my heart. I kneel and lay down a bouquet of quaint, white flowers at her feet. The tears start to flow. “Goodbye, mom.”

I can't breath,
not even trying.
I can't see,
or open my eyes;

even if I could,
I wouldn't come to see you
because I know now
that when I would
I would become blind
and I wouldn't
be able
to breath.