Weekly Challenge #671 – bob, stitch, eaten, pittance, delete, trumpet, ribcage, tickle, Ziegler



Bob’s Ticket

Bob hated sitting at the tickets’ booth.
For some reason he couldn’t understand, whenever it was his turn to sell tickets, there was a drop in sales. He was so frustrated. It wasn’t his fault that half of his ribcage was showing, as a matter of fact, half of his whole skeleton.
When he joined the Side Show Carnival, everyone was amused because one side of him was kind of missing. It seemed fitting.
However, when sales dropped, they got angry and sent him abroad for plastic surgery. He never came back. He is now happily married to an osteologist.


Same old story

My finger hovered uncertainly over the ‘delete’ key: Did I want to keep it, maybe do some editing and make some changes, or did I really just want to send it to the recycle bin and start all over again?

I couldn’t make my mind up. Maybe I should go away, have a snack, and then come back and take another look?

And that’s exactly what I did.

Despite having eaten, what I’d written hadn’t changed – the concept and the words remained exactly the same as when I’d left them.

But, I sent the story off anyway!


I don’t normally like to blow my own trumpet, but I have to say that my latest dinner party had been a resounding success.

The company and conversation had been stimulating, the atmosphere warm and convivial, and the food – well, judging by the compliments I received, everybody loved it.

Following the meal, we retired to the lounge for drinks, where a toast was proposed to ‘the perfect hostess’:

“It’s been a wonderful evening, such a shame that your husband couldn’t be here to share in it.”

“Oh, but he was,” I responded.

“Who do you think you’ve just eaten?”


Trumpet, eaten
At first it looked like a satirical account. @trumpet on Twitter, posting a pastische of Trump’s characteristic style. “We’ve eaten the greatest cabbages, the greatest ever. Sad that little Turnip Man doesn’t agree.” From the volume of postings, I assumed it was generated by something like GPT-2. The names never matched any real person or place, but there was a coherence to it, that built up to a picture of an alternate reality. Millions tried decoding it. Who was Turnip Man? Where was Barubatu? What was Googlegong?

Then somehow, while we were all obsessing over the puzzle, Trump got re-elected.


In to the Mists of Time

Pittance Ziegler inherited the brick company from her father Moses Ziegler. A modern woman by all account she made swift changes that made the firm exceedingly profitable. When the firm was on sound footing she informed the board of directors she was mounting an all-woman exposition for the source of the Nile. This was a full five years before Sir Richard Burton. Correspondence broke down during a freakish rain season. She and none of her fellow exporters were ever heard from again. But a number of blonde hair African started appearing in the upper valley of the Nile.


Billbert stepped back out of Linoliumanda’s house and with a bob of his head toward the road, he pointed out his mother’s car approaching.

She rolled down her window and waved a half eaten breakfast burrito toward the back seat, and said, “Climb in. We need to hurry to get you to school on time.”

When they got there, Roderick waited while Billbert and Linoliumanda ran to her first class.

Linoliumanda laughed. “Mr. Ziegler will be tickled to hear my Harry Potter report.”

“That’s fine.” Billbert wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m just glad no one learned our little secret.”


The latest trend in women’s body modification was achieving the
trumpet shape. Medical technology had been making it possible for
years to become something else, something less natural, and boredom
created a need for a new unique look. It did, however, require
extensive surgery. Some bones were removed from the ribcage,
alterations made to gain the right shape, and many times the organs
had to be shifted to create the full affect. From a slim mouthpiece
neck down to the bell hips, the accomplished look did leave you with
some discomfort, but it isn’t really fashion if there isn’t


Bob liked to go in the woods and tickle bears.
He liked to wear a feather boa.
So when the bears ate him, we said that he did end up tickling bears.
He probably tickled their insides with the feather from the boa.
He also tore them new assholes as they shat him out.
Bob liked to wear spurs, too.
Bob liked to dress up flamboyantly.
Totally wild.
And the bears, shitting feathers and blood.
Oh, and glitter. All of that glitter Bob wore.
Let’s go in the woods and see,
As long as we don’t try to tickle bears.

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