Wednesday, July 8, 2015

'The Messenger,' by Makenzie

The things I’ve seen have burned my eyes like the white-hot sun with their glory.  The things I’ve heard with my mere human ears have stopped my beating heart with the weight of their holiness.  But some of the things I hear I do not want to say to my people, the children of Israel.
One day, I, Jeremiah, was told by the LORD to speak to the people in the courtyard of His Temple.  And everything in me wanted to run from the grim truth I had to tell them.  But I went, for I must speak His words.  They consume my soul like fire.
In the courtyard, the scalding sun glared down at me out of a devastatingly blue sky, and my robes clung with sweat to my skin.  I squinted at the faces of the people as they walked past through the quivering air.  The beloved children of the LORD were holding their heads high like their blind, traitorous hearts.  I opened my mouth to speak, but could not. My throat was clogged with a lump of fear, my lungs heavy as though full of liquid.
The sun shone brighter and brighter; and the words of the LORD burned in my soul.  I drew in a deep shaky breath and began to speak to the people.
“This is what the LORD says!” I called, with all my shaky strength.
My voice stopped the moving people to listen to me. After all, I was a prophet.  And though they didn’t realise it clear and simple in their own minds, I knew that they were hoping this time I would tell them what they wanted to hear, the way the false prophets do.
“If you do not listen to Me and follow My law, then I will make this city a curse amongst all the nations and the earth.”
A thin cloud softened the sun’s rays, a gentle breeze cooled my burning skin.
I had spoken.
The faces I had spoken to stared at me.  The words of the LORD were sinking in through their thick unprepared skins, pressing into their guilty souls.  For a moment, the courtyard could not move; till it was abruptly broken by a great storm of human rage.
“You must die!” a voice cried.  “You are a false prophet - you have prophesied against the city!”
They rushed towards me like the cold relentless waves of the ocean, and took hold of me with angry, bruising hands.  Then my people lowered me and my words from the LORD into a deep, dark cistern filled with mud rather than water.  Perhaps they thought that if they couldn’t see me, what I had to say was not the truth.  But my LORD did not abandon me to die in the mud.
It wasn’t long before someone pulled me up again into the pure gold light of the sun.

Note: this story was drawn from the book of Isaiah in the Holy Bible.  I can't remember what version it was but it was most likely the NLT or  the NIV.

Friday, May 22, 2015

'Placement' // a poem by Makenzie

I am not lizzy bennet.  No darcy is enraptured by
my beauty, my talent or my fascinating, independent wit.
I am the girl who dreamed I was her; 
then one day I saw my reflection,
 and it was harriet smith.

Perhaps that’s who we all are, girls?  Most of us, anyway.   Not that I do not see the way you really are something.  
I am, you are, we are all
as bright as strawberries and as sweet as a fresh summer breeze 
when the sky is blue.
But nevertheless, we are not lizzy bennet.  

I read it on pinterst – “lizzy was probably the most attractive woman in British literature.”*
So are all the other heroines in everything, and everywhere that stand strong, independent, beautiful, smart, tall, brave,
Even their faults and flaws are attractive.  Who doesn’t want to be feisty and stubborn?

We, however, are just us.
 And we must humbly and therefore bravely
take up and accept the invisibility that is and will always be with and around all we do and what we are. 
But how is it possible to do this, and smile?
The lizzy bennets of the world – they are special.
And the harriet smiths, the mary bennets, the sickly daughters of lady de bourgh- they are nothings, and no one notices.

The pain we feel, the blood we spill,
If not illuminated by 
beauty and talent and fascinating independent wit
is, in the eyes of the average reader, not even considered.

I suppose that’s why I always notice the wallflowers and sidelines in literature. 
Because in those whose stories are invisible,
I see myself.


* 1047. Where is my Mr. Darcy? (n.d.).  Retrieved May 22, 2015 from  
[note: I am not recommending this website (which I do not read), I am merely referencing the comic).

Monday, February 9, 2015

'Reply to Darcy', by Makenzie (+ a tool for Austen fans or regency writers or both)

I'm on a bit of a Pride and Prejudice tangent on this blog at the moment, because I got to spend a whole term studying it last year (I was allowed to sit and read P&P in school hours.  HOW COOL IS THAT?).  Zerefore, I've got another P&P-inspired piece for your enjoyment. Firstly, however, I'd like to share a tool I found VERY useful for writing in regency/Jane Austen's style. It's  called 'Write Like Austen' and you can find it here

The piece I wrote is a letter from Elizabeth to Darcy after she has read the letter he gave her in response to her her very angry marriage refusal (in chapter 34).  Hope you enjoy it. :)  And if anyone has any thoughts, I'd love to hear them!  

Huntsford Parsonage, Friday 2 April, 11am

Dear Sir,               
Upon the perusal of your letter I have come to understand how mistaken were my opinions in regard to your character; and it is with no small amount of distress that I look back upon my previous words towards you.  Your forbearance under the circumstances could not be described as anything less than noble.
You were right in regard to my sister, Jane.  Her feelings are strong, but her character is such as does not make them apparent.  A mistake in judgment as to the extent of her regard for Bingley is altogether understandable.  And though it brings me pain to own it, I must allow that your concerns in regard to the propriety of some members of my family are not entirely ill founded.
As for Wickham, there can be no doubts as to the truth of your claims.  Upon reflection of his actions I see they all confirm your statements.  His conduct, past and present, has been despicable to say the least. In regard to Wickham I have been entirely misled, by nothing less than my own vanity.  I have looked no farther than what I could see in looks and manner, and therefore have mistaken his character and your own.  My behavior has been, to say the least, absurd; and I am entirely ashamed of my actions hitherto. Believe me when I say that I now comprehend the honor of being the object of regard to such a worthy gentleman as yourself.  I am indeed sorry for the ill manner in which I treated you.  Please accept my sincerest apologies, and comprehend that my previous opinion of you is only a subject of mortification to myself.   
With all sincerity,
Elizabeth Bennet

Thursday, January 22, 2015

"Lady Catherine Recounts" (A Monologue), written by Big Sister/Makenzie

First of all, I'd like to announce that I've decided to no longer use my pseudonym.  I like my real name.  So from now on, you will know me as "Makenzie."  *bows*

Now, about the story: this is the written version of a monologe I had to write for school.  It's based on the character of Lady Catherine de Bourgh from Pride and Prejudice, and it 'fills a gap'
 in the story, where Lady C. informs Mr. Darcy of her meeting with Elizabeth: "she [Elizabeth] soon learned that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his [Mr. Darcy's] aunt [Lady Catherine], who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate... the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter," (Pride and Prejudice, p. 413).  Enjoy!

[Lady Catherine is seated on a chair].  You will be surprised, Darcy, to discover where I have just come from.  I have been obliged to call upon a certain family, in order to gain knowledge about present reports concerning a member of it and yourself.  The family in question is none other than the Bennet family.  I see you are indeed surprised -such a visit was far beneath my situation. It had to be made, however.  Are you aware of the presumptuous talk that has been circulating about yourself?  It is widely believed, nephew, that you are shortly to be engaged to none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet!  Your silence, I am sure, is a result of your offense at such presuming claims as these.

 As for my conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet- well!  I have never heard such impertinence, and such a lack of regard towards a woman of my standing.  She was determined against acknowledging the truth of my claims - insolent, headstrong girl that she is!  I reminded her of her complete lack of family, connections and fortune.  You yourself cannot be unaware that she has uncles and aunts in [spoken with great distaste] trade. And her father may be a gentleman, but her mother most certainly is not a gentlewoman.  And as her father’s money is entailed away from the female line, her fortune amounts to practically nothing.  But this is not all.  You may have heard something, Darcy, of the patched-up business of her younger sister’s elopement.  It is indeed a disgrace! And what is more, the man she married is the son of your father’s steward.  Heaven and earth! -Can you imagine the mortification of being attached to such relations?

I told Miss Bennet, also, that you are expected to marry my daughter; and that you have been destined for each other from birth.  This alliance is a matter of honour; one that is equal in great fortune and noble birth.  I have expected this happy event for many years; and you know that it was also the desire of your poor, departed mother.  But despite all I said to Miss Bennet, her opinions remained unalterable; though, after much urging on my part, she did finally tell me that she was not presently engaged to you.  However, she firmly refused to promise never to enter into such an agreement.   She seemed to think I had no concern in the matter whatever -I, who am almost your only living relative! And she had the impudence to believe that even if she did not marry you, your marriage with my daughter would not necessarily be secure!  Can you believe it?

Thankfully, I have no doubts that you will soon settle my anxieties in this regard.  Indeed, I know that you will give me your sincere promise that you never have, and never will have any desire of marrying Miss Bennet. [Pause]. Darcy?  Darcy!  Answer me!  Will you not give me your word?  You surely cannot be partial to Miss Bennet! [Pause.  Narrows eyes in suspicious anger] I know you are one who is not easily moved, nephew; so I will allow for your refusal to be a result of the independence of your nature.  However, be warned.  You know that such a marriage cannot be approved of by me, and to enter into it would be to secure my everlasting indignation.  [Stands.] Remember who you are!  You are a man of superior and noble consequence; from a family that has long been known and esteemed. You are Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberly, and the proud shades of Pemberly are not to be polluted.  [Makes a sweeping exit].

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Along the Old Road, written by Big Sister

Hello there readers! I wrote this story for school using the poem "To David Campbell" as a stimulus.  I put the poem here as I couldn't seem to find a link online.  I suggest reading the story first. ;)


The sharp cold morning air nipped at Philip’s lungs and pinched his fingers. He walked through the frosty paddocks and down to the dry sandy riverbed, rejoicing in the quiet stillness.   

Wherever he was, Philip always walked alone in the mornings; to think, to enjoy the solitude and quiet.  Here on the rural property of his friend David, the mornings were wondrous in their newly born splendour.  Poetry wrote itself in his mind as life unfolded softly in the singing birds and arising light.

In the riverbed he found a stone, smoothed by water and shaped like a heart.  Philip smiled and put it in his pocket before continuing.

His feet pulled through the sand.  He was lost in deep contemplation, his narrow shoulders hunched, his dark head hanging down on his chest, and his dark-grey eyes watching his feet.   He almost missed it, but a corner of his sight caught the patch of red, and he turned abruptly to see the body of a fox stretched out cold on the ground.  He stood over the little form. Its coat was damp with dew.  “Poor chap!  Poison, perhaps?” he said out loud.  He leant and touched the silky red fur. 

Then he walked on, though a little of the glory seemed to have faded from the morning.

Later, Philip rambled with David along one of the property’s dusty trails.  David’s dog, Joe, ran about like a child on a sugar high.  There was an old ghost gum leaning almost over, still healthy and alive. The dog ran up it, barking happily; then his paws slipped and he fell to the ground.

  David laughed at him.  “Half-witted animal!”

Philip grinned at him.  “I bet you couldn’t climb a tree.”

“Oh really, you old cow?  You bet eh?  I’ll show you!” 

“Not the leaning one!  That doesn’t count.  A baby could climb it.  This one.” Philip touched a tall, smooth gum.

“Fine!”  David’s strong arms pulled, his feet scrabbled awkwardly for footholds.  Philip stood with his arms crossed, laughing, as David climbed high then slid uncomfortably down again.   His white trousers were filthy and ripped, his arm was bleeding from a cut and his fair hair was dark with sweat, but he grinned triumphantly. 

“Ha! Lost your bet!”

“Oh, did I?  Or perhaps I knew you could climb it all along and just wanted to laugh at you.  I’ll write a poem about it.  ‘My friend David climbed a tree; just like a half-baked drongo looked he--”

“Hey!  Put a sock in it!” cried David.  “You and your poetry…!”

Further along, they came to an old road –once busy, now just a roaming-place for cattle and wildlife.  It stretched its long length between scrabbly bush.  Philip’s mind wandered down it absently; till he looked around and saw David beckoning him.  Philip followed, curiosity wrinkling a small frown on his forehead.

David led him into a grove of trees.  In the center of it were several mounds, long grassed over with age. “Graves,” David said quietly, in reply to Philip’s questioning look.  “Early settlers here.  One of them was my great-great grandfather.”  He took his hat off and held it before him. Philip saw his huge shoulders and his face with its broken nose soften in respect; his usually playfully twinkling blue eyes grow thoughtful.

 The wind rustled gently in the tall gum trees.  Philip could feel, still lingering faintly in the air, memories of bygone sorrows; and the trees remembered the sounds of broken hearts weeping.  He stood next to his friend in thought for many minutes.

In the afternoon, they saddled up two frisking horses for a ride.  They took the old road.  Philip breathed deeply, the gentle winter sunlight soaking warmly into his skin.  His horse swished its tail and threw its head about, restless as the ever-moving butterflies that fluttered past.  Philip began to rise to a trot, then a canter.  Then, “beat you to the end of the road!” he called to David; and leaned forward into a gallop.

They thundered along the trail, clouds of bulldust rising behind them.  Their horses breathed in air through wide nostrils, eager, excited.  Philip’s heart took wing as the wind rushed past his face, and he shouted for sheer joy.

Something, a kangaroo perhaps, flew crashing out of the scrub and across the road.  David’s horse, terrified, shied away with the speed of a whip.  David was flung off and slammed hard into the ground.   Philip pulled his frightened horse to a halt with desperate hands.  He was by his friend’s side in a moment.

“David!  Are you all right?” he gasped.

David was still.  Philip knelt down.  His throat all of a sudden gasped dry and he felt nauseous with a terrible fear for which there could be no words.

Everything that passed after that was misty, dreamlike.  Philip refused to be parted from David for a moment.  He was there when they loaded the still form into the ambulance, and when they carried him into the hospital.

By David’s bed, in a moment alone, Philip whispered words filled with such pleading.  “Please… come back… wake up… open your eyes.”  There was no reply. 

Philip looked through dull, wet eyes at the mound of fresh earth, veiled with a mantle of flowers.   Flowers and tears, last gifts from the living to the dead.  Philip felt as though his heart was gasping for air under its crushing load of loss.  David… just before sparkling with life, then extinguished like a snuffed candle.

Philip’s mind, shrouded in grey misery, searched desperately for answers. How could a being, so filled with life, so real, so normal, so human, die, and turn back to dust?  This is not how it should be. 

Beyond his anguish, a whisper answered him.  When he had seen the coffin, heard the dull thud as it dropped down into the earth; he had felt through his sobs that somehow, it was not really David in that cold white box.  For he had gone to the land where everything is shining light under the Greatest light of all.  

Philip leant down and placed the heart-shaped stone, warm from his hands, on the grave; then resumed standing in silent thought beside the still mound of earth.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Look into the eyes.

 from Google images

Oi guys,
Hey.  I notice you haven't been reading any posts lately.  Or at least, not leaving any comments.  Not even a reaction*, which only takes one click of that mouse you've got your right hand on at this moment.

Now, those things we've posted-- they're actually pretty splendid.  From interesting and informative to hilarious to whats-gonna-happen-next etc. etc...  

Y u no read?

Just look into Puss in Boots' eyes.  Imagine that they are our eyes.  Imagine us saying "don't... don't you like our stories anymore?  What did we do?"

The only way to appease those eyes is to scroll down, read, then leave a comment.  Even just a reaction.

If you don't, those eyes will haunt you in your sleep.

Have a nice day! (hopefully).
From, Big Sister

* see bottom of posts

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

"The Sound in the Abbey", told by Big Sister

Simon the traveller shivered and pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders.  The sky was an ominous grey color, and the wind that whipped the grass was bitingly cold. Thunder rumbled.  He urged his tired horse on faster, hoping to find shelter before the storm broke.  As his horse ascended a hillock, Simon caught sight of the large, imposing form of an abbey on the horizon.  But before he was halfway there, the storm broke.  Lightning flashed, and rain bucketed down so heavily that it was difficult to see.  By the time he reached the large wooden gates of the abbey, Simon was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.  He dismounted quickly and pulled the bell-rope.

A few minutes later, Simon was standing, dripping wet, inside the abbey kitchen.
The monk in charge of the kitchen, who had friendly brown eyes and a rather round tummy, smiled.  “My, you must be cold!  Stand in front of the fire while I get you some dry garments,” he said. “I’m brother Thomas, by the way.”
 Simon was most happy to comply with the monk’s wishes, and it wasn’t long before he was clean, dry and had a hearty stew warming his insides.  He was then shown to a small, simply furnished room.  “I trust you will sleep well” said Thomas.  “Good night, and may God give you peaceful dreams.” Simon, completely exhausted, flopped onto the bed and was soon fast asleep.

.:. .:. .:. 

He  awoke with a start and sat bolt upright, his flesh crawling. He was sure he had heard something. He listened intently for a few moments, but all was silent.  “Probably an early morning mass or summat,” he muttered sleepily, and lay down again.  Then he heard the sound that had awakened him.  It was the most beautiful, yet the most awful thing he had ever heard. Simon was filled with ecstasy and dread at the same time.  He wanted desperately to run away, to hide himself from it, but the sound held him a hypnotized captive, and he could not move. So the he lay and listened, sweating despite the cold, his heart pounding in his ears.  At that moment, he knew that at all costs he must find out whatever it was that made that sound.
Eventually the sound died away.  Shaky and weak, Simon quickly fell asleep again. His dreams were filled with the sound.

The first thing in Simon’s mind when he awoke next morning was the sound he had heard in the night.  Could it have been a dream?  No.  He knew it was more than that.  Simon leapt out of bed and rushed down to the kitchen.  Brother Thomas was there, stirring a huge kettle of porridge that hung over the fire.
“You are up early, my friend!” said Thomas, handing the traveller a bowl of steaming porridge. “I trust you slept well?”
“No, no indeed!” cried Simon.  “I was was awakened in the night by the most fearsome, wonderful sound that I have ever heard.”
Brother Thomas inhaled sharply. “You heard the sound? I am sorry.  Very sorry.  It does not usually wake people up.  If I could have stopped it, I would have… but it will have its way!”
“It?  Please, show me what it is that makes this sound, so that I can be at peace!”
Thomas shook his head.  “I cannot tell you.  Do yourself a favor and forget about the sound.”
“Nay, that is impossible.  If I do not know, I am sure that I will die!”
Thomas sighed.  “I would certainly tell you if I could, friend, but I am afraid that only those enrolled in the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood are allowed to know that.”
“Eh? The fraternal what?”
“Bonds of monastic brotherhood.”
“D’ye mean I have to be a monk?
“I’m afraid so.”
“But it will take years to become a monk,” groaned the unfortunate man, “I could not bear the wait-- I must know at once!”
“I am sorry,”  said brother Thomas stubbornly. “I dare not change the rule.”
“Very well,” said Simon, his voice grim with determination, “if it must be so. I will begin on my journey to join the fraternal bonds of, monasti-whatever it is this very day.  And he sat down and began to eat his porridge.

.:. Several years later .:.

 Simon rode eagerly along the road to the abbey.  He was dressed in a habit, and his head was shaved in a cenobitic fashion; for during the last few years he had graduated as a “member of the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood”- in other words, he was a monk.  As Simon caught sight of the abbey, his pulse quickened and his eyes grew bright with feverish anticipation. For the sound he had heard had never ceased to haunt him, and today would finally find out what it was.

As soon as his horse was stabled within the abbey walls, Simon headed straight for the kitchen. Standing at the large kitchen table, elbow-deep in bread dough, was brother Thomas; the round, warm-eyed monk who had welcomed in our traveller when he was cold and wet and hungry.
Thomas looked up and started in recognition. “You!” he exclaimed. “So you really did join the fraternal bonds of monas-”
“Yes,”  said Simon, smiling.
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Thomas , dusting the flour off his hands.
Simon sat down.  “It is good to see you again, brother Thomas.”  He paused. “I suppose you know why I am here?”
“I can guess,” said Thomas.
“You will show me then?”
“Yes.  You are a monk, and I cannot deny your request, even though I wish I could. But you must wait until tonight.”

.:. .:. .:.

That night, when the moon was high in the velvety black welkin, brother Thomas woke Simon.   “Come,” whispered Thomas, “follow me, and do not make a sound.”  
Simon noticed with interest that Thomas was carrying a crowbar. However, he said nothing, and followed him silently until they came into a cool, dank cellar. The cellar was very seldom used, being small, damp, and inaccessible, and was empty apart from some barrels in the corner and a few ancient bottles of wine on the rotting shelves.  Thomas closed and locked the cellar door behind them; then leaning his crowbar against the wall, moved aside some barrels, knelt down and began running his hands over the stone floor.  Simon looked on in surprise.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“We have to lever out one of the stones.  I’m trying to find it,” whispered Thomas. “Ah! Here it is.  Come and help me lever it out.”
As quietly as possible, they used the crowbar to heave out the large flagstone, revealing a solid trapdoor built of steel and wood.  Beneath the trapdoor was a black hole.
Thomas wriggled through the hole backward and hung there on his elbows.  “The floor isn’t too far down, but you’ll have to drop,” he said.  “Give me a moment to get out of the way before you follow.”
Thomas dropped down with a soft thud.
Simon shuddered, for he hated the dark and all its horrid creatures, then dropped down after Thomas.
 Thomas lit a torch and held it up, illuminating their surroundings. They were standing in the entryway of a staircase that had been carved out of the solid rock.  Cobwebs brushed against them as they began to descend.
The staircase went steeply downwards deep into the earth. Simon didn’t count the steps, but it seemed to him there must have been thousands. But after a considerable amount of time, he noticed the staircase growing slowly less steep, until by degrees it became a horizontal tunnel.
The tunnel was freezing cold, water dribbled in little rivers down the walls, and there was a strange smell about. Simon  sniffed nervously, and he was just going to ask Thomas if he was sure about poisonous gases when he felt something crunch under his foot.  He looked down to see a skeleton, and gasped with horror.  “What is that?” he cried.  “How did he die?  Brother, are you sure the air is good down here?”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you about the skeletons,” said brother Thomas.
“Skeletons?  Are there more?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“H-how did they get here?”
“Each has its own story, and I could not tell them all.  However, I do know what happened to this  particular fellow: he was a thief.  Many years ago, this place was protected by armed guards.  They killed the thief and left him there as a warning to others.”
Simon’s hair -or what was left of it-  stood on end, and he looked very strange.  Then to make things worse, an enormous, shaggy spider plopped onto his head and ran across his face.  He gave a strangled yell and brushed it off.  And when he saw a huge rat skulking in the shadows, Simon began wish he had never come, and that perhaps the sound wasn’t so wonderful after all and that he should go back to his nice warm bed.
Then he heard it.
 The sound echoed around the passage, much louder than before, far more wonderful and indescribably terrible.  Simon forgot his fears; Thomas’ face shone.  Together they hurried down the passage, the sound growing ever louder.  As they grew closer to the sound, the walls of the tunnel ceased to be wet and dirty.  They were adorned with paintings and magnificent tapestries.  Many other things were in the passageway; things like weird and beautiful statues and ancient artifacts. At intervals the smooth walls of the passage were interrupted by large wooden doors studded with jewels.  Numerous skeletons lay around. But Simon didn’t notice, nor did he notice the bats, snakes and other horrid creatures that slithered, crawled and fluttered about him. All he cared about was the sound.
Suddenly the passage ended.  The pair were in a large, perfectly circular room.  The high arched ceiling was supported by silver beams.  In the middle of the ceiling hung a huge lantern that filled the room with light. The walls of the room were painted with montages and strange symbols, and were encrusted with precious jewels. It was wondrous sight, yet Simon gave it only a glance. His eyes were fixed on a huge door directly ahead of them. The door was exquisitely carved from oak, and in the center of it was a strange symbol made of diamonds.
The sound was coming from behind it.
Small drops of sweat rolled Simon’s forehead.  He wanted more than anything else to see what was behind the door, but terror held him.  He shook with the unbearable emotion of terror and joy combined.
“Come,” said Thomas in a hushed voice.  He took the Simon’s arm and led him to the door.  The sound grew louder.  Thomas drew from his habit a tiny key, carved from a single emerald, inserted it into the lock and twisted it. Then he drew a deep breath, shuddered, and threw open the door.  
Simon gasped, staggered back, and his eyes were filled with wonderment.  For there before him he saw--

Here, my friend, I’m afraid I must leave you, because as I clearly specified earlier in this tale, you must be a part of the “fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood” to know the source of the Sound. In other words,
You have to be a monk to find out. 

.:. THE END .:.

ABOUT THE STORY:  I say "told" because I didn't come up with the plot-- this story is actually based on a joke that was related to me.  I just turned it into a story.  No idea who wrote it (the joke, that is) originally, but it can be found online. :) 

P.S HAPPY APRIL FOOLS!  (even if it is, ehem, slightly late).  Were you annoyed??  Yes?  MWAHAHAHA! HAHA! HA! 

Guess what else? I actually was planning to write this for last year's April Fools.  But it was kinda late and... well, here we are.  "Such is life."  (If you don't know who said that, you're probably not Australian.  It's what Ned Kelly, an outlaw, said just before he died.  Okay, I'll admit I had to look it up to double check).