The Island of Dred

The many moons that had past since I had landed on the fertile island were numerous. Too numerous to count. Or so I had thought. Until I had decided to count them on the side of the south cave. The number twelve had never been so close to infinity in my life.

Anyway, after living on the island for about a month and a half, I had really gotten sick of all the noises at night. I am no naturalist, but I could have sworn this island had some sort of new insect that made the oddest noise any human could possibly think of. It had the screech of a howler monkey, but the consistency of a cricket chirping. I had come to name this creature the Annoyapotamus, for obvious reasons. Firstly, because of this annoying noise that protruded out of the insect. And secondly, I love Hippopotami.

Since washing up upon this island of dread, I had taught myself how to light fires, climb large boulders, sharpen tools, fish with loose shrubbery, and circumnavigate. Except, you know how circumnavigating means going around the whole globe? I instead sailed around the whole island, which was a mile in length and a half of that in width. So yes, I learned how to circumnavigate the heckery deckery dockery doo out of that remote island.

Well, you are probably asking, "Well how did you venture off this island to be able to write it down, in digital form? Using a computer and remote accessing?"

Well Guess what? I learned that, too! Do not underestimate the power of a craftsman.

The Unexpected Beating

It was to be a most ordinary day of living. Just any old Saturday. Or so I thought. I had awoken to the sweet smell of fresh daisies and lilacs in my room and yawned in a most delightful way. "A Wonderful smelling fragrance has permeated through my nostrils in a pleasing manner!" I said to my goldfish, Sharkbait. He just looked at me in an awkward way, as if to say," Listen man, I'm a fish. I swim and eat and sometimes I kind of sleep. I have gills. I don't have lungs. I can't smell lilacs. I have a 4 second memory. Stop bothering me!" Yeah, that was a pretty complicated and perplexing look my goldfish gave me. But I laughed it off because he is usually in a bad mood and that is just his way of dealing with it. I tried for hours on end to try and teach Sharkstylings sign language but he is just too much of a grump to deal with. Plus after about 8 sessions I realized he didn't have the opposable thumbs that are needed to have to correctly display the signs.
After saying hello to the fish, I went outside to grab the paper. When I went outside, I saw a large Gorilla sitting on top of my freshly delivered paper. I calmly said to the Gorilla, "Um I kind of need that newspaper your sitting on. It is kind of important to me." The Gorilla replied to me, "Oh well excuse me, good sir. I did not see that there," and quickly handed the paper to me. "Well gee, thanks!" The gorilla quickly resorted to his instinctual ways, as he began pummelling me in defense of his territory.

The Highly Dangerous Underground World of Street Knitting

Knitting woolen fabrics had been a great hobby of mine; one where I could just escape from it all. I had grown used to all the techniques and practices that the finest knitters of our time (and last) had performed. They had become second nature to me: the galloping guillotine, the bobbling bubbler, the ransacking rainmaker, and the most feared out of all knitters everywhere, the lovable lamb chop. I had been around the block in the proknitting circuit (so to speak; actually knot at all, since I had literally knitted a whole block in a marathon knitting episode... I would rather not talk about that.) and had seen it all: when knitters had got a little too cocky with their abilities, shot their mouth off to the officials, refused to wear thimbles and lost their fingers in the process. Anyway, I had achieved such huge popularity in the American circuit that it was time for an unorthodox and unique change of pace : The Highly Dangerous Underground World of Street Knitting, in the Indonesian sewer systems. I had grown through the ranks of this competition, and the danger increased with each matchup. Until one day, I had been asked to do the impossible - Thread a half spitted fig newton-flamming isoneedle through a molecularly unstable, radioactive element (Uranium), a no-no in knitting. This would be the equivalent to a special chef, trained in the art of puffer fish cutting, slicing, and serving. Its like that, but now imagine the possibility that you may rupture a wormhole through time. Basically, knitting a new robe for the grim reaper, and being the cause for billions and billions of deaths because of a knitting competition. That is what I was faced with. I had a feeling something would go wrong, but of course, I had to make the attempt. After all, where else was there to go but down? My competitor was so nervous, however, she slipped off the isoneedle and poked herself in the eye. Competition over. I was again the victor. But at what cost?

The Pajama's

The man adored the worn out pajama bottoms, as they had been with him through it all - the great grave robbery, the not-so-edible chicken with corn cob incident ("Don't ask" he would say), the near-fatal incident with the potato skin peeler (who knew?), and so on. The pajama's had been around the block a few times, and then some. This was evident from the various fraying on the right pant legs and some small tearing in small areas; nothing too serious. If you did not know the history behind Calvin's pajama's, you would have thought they were only 3 or 4 years old, at most. He had often grown accustomed to wearing these bottoms outside. People would stare, but Calvin fretted NOT. He would often retort to the gawkers and obnoxious onlookers "These trousers are cooler than you will ever be" in a strict and direct tone. One day he was hanging out with his friends when one of his chums saw him put his wallet in his pajama bottom's pocket. "So tell me, Calvin, what are pajama bottoms for anyway?" Trent was a guy known for getting on the cases of his fellow pals. "Well, Trent, I do believe they are pants for sleeping in. Duh!" he then turned to the rest of the group and said, "Can you believe this guy?" Trent then replied, in an attacking tone "Well then why the hell would they have pockets in them? What the hell were the manufactorers thinking? Probably 'O man they probably need these pockets to carry large amounts of breathmints to prevent morning breathe.' Honestly Calvin, those pajama's suck!" Well this obviously drew the ire of Calvin, as he had stuck through his favourite fabric in good and bad. "LISTEN HERE, TRENT. THE POCKETS ARE NEEDED, NESSASARY, AND NICE! THEY ARE CONVIENANT AND COOL! I AM ALWAYS CATCHING MYSELF SAYING 'DAMN THESE PANTS FOR NOT HAVING POCKETS' AND I WOULD PROBABLY CATCH MYSELF SAYING THAT WITH THESE PERFECT PAJAMA BOTTOMS IF NOT FOR THE ADDITION OF THE POCKETS SO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" Trent left the group soon after this outburst.
It was not a week later when Calvin saw Trent on the street. Calvin approached Trent and apologized, "Listen, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, its just my pajamas are really special to me..." Trent replied "I understand man, it was my fa-" Calvin cut Trent off "NO! Its my fault. Your right I don't know why these pajamas have pockets anyway." This was a lie. "Friends?" Trent replied "Friends." Then, Calvin saw a Lincoln Navigator barrelling towards he and Trent. "Holy Shit, Trent, WATCH OUT!" The Navigator swerved to the right, then side swiped Trent as Calvin dove out of the way. "NO!!!" Trent was bleeding profusely. Thank god Calvin was a well respected medical surgeon who had completed several operations just like this. Trent would be alright.
Weeks later, Trent and Calvin were talking about what had happened. "I was wondering, where did you get the scapal, the stitches, the pliers, the bandage, and everything else you needed to operate?" Calvin smiled. "Simple, Trent. I had my First Aid kit, located in my pajama pocket."

The Great Kreeper

The man was thought to be a lunatic. He kept to himself. It was only a matter of time, most people thought. He worked at the local window repair shop, repairing broken window panes. He never recognized any one's existence around the small town; unless you count the manager of the window store, his boss. They would carry on conversation's whenever the boss would need something done around the store. The boss was always weary of this man. This, odd configuration of molecules strewn about in a semi-sloppy manner. The town was small enough to know him by name. Everyone knew him. Drapper Kreeper was known by all the towns people. The adults whispered tales of antisocial behavior and of how he would avoid eye contact. The children would whisper tales of creepiness and the scary stares they received. The elderly would declare that in their day they would lynch the man because of the way he behaved. The howler monkeys of the town enjoyed his company because of the amount of bananas he left lying around. An eary silence fell over the small town. It was in this time period when it started happening. The town people had been waiting for something like this to happen; they just didn't expect it like this, and in such a way. They had never even imagined such a tragedy. In this city of 3 thousand people, that loved it's refrigerated foods fresh, the unthinkable had happened: for some reason that no one can explain, Drapper Kreeper had stolen every resident's refrigerator door. The Great Refridgerator Door Bandit, or so they would forever call him, was never seen again.

The Future: Part 1

The hydrant had exploded into a sea of various ambigious and exorbadent colours. I had laughed extremely hard as my rocket propelled, handheld, Canadian grade missile had completely destroyed my acquired target. This would be great practice for further excursions into enemy territories in which this large fear-evoking gun would be a nessasity for life. This isn't what you would normally find in a perfect place. But this was the future - a post apocalyptic world of individual republics protected by single people and the greatest of weaponry which was, in fact, produced by the Canadian military years back. The anarchy of the days had started slowly. Surely enough, however, the Green Goblinmen had risen out of the Lake of Salt to convince the people to rise up and destroy all government oppressors. This would eventually lead to a tailspin of trully Earthly proportions when all the people's of earth decided to listen to the Green Goblinmen and break away from their predesposed "Nation" and destroy any and all challengers. The Great Wars had dwindled the Earth's population to around 10 million, mostly now living in Ontario, Canada circa 2000 A.D. I had stationed myself near a remote village by a babbling brook to drain out any and all noise reception I was bound to make. I spotted a large, moving van headed for my area, so I fired my rocket at the beast. "HOLY GARGANZOLA!" I heard being shouted out from the van. "ENEMY FIRE IS A WICKED SPICE TO ENTICE!" I was taken aback by this person's imagery and description of my rocket and decided to make peace with it's inhabitants. Thankfully, my large rocket had missed the van when it pulled some evasive manuevers. I approached the van with a white flag in hand. "PEACE! THIS IS A PEACE SIGN! I WISH TO ENCORPORATE FORCES!" The van then stopped right in it's tracks. It then rearranged itself in a way I have never seen metal do. I had heard about such things. They were myths, or so I thought. Handed down generated by generation, the stories changing ever so slightly until they lost all meaning entirely. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it, smell it, and oddly enough, taste the carbon dioxide the metaillic beast expelled regularly. When this van transformed into a large figure that slightly resembled a human, I was deeply moved and, at the same time, extremely terrified. The beast quickly layed my fears to rest by saying, "IT IS I, OPTIMUS PRIME, LEADER OF THE AUTOBOTS, FROM THE PLANET CYBERTRON! I HAVE COME TO SAVE YOU!" To be continued...

The Cloud Argument

The moment of complete disappointment had hit the man like a large steam engine hitting a brick wall that was fortified by cement casing and metallic wires that gave the enclosure structural support amongst it's bricks. He had waited and wondered for the package to arrived at his house by the afternoon, but snow storm had taken care of this hope that was killed like an elephant stampeding a tiny grasshopper. In Calvin Killingsworth's mind, the day could not get any worse. It was not very much later that he had received a phone call. It was Uncle Albert with the usual rambling. "WHAT IS UP WITH THE CURRENT CLOUD FORMATION?" he would say to Calvin, as if to think he cared about what the clouds looked like. "LISTEN UNC, I AM IN A BAD MOOD TODAY BUT I WILL CALL YOU BACK TOMORROW WHEN WE CAN DISCUSS MULTIPLE ASPECTS OF THE PRECIPITATION WORLD." his uncle agreed. It was the next day when he was awoken from a knock at the door. "It must be my mint condition pencil holder! Gotta love golden enshrined pencil holders!" he thought to himself. He was in for even more disappointment when it was his Uncle Albert, who was teetering on the brink of insanity. He opened the door and said "CIRRUS CUMULUS, BITCH!" and punched Calvin in his jaw. He needed stitches.