A selection of short stories with dubious proofreading.
Ben walked out into the woods. The ground was burning with a hundred shades of red and gold, a carpet of autumn leaves. He saw his friend and opened his mouth to call a greeting, but stopped himself at the last moment.
As he stood in fascinated surprise, Maggi rose to her full height and spread a pair of tawny brown wings. He watched her leaf, fluttering away to spin and turn among the thick white clouds.
She Sails Sea Shells
The sea shell sailor tipped her hat, showed her mussels a last time and walked into the fish ship.
Eats, Grasses and Shoots
The cow sat across the bar and took a slow sip of his bourbon. It would be a long night waiting for his handler and he didn’t plan on spending it sober. He leaned over and grabbed the barman’s apron in a tight hoof.
“Oi, bring me some chips.” He growled, glaring through soft brown eyes.
“Sure thing, buddy.” The barman squeaked.
He came back a moment later with a small plastic bowl filled with the delicious chips. The cow lowered his face to the counter and guzzled them with feral greed. Sitting back, he took another swig of his drink just as the undercover detective took his seat beside him. A brown paper envelope slid across the bar.
“It’s all there, what’ve you got?” The detective asked over a pair of dark sunglasses.
The guy couldn’t have been able to see much, the cow thought, wearing sunglasses at night in a dark bar. Either way, he was getting paid.
“The deal is going down tonight.” He paused as a cute Aberdeen Angus walked past and checked out his spots. “They’re real, baby!” He called. “Anyway, it’s going down tonight at the docks.”
A sudden crash made them both look round. The barman had dropped a glass to smash on the floor and was staring at them, pointing a long finger.
“Hey!” He shouted. “He’s a grass!”
The cow spun around on his bar stool, drawing a revolver from his pocket and firing it with his right hoof. Black smoke filled the crowded bar and he felt his vision swim. He’d eaten his fill, done some grassing and shot at the bad guys. It wasn’t a bad life for a cow.
“Eat, grass and shoot” his mother had said on her deathbed. Or was it “Eat grass and shoots”?