another attempt at fiction.

An elf frolicked in the snow. He built a tree-house over and above the snow. All was white and silent. He smoked a pipe of marijuana. He felt somewhat, moderately depressed. He could hear some music in the distance. It was fifes: pipes and drums. A balanced, careless melody. Pound pound pound went the drums. It was the winter concert. Every year the squirrels put it on for anyone around in nature. If only I had a girlfriend, he thought. Just then, a little female elf was seen off in the distance. Feeling her way through the snow, humming softly in accordance w/ the fifes (pipes) and drums. She came a little closer, and he said (softly enough, for there was snow all over the ground): 'Hey: come up here: I've got some wheat bread and cheddar for some grilled cheeses. Why don't you come up here, and join me; I'd love for you to join me! There's plenty of bread and cheese left, and the music will go on for hours to entertain us.' She said maybe she just might take the chance. 'I am a little hungry,' she said. And so they enjoyed a meal of bread and cheese, together, discussing the serenity of the surroundings, the beauty of the whiteness of the snow ('not a spot in it,' 'pristine'), and the warmth of his Storm Trooper space heater (weak, but strong). Just when she was saying that she had to go to the bathroom, he mentioned that he played guitar, would she like to hear him play a song? 'You play guitar? I sing professionally,' she said. 'I make up my own songs. They're usually quite simple, but they get the job done,' she said. 'I write my own songs, too,' he said, 'Maybe we could write a song together!'

And so they did.

It was called 'Honeycomb,' and, aside from the somber, mellow, laid-back, reluctant guitar chordage, here is how it goes: 

    Honeycomb, honeycomb, how's it go?

    Please me dear, make me kind, don't stop there...

    Step on it, pluck my hair, soothe my brain,

    Have a care, ignore them, less than good,

    Just a phrase, sing it low, key it in,

    Don't give up, keep on goin', wash my ears,

    Wrap me in sounds so cold I feel loved,

    I will love you until my heart stops.

    Mercantile, passersby, royalty,

    Faithful, trust, light and fire, money saved.

    Purity: what a goal, envious:

    Will they be when they hear of our house.

    Jealousy, radio, bicycle.

    Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississip'.

    Talk a mile, haters here, want a nip?

At this point, the lady, whose name was Melissa, asked the man, if he wanted any alcohol, any brandy, which she had brought in her handy side-pocket. 

Yes, said the man, whose name was Sam.

They later went on to get married and have children, four. 

That is the end of this story. Thanks for readin'.

Thanks for readin' my blog, today.

Slade