Tag Archives: birthday party

What the Donkey Saw

FF 208 J Hardy Carroll

copyright J Hardy Carroll

What the Donkey Saw

The blindfolded child tottered towards the two-dimensional donkey, another victim of her uncle’s over-enthusiastic spinning.

The point of the pin swayed. Then, with a deft thrust, she skewered the animal’s eye.

In a bunker near Pyongyang, technicians watched the screen turn to static.

“Sir, camera destroyed.”

“Clearly,” the captain said. “Well, Operation Birthday Party was yielding less intelligence than anticipated.”

“Sir, I was wondering—”

“For the last time, no bouncy castle!” the captain shouted. Twelve faces drooped. “Well, maybe for the Dear Leader’s birthday. Now, switch to Operation Chucky Cheese. That mouse has some dark secrets. I guarantee it.”

Fit for a King

Fit for a King

The approaching rumble made the fine crystal tinkle. The party guests looked towards the window, wondering what new extravagance would appear.

“And finally, your Majesty, a gift from the sultan of Brunei,” the master of ceremonies said as a sleek white nose came into view, “a Bombardier Global 8000! He wishes you an excellent birthday, and many more to come.”

The guests all looked to see the king’s reaction. The small figure on the throne was not looking out the window. He was playing with a box that had recently held a $50,000 diamond-studded teddy bear. “Vroom! Vroom!” he said.


What a Metaphor is

A metaphor is a soaring bird, wheeling in great arcs beneath the laughing sun that dances in the deep, vibrant, ocean of the sky, where clouds school together, then scatter like puffy, frightened fish;

fish whose golden scales gleam like the ransom of kings seated on towering thrones, glaring down on the hurrying lines of ants they rule, each one a cog in the inexorable machine;


the Juggernaut crawling forward like a hideous beast of war, Ares’ lapdog resting before an inferno of souls, surrounded by the skulls of vanquished heroes, each grinning like a macabre clown, singing a song of ghoulish glee in ghastly harmony: the worst birthday party in the world;

the party stalling, the vain effort of prosperous parents to placate their tempestuous toddler, their obstreperous offspring, by showering him with medals for moot victories and bribes for better behavior;

his face a rainy day of disappointment, until his mother reveals the Great Secret, the trip away from chattering phones and economic conquests, with only the family trinity, together like a hug and a kiss;

his little heart flaming in hope and joy and leaping up like an arrow from the string, like a fiery rocket,

like a soaring bird.

Bird Soaring

Well, a metaphor is something like that. You get the idea.

Mug Party – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

copyright Alastair Forbes

copyright Alastair Forbes

Mug Party

I went to my first Mug Party last night. I thought it was about coffee and I even brought my own mug. That wasn’t what it was about.

The invitation said it was a costume party. I came as Pikachu. Everyone else wore fancy dresses and ornate opera masks.

Someone really should have told me.

Everyone was given a small bag of coins and a rubber hammer and it soon became apparent that a Mug Party was where people flitted around, politely knocking each other on the head and stealing their money.

I quickly lost all my money. Half an hour into the party, I had a splitting headache and was handing out IOUs to my muggers. I was so easy to mug, they were queuing up. By the end of the night, I was $182 in the hole.

That is the last time I let my mad Uncle Kent plan my birthday party.

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