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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by jwelker76

Until Morning

Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by jwelker76
Until Morning
Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by zikeda

all mad here

goodbye dinah,

goodbye

i'm going to a place where

you can't follow,

falling in reverse down this

madness hollow

and these roots look a lot

like the veins in my skin

one more shot in the arm

makes my world start to spin

hello dinah,

hello?

i'm lost in a meadow of

poisonous thorns,

mocked by the petals in

flowery scorn

and their pollen is stale

like the lines i inhale, i'm

a bump shrunk too small

as my flesh starts to pale, it's

cold dinah,

cold

i'm chasing a cat with a

grisly grin,

we're all mad, he says,

we're all made of sin

and the pills on my tongue

disappear with his guise

but the mome raths outgrabe

cut me back down to size, i'm

alone dinah,

alone

with the hatter and hare

and their

spirituous brew,

heed the door mouse’ beware

and this tea tastes a lot

like the sorrow i feel

one more pot down the hatch

turns my whole world surreal, i'm

trapped dinah,

trapped

in the red queen's rose court

with her

merciless games,

calling torture a sport

and the drugs numb my soul

but i'd rather be dead

if i don't play her way then

it's off with my head, so

goodbye dinah,

goodbye

i'm going to a place where

you can't follow,

falling in reverse down this

madness hollow

the light leaves my eyes

with my lung's last expand, and

we're all mad here

in this dark wonderland.

-

                                                                                                                         

                     

                                                                                                                             z. ikeda

                                                                                                                                '17

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by zikeda
all mad here
goodbye dinah,
goodbye

i'm going to a place where
you can't follow,
falling in reverse down this
madness hollow

and these roots look a lot
like the veins in my skin

one more shot in the arm
makes my world start to spin

hello dinah,
hello?

i'm lost in a meadow of
poisonous thorns,
mocked by the petals in
flowery scorn

and their pollen is stale
like the lines i inhale, i'm

a bump shrunk too small
as my flesh starts to pale, it's

cold dinah,
cold

i'm chasing a cat with a
grisly grin,
we're all mad, he says,
we're all made of sin

and the pills on my tongue
disappear with his guise

but the mome raths outgrabe
cut me back down to size, i'm

alone dinah,
alone

with the hatter and hare
and their
spirituous brew,
heed the door mouse’ beware

and this tea tastes a lot
like the sorrow i feel

one more pot down the hatch
turns my whole world surreal, i'm

trapped dinah,
trapped

in the red queen's rose court
with her
merciless games,
calling torture a sport

and the drugs numb my soul
but i'd rather be dead

if i don't play her way then
it's off with my head, so

goodbye dinah,
goodbye

i'm going to a place where
you can't follow,
falling in reverse down this
madness hollow

the light leaves my eyes
with my lung's last expand, and

we're all mad here
in this dark wonderland.

-

                                                                                                                         
                     
                                                                                                                             z. ikeda
                                                                                                                                '17
#aliceinwonderland  #hashbrownhashtag  #TwistedTales  #MADITELLTHEE 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Shells

My Wendy

She was stardust. You know the kind that falls from shooting stars and failed flight. 

 One happy thought away from from pixies and pirates. 

 "Just one more try," she said and I watched on in anticipation. 

 She'd grown older somehow, I suppose. A sadness had grasp her eyes and her skin was sallow and pale. 

 This wasn't the Wendy Darling I knew. 

 I mused silently at Nanny's curious bark. It, too, was older somehow. 

How long had it been? A month? A year? A day? I look Back at my shadow, he nods and slowly shakes his head. 

 "What are you waiting for Wendy? We have adventures and pirates and mermaids and...Tink? Where are you Tink?" 

 Wendy's lips were pursed and she sniffed as she looked up at the sky. "oh Peter. I can't" 

"But Wendy," I say "it's the only way. Happy thoughts, Wendy, happy thoughts make you fly."

 The nursery looks the same, I think. Only the child in the bed is small and squirming and he belongs to MY Wendy. I came back for Wendy and I've found this mess. A grown up mess. 

 What are this curious sores on her arms? I wonder if they're from the Orange capped pointed contraption? I know Tink could make a weapon from that. Ole' Captain Hook would scurry from a fairy, I laugh to myself and Wendy turns to look at me.

 Her eyes are the same and I want to kiss her still. Yuck, I've never understood why anyone would want to kiss a dirty​ girl.

 She looks down from the ledge and up at the sky. I here her mutter to herself and look back at the sleeping boy.

 "I'm ready Peter Pan." I spring to action and call Tinkerbell to arms. Fairy Dust surrounds me and I reach for her hand.

 "All you need is Faith and trust..."I say and Wendy remembers 

 "And a little pixie dust," she says and swats the glitter from her eyes.

 "Second star to the right and straight on till morning. Happy thoughts Wendy" 

 I leap and she leaps too and we're going home, I think. I'm soaring through the clouds and the night air feels cool against my face. I'm bringing my Wendy home. Back to Neverland. 

 I'm so overwhelmed with joy that it takes a moment to realize Wendy Darling is nowhere to be seen.

 Nanny is howling. It painful and piercing the noise above London. I swoop down and around and I see the people leaving their houses. Moving towards the Darling's lawn. 

 It's all so very fast. What's happening? She's lying face down on and Michael has arrived from a suburb away.

 Sirens and flashing lights. What fun? But this isn't fun, is it? Tink is hovering beside me urging me to go. But they're covering Wendy with a sheet and Michael is shaking his head and, and he's crying. For a second I think he sees me up here and he nods. But Tink is pulling at my fingers and I know we have to go. 

 "I'll come back for her," I smile, "after she's rested."

 

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Shells
My Wendy
She was stardust. You know the kind that falls from shooting stars and failed flight. 
 One happy thought away from from pixies and pirates. 
 "Just one more try," she said and I watched on in anticipation. 
 She'd grown older somehow, I suppose. A sadness had grasp her eyes and her skin was sallow and pale. 
 This wasn't the Wendy Darling I knew. 
 I mused silently at Nanny's curious bark. It, too, was older somehow. 
How long had it been? A month? A year? A day? I look Back at my shadow, he nods and slowly shakes his head. 
 "What are you waiting for Wendy? We have adventures and pirates and mermaids and...Tink? Where are you Tink?" 
 Wendy's lips were pursed and she sniffed as she looked up at the sky. "oh Peter. I can't" 
"But Wendy," I say "it's the only way. Happy thoughts, Wendy, happy thoughts make you fly."
 The nursery looks the same, I think. Only the child in the bed is small and squirming and he belongs to MY Wendy. I came back for Wendy and I've found this mess. A grown up mess. 
 What are this curious sores on her arms? I wonder if they're from the Orange capped pointed contraption? I know Tink could make a weapon from that. Ole' Captain Hook would scurry from a fairy, I laugh to myself and Wendy turns to look at me.
 Her eyes are the same and I want to kiss her still. Yuck, I've never understood why anyone would want to kiss a dirty​ girl.
 She looks down from the ledge and up at the sky. I here her mutter to herself and look back at the sleeping boy.
 "I'm ready Peter Pan." I spring to action and call Tinkerbell to arms. Fairy Dust surrounds me and I reach for her hand.
 "All you need is Faith and trust..."I say and Wendy remembers 
 "And a little pixie dust," she says and swats the glitter from her eyes.
 "Second star to the right and straight on till morning. Happy thoughts Wendy" 
 I leap and she leaps too and we're going home, I think. I'm soaring through the clouds and the night air feels cool against my face. I'm bringing my Wendy home. Back to Neverland. 
 I'm so overwhelmed with joy that it takes a moment to realize Wendy Darling is nowhere to be seen.
 Nanny is howling. It painful and piercing the noise above London. I swoop down and around and I see the people leaving their houses. Moving towards the Darling's lawn. 
 It's all so very fast. What's happening? She's lying face down on and Michael has arrived from a suburb away.
 Sirens and flashing lights. What fun? But this isn't fun, is it? Tink is hovering beside me urging me to go. But they're covering Wendy with a sheet and Michael is shaking his head and, and he's crying. For a second I think he sees me up here and he nods. But Tink is pulling at my fingers and I know we have to go. 
 "I'll come back for her," I smile, "after she's rested."

 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by sandflea68

Disney Did the Dirty

Testing the waters,

        I’m married to a rabbit

        but I’m a human cartoon,

        he’s the one who should

        breed like a rabbit soon.

I was drawn to be

        voluptuous and sexy

        by Disney cartoonists

        and they purposely forgot

        to draw on my undies.

But, alas, my Roger

        uses Viagra -

       Roger can’t get it up

       and all my curves

       are going to waste.

blowing in the wind

       with nary a taste

       and I am horny

       and unfulfilled.

In other words,

       I swipe at dry crumbs

       He’s unable to do

       what rabbits should do.

I flail and curse at

       my open heart

       and open legs

       as I turn bright red

       on center stage.

Men in audience

       stare back at me.

       I jump into bed

       with another stud,

       part-owner of town

       where I reside.

He’s not that hot,

        but he will do

        until I find

        a replacement man.

I smooth my hands

        over my svelte body

        and notice a bump

        crowding my tummy.

Dr. Doolittle proclaims,

        "Congratulations, Jessica,

        you’re having a litter,”

        as I lie spread eagled

        in a paper gown.

How can I have a litter?

         I’m not a bunny

         and it’s not my honey’s.

I slink back home

        to confess to Roger

        but he has been

        arrested for killing

        my paramour.

I cry to myself,

        it’s all my fault

        he didn’t want

        to do such a

        drastic thing.

But I was wrong

        Roger didn’t do it!

        Judge Sicko,

        deranged psychopath,

        had vowed

        to destroy Roger.

Judge’s goggle eyes

        had focused on me,

        for his turn

        at a tryst.

I meet Judge Sicko

        for a drinkie poo

        and poison his drink,

        swirling it

        with my little finger,

        then leave the bar.

Roger is released

        says he’ll accept

        my litter so

        I leave whole pack

        of baby bunnies

        with him and sashay

        undulating hips

        on my journey

        to find a

         hard lover,

fully aware that

        a good lover

        is hard to find

        but a hard lover

        is good to find.

After all, a sexy

        cartoon character

        takes what she

        can get before

        it’s too late, baby,

         it’s too late!

Why, oh why,

        did imagination

        of Disney

        make me this way?

        I really can’t help

       going astray.

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by sandflea68
Disney Did the Dirty
Testing the waters,
        I’m married to a rabbit
        but I’m a human cartoon,
        he’s the one who should
        breed like a rabbit soon.
I was drawn to be
        voluptuous and sexy
        by Disney cartoonists
        and they purposely forgot
        to draw on my undies.
But, alas, my Roger
        uses Viagra -
       Roger can’t get it up
       and all my curves
       are going to waste.
blowing in the wind
       with nary a taste
       and I am horny
       and unfulfilled.
In other words,
       I swipe at dry crumbs
       He’s unable to do
       what rabbits should do.
I flail and curse at
       my open heart
       and open legs
       as I turn bright red
       on center stage.
Men in audience
       stare back at me.
       I jump into bed
       with another stud,
       part-owner of town
       where I reside.
He’s not that hot,
        but he will do
        until I find
        a replacement man.
I smooth my hands
        over my svelte body
        and notice a bump
        crowding my tummy.
Dr. Doolittle proclaims,
        "Congratulations, Jessica,
        you’re having a litter,”
        as I lie spread eagled
        in a paper gown.
How can I have a litter?
         I’m not a bunny
         and it’s not my honey’s.
I slink back home
        to confess to Roger
        but he has been
        arrested for killing
        my paramour.
I cry to myself,
        it’s all my fault
        he didn’t want
        to do such a
        drastic thing.
But I was wrong
        Roger didn’t do it!
        Judge Sicko,
        deranged psychopath,
        had vowed
        to destroy Roger.
Judge’s goggle eyes
        had focused on me,
        for his turn
        at a tryst.
I meet Judge Sicko
        for a drinkie poo
        and poison his drink,
        swirling it
        with my little finger,
        then leave the bar.
Roger is released
        says he’ll accept
        my litter so
        I leave whole pack
        of baby bunnies
        with him and sashay
        undulating hips
        on my journey
        to find a
         hard lover,
fully aware that
        a good lover
        is hard to find
        but a hard lover
        is good to find.
After all, a sexy
        cartoon character
        takes what she
        can get before
        it’s too late, baby,
         it’s too late!
Why, oh why,
        did imagination
        of Disney
        make me this way?
        I really can’t help
       going astray.

#challenge  #TwistedTales  #LikeRabbits  #DrawnThisWay 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Harry_Situation

Don Trump

Inside the White House.

Donald Trump: 

How dare they reject my genius healthcare plan. I don't know what their problems is. I think it's rigged. There's obviously some sort of wiretapping going on.

Steve Bannon:

I know. Ridiculous, right?

Donald Trump:

I'm gonna tweet how wrong they are.

Steve Bannon:

Don't do that... and you just did that.

Donald Trump:

Maybe everyone in the world is right. I'm a joke.

Steve Bannon: 

You? A joke? Never! Donny boy, you've got to pull yourself together.

Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Don Trump

Hanging so low by the ropes

You're such a brilliant man, Don Trump

So don't you listen to those dopes

There's no man that'll make America great again

You're featured on the cover of Time

Everyone wants to drop and go down on you

And now I break out into rhyme

Nooooooooo oooooone's

Wise like Don Trump

No one's got thighs like Don Trump

No one's hands are as big as Don Trump's

For there's no man in the whole country

Perfectly orange on each spot

You can always ask Mike, Paul, & Vlady

And they'll tell you whose back they've got

Chorus:

Nooooooooo oooooone's

Got riches like Don Trump

No one bitches like Don Trump

No one's worth billions like Don Trump

Donald Trump:

As a business man, yes, I'm intimidating

Chorus:

Wow, what a prez, that Don Trump

Go build that wall

Each bit by bit

Steve Bannon:

Don Trump is the best,

Everyone else can eat shit

Chorus:

Nooooooooo oooooone

Argues like Don Trump

No one starts fights like Don Trump

In a farting match, no one stinks like Don Trump

For there's no one in town that sprays

Donald Trump:

So much spray so I'm tan as a fool

Mike Pence:

He lied to the blacks and the gays

Donald Trump: 

That's true, and also my hair looks very cool

Chorus:

No one hits like Don Trump

Or spits racism like Don Trump

Betsy DeVos:

On Twitter, Nobody out tweets like Don Trump

Donald Trump: 

I am indeed very literated. #thatisaword #reallysmart

Chorus: 

That's another win for Don Trump

Donald Trump: 

When I was on The Apprentice, I became more famous

Owning at least 50 new cars

And now that I'm president, I have lots of dough

So now I can buy Madagascar

Chorus:

Why?

Donald Trump:

Doesn't matter. Keep singing.

Chorus:

Nooooooooo oooooone

Falsely accuses like Don Trump

No one harasses women like Don Trump

Steve Bannon:

Then goes to the camera calling fake news like Don Trump.

Donald Trump: 

I've got dollar signs in all of my paintings.

Neo Nazis: 

Salute him again!

KKK: 

He's the man among men

Rednecks:

He won the voting floor.

Westboro Baptist Church: 

He's the hero we prayed for.

Chorus:

He's the enemy of the press

Don't you know? Can't you guess?

Ask his fans that we've paid off

He's the one guy in town 

Whose got America bent down

Steve Bannon: 

And his name is D-O-N... I just occurred to me that I honestly don't know how to spell his full name because I'm more for spending money on weapons and defense rather than our educational system. But you know who I'm talking about, right?

Don Truuuuuuuuuuump

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Harry_Situation
Don Trump
Inside the White House.

Donald Trump: 
How dare they reject my genius healthcare plan. I don't know what their problems is. I think it's rigged. There's obviously some sort of wiretapping going on.

Steve Bannon:
I know. Ridiculous, right?

Donald Trump:
I'm gonna tweet how wrong they are.

Steve Bannon:
Don't do that... and you just did that.

Donald Trump:
Maybe everyone in the world is right. I'm a joke.

Steve Bannon: 
You? A joke? Never! Donny boy, you've got to pull yourself together.

Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Don Trump
Hanging so low by the ropes
You're such a brilliant man, Don Trump
So don't you listen to those dopes

There's no man that'll make America great again
You're featured on the cover of Time
Everyone wants to drop and go down on you
And now I break out into rhyme

Nooooooooo oooooone's
Wise like Don Trump
No one's got thighs like Don Trump
No one's hands are as big as Don Trump's

For there's no man in the whole country
Perfectly orange on each spot
You can always ask Mike, Paul, & Vlady
And they'll tell you whose back they've got

Chorus:
Nooooooooo oooooone's
Got riches like Don Trump
No one bitches like Don Trump
No one's worth billions like Don Trump

Donald Trump:
As a business man, yes, I'm intimidating

Chorus:
Wow, what a prez, that Don Trump

Go build that wall
Each bit by bit

Steve Bannon:
Don Trump is the best,
Everyone else can eat shit

Chorus:
Nooooooooo oooooone
Argues like Don Trump
No one starts fights like Don Trump
In a farting match, no one stinks like Don Trump
For there's no one in town that sprays

Donald Trump:
So much spray so I'm tan as a fool

Mike Pence:
He lied to the blacks and the gays

Donald Trump: 
That's true, and also my hair looks very cool

Chorus:
No one hits like Don Trump
Or spits racism like Don Trump

Betsy DeVos:
On Twitter, Nobody out tweets like Don Trump

Donald Trump: 
I am indeed very literated. #thatisaword #reallysmart

Chorus: 
That's another win for Don Trump

Donald Trump: 
When I was on The Apprentice, I became more famous
Owning at least 50 new cars
And now that I'm president, I have lots of dough
So now I can buy Madagascar

Chorus:
Why?

Donald Trump:
Doesn't matter. Keep singing.

Chorus:
Nooooooooo oooooone
Falsely accuses like Don Trump
No one harasses women like Don Trump

Steve Bannon:
Then goes to the camera calling fake news like Don Trump.

Donald Trump: 
I've got dollar signs in all of my paintings.

Neo Nazis: 
Salute him again!

KKK: 
He's the man among men

Rednecks:
He won the voting floor.

Westboro Baptist Church: 
He's the hero we prayed for.

Chorus:
He's the enemy of the press
Don't you know? Can't you guess?
Ask his fans that we've paid off
He's the one guy in town 
Whose got America bent down

Steve Bannon: 
And his name is D-O-N... I just occurred to me that I honestly don't know how to spell his full name because I'm more for spending money on weapons and defense rather than our educational system. But you know who I'm talking about, right?

Don Truuuuuuuuuuump
#comedy  #parody  #disneysong 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Jumotki

Fathoms Below

We are locked in a waltz, the prince and I. My lower body is on fire, agony snaking up my feet and legs where my lustrous green tail and fins had been. It takes every effort, all of my years of stringent royal training, not to scream soundlessly in his face and collapse.

I dance on knives.

His lips brush against mine and his hands grip me close. My strange human heartbeat thrums in my throat, where my gills were before they melted into smooth flesh.

I am a seamless knit of skin wobbling on two skinny appendages. Through the embroidered layers of my skirts, I scratch and scratch at scales no longer on my body. The prince, all grace and poise, takes my scratching hand, holds me to the warmth of his chest, and whispers into my ear reassuringly.

All around us are colors and movement; women in bright gauzy dresses drift like schools of jellyfish around men in tailcoats, straight-backed and proud.

At breakfast, I used red jelly and fingers to paint pictures of my family: me, my sisters, my father the Sea King, resplendent with trident and crown. I drew the merfolk and the palace and the carriages pulled by a retinue of plumed seahorses. It looked like blood spreading on the tablecloth.

The prince said: “What a pretty drawing, dearest.”

I shook my head furiously, silver utensils flying out of my hair, and pointed to myself, then to the tablecloth.

How could I convey to him the joy of warm currents, the gardens of bright anemone and coral, fish swimming in and out of open windows, and the chorus of voices singing the sun down?

Days pass and memories of my home slip away like water, the voices of the ocean grow fainter as I pace up and down the seashore.

The servants and courtiers whisper when I walk the halls of the palace. I hear whispers of “asylum” and hope this is a place that my prince will take me, like when he took me to visit the town.

Sebastian, faithful companion, bright red and festooned with parsley and buttery sauce, lies on a silver platter. His eyes are bubbled onto his stalks and watch me silently, disapproving even in death.

He had followed me then, scuttling in the shadows until cornered by a kitchen boy, although I had warned him to stay hidden in my room.

Prince Eric, seeing my distress, says soothingly, “Only a king crab, dear one.” And to the others at the banquet table: “Poor, sensitive creature. Ariel was showing me her love for ocean life only earlier this morning. Wonderful artist, this girl.”

I tuck a mini-trident into my evening gown, as they had persuaded me to relinquish the ones I wound into my hair.

He raises a wine goblet to me and turns to chat with the woman beside him.

The wedding ship. Revelry. The deck of the vessel is a blaze of white: the wedding party dancing around a spew of white banners and flowers. Prince Eric and his new bride are spinning in a waltz. The sun casts everyone in a golden haze.

I slide unnoticed from the railing into the waves and swim away from the hull of the ship, my body heaving, dying. And then my spirit is released like a breath of wind and escapes the pain-riddled ruin of my flesh, leaving the body floating in the waves.

I rise with the sea spray and foam. The prince and newly crowned princess, dancing no longer, stand entwined by the bow.

I brush a kiss, soft as mist, against his face. It is enough to know that he is happy and in love. It is enough to have loved him.

“Where is that red-headed whore who has so diverted your attention?” The Princess asks.

“Poor girl!” Prince Eric says. "Washed up on the shore like so much trash. She's a raving lunatic, you know.”

The princess laughs, raucous as the gulls hovering in the ship’s wake.

“I hear she collects cutlery for her hair,” she says. “And that she thinks she is a princess of the sea!”

The prince laughs with her. 

Pain worse than the knife gash of my missing fins and more encompassing than the loss of my voice and songs. The scream rises out of my soul, from the very depths of me, and the ocean answers. The sky churns black, flickering throughout with lightning, and the waves rise to meet it. The ship bobs up and down the swells like a lost bottle.

Screams from the ship, as the wedding party lurches up and down the deck. The prince shouts orders over their shrieks and the howls of the storm, the princess huddles with her maids, drenched and moaning.

With my last breath I whisper, “Father.”

The storm howls. The ocean is a maelstrom of broiling, black waters.

From the depths of the waters come tentacles, vast and familiar, that creep over the ship’s deck and clenches like a fist.

I sigh and close my eyes at last. 

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Jumotki
Fathoms Below
We are locked in a waltz, the prince and I. My lower body is on fire, agony snaking up my feet and legs where my lustrous green tail and fins had been. It takes every effort, all of my years of stringent royal training, not to scream soundlessly in his face and collapse.
I dance on knives.
His lips brush against mine and his hands grip me close. My strange human heartbeat thrums in my throat, where my gills were before they melted into smooth flesh.
I am a seamless knit of skin wobbling on two skinny appendages. Through the embroidered layers of my skirts, I scratch and scratch at scales no longer on my body. The prince, all grace and poise, takes my scratching hand, holds me to the warmth of his chest, and whispers into my ear reassuringly.
All around us are colors and movement; women in bright gauzy dresses drift like schools of jellyfish around men in tailcoats, straight-backed and proud.
At breakfast, I used red jelly and fingers to paint pictures of my family: me, my sisters, my father the Sea King, resplendent with trident and crown. I drew the merfolk and the palace and the carriages pulled by a retinue of plumed seahorses. It looked like blood spreading on the tablecloth.
The prince said: “What a pretty drawing, dearest.”
I shook my head furiously, silver utensils flying out of my hair, and pointed to myself, then to the tablecloth.
How could I convey to him the joy of warm currents, the gardens of bright anemone and coral, fish swimming in and out of open windows, and the chorus of voices singing the sun down?
Days pass and memories of my home slip away like water, the voices of the ocean grow fainter as I pace up and down the seashore.
The servants and courtiers whisper when I walk the halls of the palace. I hear whispers of “asylum” and hope this is a place that my prince will take me, like when he took me to visit the town.

Sebastian, faithful companion, bright red and festooned with parsley and buttery sauce, lies on a silver platter. His eyes are bubbled onto his stalks and watch me silently, disapproving even in death.
He had followed me then, scuttling in the shadows until cornered by a kitchen boy, although I had warned him to stay hidden in my room.
Prince Eric, seeing my distress, says soothingly, “Only a king crab, dear one.” And to the others at the banquet table: “Poor, sensitive creature. Ariel was showing me her love for ocean life only earlier this morning. Wonderful artist, this girl.”
I tuck a mini-trident into my evening gown, as they had persuaded me to relinquish the ones I wound into my hair.
He raises a wine goblet to me and turns to chat with the woman beside him.

The wedding ship. Revelry. The deck of the vessel is a blaze of white: the wedding party dancing around a spew of white banners and flowers. Prince Eric and his new bride are spinning in a waltz. The sun casts everyone in a golden haze.
I slide unnoticed from the railing into the waves and swim away from the hull of the ship, my body heaving, dying. And then my spirit is released like a breath of wind and escapes the pain-riddled ruin of my flesh, leaving the body floating in the waves.
I rise with the sea spray and foam. The prince and newly crowned princess, dancing no longer, stand entwined by the bow.
I brush a kiss, soft as mist, against his face. It is enough to know that he is happy and in love. It is enough to have loved him.
“Where is that red-headed whore who has so diverted your attention?” The Princess asks.
“Poor girl!” Prince Eric says. "Washed up on the shore like so much trash. She's a raving lunatic, you know.”
The princess laughs, raucous as the gulls hovering in the ship’s wake.
“I hear she collects cutlery for her hair,” she says. “And that she thinks she is a princess of the sea!”
The prince laughs with her. 
Pain worse than the knife gash of my missing fins and more encompassing than the loss of my voice and songs. The scream rises out of my soul, from the very depths of me, and the ocean answers. The sky churns black, flickering throughout with lightning, and the waves rise to meet it. The ship bobs up and down the swells like a lost bottle.
Screams from the ship, as the wedding party lurches up and down the deck. The prince shouts orders over their shrieks and the howls of the storm, the princess huddles with her maids, drenched and moaning.
With my last breath I whisper, “Father.”
The storm howls. The ocean is a maelstrom of broiling, black waters.
From the depths of the waters come tentacles, vast and familiar, that creep over the ship’s deck and clenches like a fist.
I sigh and close my eyes at last. 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Syne

Once Upon A Dream

She spent much of her time dreaming, remembering her time in the cozy little cabin deep in the heart of the woods where Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather, her three fairy godmothers, had raised her, the gentle trickle of the nearby stream and the carefree chorus of playful birds soothed her soul, and, for those brief moments, it made her forget where she truly was.

But other times she was aware of the grim stone walls, the cold bitter air that entered through the open window of the tower. Even though she was in deep slumber, she could still sense her surroundings, somehow. It must be an effect of her enchanted sleep.

She couldn't regret something that she couldn't control, and the way the cursed spindle had beckoned her with its perfect tip that seemed to taper off into an infinitely small point in space and time, catching the occasional glimmer of light, like a tiny black hole emitting Hawking radiation, well, it had been far out of her control. She had always been destined to prick herself.

And so now she lay there in her miserable chamber on a bed made of gold, like a trophy forgotten in an old attic, her body shackled in slumber and frozen in time, her mind traveling between different levels of awareness, her heart impatient, waiting for a miracle in the form of a handsome prince to come to her and wake her.

At least when she began to feel sorry for herself she could return to her little cabin by the stream. She would sing with the birds, and, for a moment, she'd forget again, drifting in a dream.

"She's so beautiful. She--she looks so peaceful, as if she's dreaming."

Phillip brushed away the tear trailing down his cheek as he looked at his love longingly.

"I think--I think I am ready Flor. I've been dreading this moment, and wishing for it at the same time. For her sake. When she started becoming delusional--when she attempted--they were the hardest moments in my life. But this is harder. Now I'm making the decision for her."

"My dear, I can't imagine how you must feel. You love her so much. She knows it. 7 years is a long time to hold out Phillip. You should take some time off work, be with family, I'm sure your clients will understand.

Anyways, I'll tell nurse Merryweather to get Dr. Malefstra. I will give you a moment with her alone before we disconnect. Take all the time you need."

As he looked down at his sleeping beauty, his dearest wife, Phillip could feel individual heartstrings being torn, endless love and eternal sorrow were pulling at his heart in opposite directions. He took a moment to cherrish the sound of her heart monitor, her beat was slow, but it was steady. Then, he bent down towards her, and time stood still for that second, as he kissed her.

"I love you, Aurora. I'll see you again one day. Goodbye."

She wasn't dreaming anymore, but she was not inside of the tower either. In front of her were beautiful trees, greener than any other tree. There was a little cabin, and right next to it, a gentle stream.

She felt so awake, she had felt the kiss, it must have worked! She had felt those lips before, once upon a dream. She didn't know how she had gotten there, or where her prince was, but she was awake, away from that dreaded tower, and it filled her with joy.

As she walked towards the cabin, she could she a bright golden light shining from under the door, welcoming her.

The same sensation that had drawn her to the spindle was now calling her towards the door. But this was different, she felt warm, safe. She felt free.

"Flora, Fauna, Merryweather, my loves, I'm home!"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

From afar, she watched as Aurora walked towards the light, her right arm outstretched, reaching for something only she could see. Lucifer knew this one didn't need leading, she had been ready for the light a long time ago.

#twistedtales

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Syne
Once Upon A Dream
She spent much of her time dreaming, remembering her time in the cozy little cabin deep in the heart of the woods where Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather, her three fairy godmothers, had raised her, the gentle trickle of the nearby stream and the carefree chorus of playful birds soothed her soul, and, for those brief moments, it made her forget where she truly was.

But other times she was aware of the grim stone walls, the cold bitter air that entered through the open window of the tower. Even though she was in deep slumber, she could still sense her surroundings, somehow. It must be an effect of her enchanted sleep.

She couldn't regret something that she couldn't control, and the way the cursed spindle had beckoned her with its perfect tip that seemed to taper off into an infinitely small point in space and time, catching the occasional glimmer of light, like a tiny black hole emitting Hawking radiation, well, it had been far out of her control. She had always been destined to prick herself.

And so now she lay there in her miserable chamber on a bed made of gold, like a trophy forgotten in an old attic, her body shackled in slumber and frozen in time, her mind traveling between different levels of awareness, her heart impatient, waiting for a miracle in the form of a handsome prince to come to her and wake her.
At least when she began to feel sorry for herself she could return to her little cabin by the stream. She would sing with the birds, and, for a moment, she'd forget again, drifting in a dream.




"She's so beautiful. She--she looks so peaceful, as if she's dreaming."

Phillip brushed away the tear trailing down his cheek as he looked at his love longingly.

"I think--I think I am ready Flor. I've been dreading this moment, and wishing for it at the same time. For her sake. When she started becoming delusional--when she attempted--they were the hardest moments in my life. But this is harder. Now I'm making the decision for her."

"My dear, I can't imagine how you must feel. You love her so much. She knows it. 7 years is a long time to hold out Phillip. You should take some time off work, be with family, I'm sure your clients will understand.
Anyways, I'll tell nurse Merryweather to get Dr. Malefstra. I will give you a moment with her alone before we disconnect. Take all the time you need."

As he looked down at his sleeping beauty, his dearest wife, Phillip could feel individual heartstrings being torn, endless love and eternal sorrow were pulling at his heart in opposite directions. He took a moment to cherrish the sound of her heart monitor, her beat was slow, but it was steady. Then, he bent down towards her, and time stood still for that second, as he kissed her.
"I love you, Aurora. I'll see you again one day. Goodbye."


She wasn't dreaming anymore, but she was not inside of the tower either. In front of her were beautiful trees, greener than any other tree. There was a little cabin, and right next to it, a gentle stream.
She felt so awake, she had felt the kiss, it must have worked! She had felt those lips before, once upon a dream. She didn't know how she had gotten there, or where her prince was, but she was awake, away from that dreaded tower, and it filled her with joy.
As she walked towards the cabin, she could she a bright golden light shining from under the door, welcoming her.
The same sensation that had drawn her to the spindle was now calling her towards the door. But this was different, she felt warm, safe. She felt free.
"Flora, Fauna, Merryweather, my loves, I'm home!"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


From afar, she watched as Aurora walked towards the light, her right arm outstretched, reaching for something only she could see. Lucifer knew this one didn't need leading, she had been ready for the light a long time ago.


#twistedtales
#fantasy  #fiction  #romance  #philosophy  #spirituality  #culture  #disney  #literature  #sleepingbeauty 
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by EstherFlowers1

The Ballad of the Beast.

Innocent girls are relinquished to me.

The donors unconsciously callous.

This mutation that everyone's flocking to see

Has also impacted my phallus.

I am a ransacked disfigured behemoth.

Boils maim me beneath my fine tunic.

Bloody puss seeping out through my knee-cloth,

I'm eroded, a foul-odored eunuch.

I lurch repressed in my own tortured palace,

Virgin maids attending my whims,

Filling lavish my plate and my chalice,

flaunting their delicate limbs.

Surgeons arrive, a beguiling hoard,

looking for fame and my coin.

Claiming my potency might be restored,

Inspecting my rot-fettered groin.

Neglecting professional charm, 

They retch at the sight of my flesh.

Choking back spew in alarm,

Some meagerly offer a mesh.

Hearing tell of my famed mutilation,

Finally a skilled doctor comes.

Probing in pure fascination,

To nausea she never succumbs.

Dr. Belle listens close to my plight,

Prescribing a series of mends.

Obsessing me night after night,

With generous care she attends.

Tumors are weeded skillfully out,

Salves are applied to the sores,

Gradually previous shapes come about

Underneath layers of gauze

Months pass of her endless devotion.

Recovery starts to go well.

A pleasing yet startling emotion

Arises for sweet Dr. Belle.

I order young maidens off-duty,

My lust for their bodies revoked.

I wondered if this caring beauty

Requited the love she evoked.

Observing my first full erection,

She stands by the side of my bed.

Groping softly to ascertain flection,

She blushes a light pinkish red.

Belle stares at my form with desire,

All past reservations released,

Kindling me in her rare tender fire,

This Beauty makes love to the Beast.

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by EstherFlowers1
The Ballad of the Beast.
Innocent girls are relinquished to me.
The donors unconsciously callous.
This mutation that everyone's flocking to see
Has also impacted my phallus.

I am a ransacked disfigured behemoth.
Boils maim me beneath my fine tunic.
Bloody puss seeping out through my knee-cloth,
I'm eroded, a foul-odored eunuch.

I lurch repressed in my own tortured palace,
Virgin maids attending my whims,
Filling lavish my plate and my chalice,
flaunting their delicate limbs.

Surgeons arrive, a beguiling hoard,
looking for fame and my coin.
Claiming my potency might be restored,
Inspecting my rot-fettered groin.

Neglecting professional charm, 
They retch at the sight of my flesh.
Choking back spew in alarm,
Some meagerly offer a mesh.

Hearing tell of my famed mutilation,
Finally a skilled doctor comes.
Probing in pure fascination,
To nausea she never succumbs.

Dr. Belle listens close to my plight,
Prescribing a series of mends.
Obsessing me night after night,
With generous care she attends.

Tumors are weeded skillfully out,
Salves are applied to the sores,
Gradually previous shapes come about
Underneath layers of gauze

Months pass of her endless devotion.
Recovery starts to go well.
A pleasing yet startling emotion
Arises for sweet Dr. Belle.

I order young maidens off-duty,
My lust for their bodies revoked.
I wondered if this caring beauty
Requited the love she evoked.

Observing my first full erection,
She stands by the side of my bed.
Groping softly to ascertain flection,
She blushes a light pinkish red.
Belle stares at my form with desire,
All past reservations released,
Kindling me in her rare tender fire,
This Beauty makes love to the Beast.
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Mrjdhyde

Jack and the Beanstalk, or how the village idiot became a multiple felon.

Jack and the Beanstalk, or how the village idiot became a multiple felon.

We grow up on fairy tales, for years they were used to instill morality and common sense in children. Then Walt Disney comes along and whitewashes the ugliness from the fairy tales. Making them more palatable, and starts teaching the kids that love is easy, wishing real hard will make everything better, and to take anything that a stranger gives you.

The whitewashing began long before Disney, it actually started with Grimm’s fairy tales. Which was put out by the Grimm and Grimm law firm and publishing company. Who took real life events; and tried spinning it to not only keep their clients out of jail, but they also sold the stories as “tell-all books”. I'm going to ruin a few childhood memories by telling what really happened!

Case #5720 Jack AKA the Beanstalk Killer

Witness statement: Johanna Anderson

Officer: Please tell us what you know about Jack and the incident.

Witness: Jack is stupid everyone knows it even his mom, who keeps defending his sorry ass.

They were broke, and hungry, and his moms told him to take the cow to town and sell it. Which just shows how smart his mom is, selling a cow, which is food, for money to pay for food. She drinks a lot.

So Jack is taking the cow to town, and gets stopped by a stranger. Who obviously knows stupid when he sees it. And the dude offers to trade the cow for three mushrooms. Old dumb ass Jack takes the trade.

Officer: Wait, you're telling me that this kid traded a cow for three mushrooms? We were told that it was beans.

Witness: Hell, no. Jack came to me bragging about his great trade. I told you that he's stupid. So his moms gets pissed, and throws the mushrooms out the window. Probably thinking about how much she drank when she was pregnant. So Jack he starts screaming back, runs outside, and eats the mushrooms whole. All three of them.

Well, after a while the mushrooms kick in, that idiot didn’t realize that he was high. 

He takes off and shows up the next morning on my doorstep; naked, covered in blood. Then, he starts telling me something about a giant, a singing sword, and a goose that lays golden eggs. I wrapped him up in a blanket and called you. You said a man had been killed?

Officer: Yes, ma’am. We have found the body of one George​ “Tiny” Taylor, a local butcher. Apparently he was killed, and robbed of some poultry. Sounds like a typical story of a kid on the shroom, I blame that damned broadsheet music. If you have nothing else just sign here and we will let you go.

Interview over.

Yep, I’m sorry to ruin your special childhood story, but the truth must come out. Jack lawyered up. The lawyer's sold the book rights, and made a mint.

Next time I'll tell you about the 7 frat boys who roofied a runaway and sold her to a necrophiliac...

   

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Written by Mrjdhyde
Jack and the Beanstalk, or how the village idiot became a multiple felon.
Jack and the Beanstalk, or how the village idiot became a multiple felon.
We grow up on fairy tales, for years they were used to instill morality and common sense in children. Then Walt Disney comes along and whitewashes the ugliness from the fairy tales. Making them more palatable, and starts teaching the kids that love is easy, wishing real hard will make everything better, and to take anything that a stranger gives you.
The whitewashing began long before Disney, it actually started with Grimm’s fairy tales. Which was put out by the Grimm and Grimm law firm and publishing company. Who took real life events; and tried spinning it to not only keep their clients out of jail, but they also sold the stories as “tell-all books”. I'm going to ruin a few childhood memories by telling what really happened!

Case #5720 Jack AKA the Beanstalk Killer

Witness statement: Johanna Anderson

Officer: Please tell us what you know about Jack and the incident.

Witness: Jack is stupid everyone knows it even his mom, who keeps defending his sorry ass.
They were broke, and hungry, and his moms told him to take the cow to town and sell it. Which just shows how smart his mom is, selling a cow, which is food, for money to pay for food. She drinks a lot.
So Jack is taking the cow to town, and gets stopped by a stranger. Who obviously knows stupid when he sees it. And the dude offers to trade the cow for three mushrooms. Old dumb ass Jack takes the trade.

Officer: Wait, you're telling me that this kid traded a cow for three mushrooms? We were told that it was beans.

Witness: Hell, no. Jack came to me bragging about his great trade. I told you that he's stupid. So his moms gets pissed, and throws the mushrooms out the window. Probably thinking about how much she drank when she was pregnant. So Jack he starts screaming back, runs outside, and eats the mushrooms whole. All three of them.
Well, after a while the mushrooms kick in, that idiot didn’t realize that he was high. 
He takes off and shows up the next morning on my doorstep; naked, covered in blood. Then, he starts telling me something about a giant, a singing sword, and a goose that lays golden eggs. I wrapped him up in a blanket and called you. You said a man had been killed?

Officer: Yes, ma’am. We have found the body of one George​ “Tiny” Taylor, a local butcher. Apparently he was killed, and robbed of some poultry. Sounds like a typical story of a kid on the shroom, I blame that damned broadsheet music. If you have nothing else just sign here and we will let you go.

Interview over.

Yep, I’m sorry to ruin your special childhood story, but the truth must come out. Jack lawyered up. The lawyer's sold the book rights, and made a mint.
Next time I'll tell you about the 7 frat boys who roofied a runaway and sold her to a necrophiliac...
   
23
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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Chapter 12 of Scenes From a Dusty Mind
Written by dustygrein

Flint

This dame was trouble. I knew that even before she unfurled those gossamer wings and let me have it with that smile that would melt butter. The pixie haircut and the skinny waist weren’t enough to fool me, but somehow I just couldn’t keep my defenses up.

“So, what do they call you, sweetheart?” I knew that her voice would be just as adorable as she was. It didn't disappoint.

“Tink. Please tell me you can help, me Mr. Flint.”

“Listen Tink, let’s get one thing straight. The name is Sam.”

“Okay Sam it is.” The sound of bells ringing seemed to echo in the air around her as she flitted up and down trailing a small shimmer of sparkling dust behind her.

“So tell me what happened, Toots.”

“It was that horrid girl Wendy’s fault, I just know it!” I had the feeling this little slip of a woman was playing me like a well-tuned piano.

“What exactly happened?”

“Peter and I were having a great time, you know, playing tag.”

I have heard some strange names for the kind of games I’m sure they were playing, but tag was a new one. “So how did your boyfriend die?”

She batted those little almond shaped eyes at me. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “He isn’t dead, Sam. I need you to find out who that dead boy really is, and where Peter and that Wendy creature went.”

This was going to be one of those days.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

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CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Chapter 12 of Scenes From a Dusty Mind
Written by dustygrein
Flint
This dame was trouble. I knew that even before she unfurled those gossamer wings and let me have it with that smile that would melt butter. The pixie haircut and the skinny waist weren’t enough to fool me, but somehow I just couldn’t keep my defenses up.

“So, what do they call you, sweetheart?” I knew that her voice would be just as adorable as she was. It didn't disappoint.

“Tink. Please tell me you can help, me Mr. Flint.”

“Listen Tink, let’s get one thing straight. The name is Sam.”

“Okay Sam it is.” The sound of bells ringing seemed to echo in the air around her as she flitted up and down trailing a small shimmer of sparkling dust behind her.

“So tell me what happened, Toots.”

“It was that horrid girl Wendy’s fault, I just know it!” I had the feeling this little slip of a woman was playing me like a well-tuned piano.

“What exactly happened?”

“Peter and I were having a great time, you know, playing tag.”

I have heard some strange names for the kind of games I’m sure they were playing, but tag was a new one. “So how did your boyfriend die?”

She batted those little almond shaped eyes at me. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “He isn’t dead, Sam. I need you to find out who that dead boy really is, and where Peter and that Wendy creature went.”

This was going to be one of those days.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein
20
8
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Juice
135 reads
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