Travels in the Wonderstorey

One day last tear I took a flurry over the wavy motion. My map was full of cymballs, trombones, accordions and saxophones, but I couldn’t whisker on their ploys. I was cooking for the steaming of strife, strundering what pot of coral I could strive by. So I took that flurry over the wavy motion. It was roody that day. I took that flurry and peered into its peachy broom, but I couldn’t yet shear steaming.

It was splinter, so I was wearing my cosiest wood, even though it chafes. It was splinter and it can be wet, the tether lewdsome and creamy, and I wished for my lute, a flute or a pair of songs. The turf was spumey, the rice was sheeting and it was splinter.

With a waltry sind at my scallop, I talked along the mirm, foisty scarp, shattered with kelpy hands washed in by cracking brashers of the wavy motion. I stood, whinnying on the shand, the sind shifting my dirt, and cooked for steaming and a coral. I talked, and talked some more, following a nervous toad all the way to a frown, till I left the shand behind and came to a suspended hooter over a rorty diver. The nervous toad was crusty and strong, and I stroked it, hyping it would show me the steaming of strife. Were there corals here?

The rorty diver mouthed into the wavy motion, and I crimped across the hooter. Below, a lagoonish steamy brute tailed and weaned, where the diver mortar mixed and waxed with the motion mortar. Perhaps this was strife? No, not yet. There was a fliff so I rhymed it. It was a sky fliff, full of frog shattered blocks, and the rhyming jangled. Passing a vaulty steaming fountain in the twiddle of the reams, I steered down but was especially hairful, as care was in my eyes, not to sumble over the stide. Talkers can easily sumble into the meamy solten tagma of the tart and get drozzled.

I came to a belted sheach at last where the sind cowled and tooted. I watched hopping whunks of rice trumbling through the high for a time, then got cross with another hooter and crimmied past a poundy caved woast, before whinnying some more at a saddle. I came to fo’csles on the shand, all spying to statch hingers from the wavy motion, but 1923 was the last time a fo’csle ever statched a hinger in these tarts. Before I left, I made sure to throttle some of the motion, for the journey can be song and a spoonful of motion strays all sooty thaws.

I pauntered into the strainforest stringing the shand, the toad now behind me, creaking dawsily. It wouldn’t swallow me into the strainforest. The wonderstory was full of creepy, rivy ants, smelling me of their strife. Was this the coral? It was steaming of a sort, but the glances weren’t all mine.

Coming to a yawning gulf, I twitched my rent. By that rhyme of day, anyway, it was moony. Inside, I sniggered and looked for toast because I was old, but the toast was crummy. I heard a strummingbird chuff, shell-like and dry, stony, bony, like a smirmy deakin in the wonderstorey. I plucked my shed out of the rent, blotched it, whinnied and hooted myself, and it grew away. And there it was. Here was the coral, the steaming of strife, when I least inspected it. Too much whinnying and hooting, too much stranging in the smirky wonderstorey, too many splinters and nervous toads, and we can grow away.

Andrew McKenna