I fail to understand why previous writers on this “blog” abandoned their real identities so readily. The truth, you see, is that this website has consisted of different authors each day but every single day these so called writers have pretended to be someone else.
   Let me explain.
   This morning, as I had my servant, Manfred, read to me my emails, an odd proposition came out from the blogosphere.  “I am emailing to present to you an interesting experiment on the web. Everyday at fastfictions.blogspot.com there has been a different writer contributing a story which is completely different from the last. Today is your day to add a story. Please post one story for today and then email the password of this blog to a random stranger. If you don’t do this your legs will swell, your tongue will burn and you’ll pee out your bum for the rest of your life. Keep art happening !!” 
    Instantly, I spat out my tea in wondrous surprise. “Chain mail tactics being used for the advancement of literature ?!” I shouted through a misty spray of Earl Grey. I was indeed taken aback but after some time spent in quiet contemplation, I realized that I was up for the challenge but I would forgo the trick of writing behind a mask.
   My name is Thurston Foster Carlston and the world shall hear my literature roar !! 

Taking the Madman Out for Tea

   For reasons too laborious and lengthy to enumerate within the tiny confines of this tender tale, my brother’s wife had become a widow while still in the bloom of her life. Sadly, our family’s fortunes were in a steady decline and there was no prospect of ascent in much the way a chimney sweep will snack on his cookies while at the bottom of a chimney that takes a week or two to clean. Under these conditions, with growth spurred on by adolescence he might increase the circumference of himself to such a size as to be inextricable, unmovable. Add to this metaphor three other people and you have the conditions of our family. Indeed, we felt short of breath with worry at times. As if we were all squeezed in at the bottom of a chimney.
    Two months ago, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I had the occasion to take my sister-in-law out for tea with a most curious gentleman. He was a man of independent means and I was pushed by a hitherto unknown temerity to take my sister to meet him. Perhaps, cupid would also be in attendance I thought to myself. That this man was a strange creature who spoke in bursts of babble-talk was not lost upon me, but – as the poet says – love grows in strange places. Or does he say “groans in strange places” ? No matter, here was a chance to vastly improve our family’s future.
    Sir Cruise, a man of short stature but with large features of the face, shouted some obscenity after we sat down to tea. 
   “I fucking love tea. I love it and you know it’s only the Scientologists who can really appreciate tea. Enjoy it as it should be enjoyed. For what it is,” he drank back his tea as if he were a sailor swilling beer and then he sprayed it up into the air. “Yeah. I love tea !! Yeah I love it.” 
    I was in a quandary as to what to do. Would a life of poverty be superior to my sister-in-law’s betrothal with this madman ?  I looked to the silent blue sky and wondered.

   Dearest Reader: In the next serialized installment of our tale would you prefer to see the two potential lovers 1) separated, 2) betrothed to one another or simply  3) thrown together in a hay loft in an entanglement of passionate love-making ? 
  As always: you make the call.
   

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