Matflatian

Hey Fuzzy.

Drewsome: Your wing is sticking out?

Rastifula: Hey. No. Your kidding me. Could you fix it.

Drewsome: I’ll try.

Rastifula: Listen. I would appreciate it.

Drewsome: No. There. Ok. Yes. Ok. Got it!

Rastifula: Wew. I was worried. I gotta take off at first light.

Drewsome: Me too. Nobody will see us.

Rastifula: You think they know?

Drewsome: No what?

Rastifula: Know. This. Us. Not everyone has wings. We are lucky. Yah. I noticed Faciata was envious of my claws.

Narrator: You may be wondering. Let me take a moment to explain. This is a story about five winged people who lived in a town called Matflatian. Their names are the following:

Faclata

Drewsome a.k.a Fuzzy

Rastifula a.k.a. Rasta

Andula

Anfula

And Loffhoffschmidle

Now the basics are there, let us continue the tale....

“Aaaaaaaa. Laaaaa Laugh”. Faciata sang joyously as she hung dried mice from a clothes line.

Anfula sauntered over. “Your voice is so beautiful. Is it the toad’s soup that keeps it so intune?”

“No, Anfula. It is my mouthwash - mucus from a pig’s snout. Give me a second I’ll go get some for you.”

“What do you think of Drewsome?”

“I think he is dreamy like Franky.”

“Franky? He looks so human doesn’t he? Poor thing. His mother was a cross between a turnip and a Metsferlayn.”

Not everyone is as lucky as us. Llffhoffschmidle has nice wings. But be doesn’t know how to make a proper monster party.”

“I pick Drewsome.’ Faciata stated loudly. Drewsome ears started to tingle.

Narrator: So. All seems great in Matflatian. Think again. This was no ordinary town. There lay a secret too horrible to mention. It festered throughout the hills. The streets were never washed clean from that terrible night. The stones whispered hints of the past. The misty dew of the morning sang a song of sorrows in the thickness of the grass. Listen.

Andula knelt weeping. A large bath towel soaked with her tears. “Where did you go Artlaman?”

“What has happened Andula?”

“Artlaman is gone.”

“No. Andula. It is not possible. Yesterday. I saw him at the market. He can’t be gone. Can be?”

“Yes. Faciata. He is gone. Gone, forever. I don’t know where?”

Just then, Drewsome filling a pail, fell over. “He got me, gals.”

Franky had charged Drewsome and knocked him off his stool. Franky then continued to find Anfula and declare his feelings.

Out in the woods, a Metsferlayn lay sleeping. His long tail glistening in the moonlight. A sparrow swooped down next to his ear. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, you have much to do.”

Narrator: Yes. Sleepy inhabitants. Tomorrow there is much to do.