The Mummified Hogan

  “Green peppered horse-snips,” Lion mentioned vaguely as he dug about in the saptured garden of grassy delights. “I must catch a black one!”

   Phoenix paid him no mind. “There is a slight ripple in my splendid sheets of slumber, so now I must pack them away with the baggage of a thousand suns. And then they might run with the alpine minks of better days, never again to stand with those frost collectors in Sintondale,” he thought before turning to chapter five of the “One True Spice of Life”; it wasn’t Parsley, or his friends…

   The spaniel was asleep beneath the fruity old oak. It cast its wicked eye on the troubled pin board that hung in the sky and shook its leaves imbruently.

   It wasn’t long before Lion dug up the harrowed benches of a scumbleted old tiger. “Not more clutter for the dagnog attic!” he grumbled. “Multis flora picnics- he consumes them all with a whole pot of tea.”

   The windows whined as the wind whipped away their butter dreams and scattered them across the valley of doubt. Settling in the grass ties of our beckoning fate, they burnt a pit of shattered promise, before tying that to the night and watching it float away.

   Lion hadn’t tasted the agony for himself and carried on digging until the earth turned to sand. He raised his head and saw a cloud of insensitive burkants. They marched on over, snatched the golden robe and slung it over the fleezy fence.

   A dormouse took offence and shoved it on a raging fire of doom. Lion smiled at the fence’s sweet demise and watched as the flames leapt from their lives, like inconsequential blundrous burdens that just couldn’t get their lives together.

   Then, off Lion wandered, through the desert, until his paws began to ache. He’d wandered past tables that turned on their own, and past temptresses who were painting the ark of peace.

   Finally, a square stopped him in his tracks; (he was red). “And just where are your fringled edges?” he did demand.

   “Around the middle, for I am a lion, you see,” Lion spoke.

   The splinterful square inspected him thoroughly and then stamped him with a carrot of approval. “Well,” he mumbled, “I don’t suppose we all could be blessed with such splendid angles.”

   “I don’t’ suppose we could,” Lion confirmed.

   With a blink, he was back in a tidy room; the one in which he’d arrived in times gone by. Everytime he found himself back in this marsonbury section of planet oak.

   A pyramid dashed on past. “Late for woeful work again!” His eyes never could see the point. They were left on deck with a bucketful of lonely tears. The mop was their only friend.

   “I just can’t sleep here!” a handymoo said.

   His mother simply swished her tail and drew him closer to the jaws of merry disaster- Cumberland inkwash. This was what the pans would spit their teeth into during a soapy session in the bowl. They’d swim with the dishes of sudding bubble noughts.

   Knowing the blazes he’d witnessed, Lion watched as the flames licked life up and down. Soon they carved a little jirriframe into the east wall where all the skimpy screws hung loose. The pinter pots flew from the shelves and a doorway opened up. A floating book led the way through the dark passageways to come.

   “I shall never get home in time for the news,” Lion thought to himself.

   “I shall never get home in time for my life,” the book pondered.

   Lion continued on, past a friendly flock of fluzles that whipped the law, omnuking the lavender fields that slept in the truth temple.

   The borked book sand to the pesticide boots in the gilded fields beyond the deep purple. Lion joined with a magnificent mood bending roar that tore through the havoc of their sleepy sticks.

   “Mind your brisculous teeth!” a disembodied voice mentioned harpfully. “They might get stuck to the point and then you could get arrested by the sheep police!”

   Lion spilled his courage and the drunken strips of colourful paint slipped on the long trails of red ribbon that trailed behind. They’d once pinned their prosperity to the walls of this most wondrous passageway, but ever since the glory days hopped on a flyaway train to Hell the hammer headed shrines of shredded joys frequently lose it and drink themselves into obulous oblivion.

   The stench of animalistic morals invaded Lion’s memory and later vacated through the enigmatic exit in his lower spine. The aromatic envy storm got him in the end when the walls whipped up a story on the lost salvation key, much like the one Phoenix hid from the morning sun.

   Quickly, Lion charged down the passageways, up the walls and down a copper chute. The book vanished into a wall, turning the whole world inside out. Snowflakes were no longer manufactured, the sprightly grass no longer tickled one’s courage, and the sun no longer beamed at the thought of life- he only grumped to himself norkingly as he stalked the sandy simmerays.

    Lion simply couldn’t understand it. Fordulent moonbeams had always stolen the last packet of summer joy, and the sun had sung delightedly at the very thought of a handsome day off.

   In the end all that was left of the inkful passageway was the faded memories the bluebirds had cried and wiped on their sleeves.

   Shortly after, the paw-print of destiny made an appearance in the deep blue above. As it slowly faded to black, Lion watched as it promptly exploded a jar of rainbow memory juice. The woesome winticles wouldn’t get his toasty tongue if he kept his mouth on lockdown for the rest of this forthcoming rimple.

   “NO!” a mummified hogan shrieked. “Now I’ll never find my way home! I am an implified malnation!”

   Not knowing quite what to do, Lion approached the pathetic umpling cautiously. Seldom did these creatures ever remain in the limpful land of the living.

   “Oh how I wish I were a true mummy, buried beneath the burning sands of time!” he wailed.

   Lion spoke not a word and was further assaulted by unrelenting, obstoking tornado language!

   The Hogan dug a hole and hopped in… And there he lay, on a bed of prancing pins that poked him in the life. “You! Pondulant creature!” he explintered, jabbing a claw at Lion. “Bury me beneath pitiful agony buckets and watch as the water burns away at this sinking promise of good times beyond this fizzling ounce of dead justice!”

   Shoving his nose in the air, Lion growled at the splendid stars  that danced about the pillars in his mintiful mind. They sauntered down the banks of brilliance and dashed about the glorious bed of flames. One almost tumbled into the butcher’s mouth when he skidded on a rogue charitable chair mat.

   “Come to me sweet flames of destruction!” cried the Hogan.

   “Now then,” Lion mention calmly, finally turning his attention to the matter at paw. “How am I to deliver the landbergs of ultimate truth if you’ll not quieten down, my jillified friend?”

   “No!” the Hogan exclaimed. “You’ll only deliver me to Hell with your toasty tales of bitter agony!”

   Shaking his head, Lion declared, “I speak the truth for I am the receiver of disgruntled dreams; those who merely borrow the moon’s splinterful angles”.

   Just as these words were spoken, a mulberry magnation shot into the minkstricken sky and pierced the bruaken blanket of blue, before slicing it all the way down the middle. The Hogan sighed impatiently as the tears of a thousand tragedies rained down from the harpful heavens above.

   “Great,” he grumbled. “Now look what your binterful brain has brought upon us all!”

   Lion wasn’t sure what to say as his integrity was apprehended with a nimphic narcissistic stick of woe.

   “Perhaps now I might save the world from your stingy third eye! It’s time I poked it out, aha!”

   Lion leapt back in surprise. Just what was this grotesque orkling thinking? He had his rhubarbs all growing pleasantly in a row.