Phanton Trucker the 309

 The diesel engine rumbled a steady lullaby as Frank Carson, a man whose lifeblood was coffee and asphalt, steered his rig down the long, lonely stretch of Highway 309. Rain lashed against the windshield, turning the night into a blurry kaleidoscope of headlights and shadows. Frank, a seasoned veteran of countless cross-country hauls, felt the familiar ache in his shoulders but pushed on. He had a delivery to make by morning, and every mile counted.

Suddenly, his CB radio crackled to life, a blast of static followed by a voice that seemed to slither from the ether itself. "Breaker, breaker... anyone out there heard of the Phantom 309?"

Frank grunted. Old truckers' tales. Every highway had 'em. The Phantom 309 was a legend on this particular route—a trucker who supposedly died decades ago, still haunting the road in his spectral rig. Frank had always scoffed at such stories, preferring to believe in the tangible grit of the road.

"Just an old ghost story, friend," Frank said into the mic, a hint of weariness in his voice. "Nothing but bad coffee and too many late nights."

The voice on the radio chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "Oh, but it's true, Frank Carson. And the tale is wilder than you know. He didn't just die, you see. He died... for Scooby-Doo."

Frank nearly swerved off the road. "Scooby-Doo? What in the blue blazes are you talking about?"

"A late-night cartoon, Frank," the voice continued, now closer, almost whispering in his ear despite the radio. "A small, yellow van, hurtling down this very highway, pursued by some... ghastly apparition. Our Phantom, God rest his soul, swerved to avoid it. A noble sacrifice, wouldn't you say?"

A chill snaked down Frank's spine that had nothing to do with the night air. He tightened his grip on the wheel, scanning his mirrors. There was nothing but the dark, wet road behind him.

Then, through the curtain of rain, a pair of headlights materialized in his rearview mirror. Not regular headlights, though. These glowed with an eerie, phosphorescent green, and they were gaining on him at an impossible speed. The engine roar that accompanied them was deeper, more guttural than any he'd ever heard, a sound that vibrated in his very bones.

"He's here, Frank," the voice on the radio hissed, now unmistakably coming from the approaching vehicle. "And he wants to know... why you didn't believe."

Frank stomped on the accelerator, his big rig protesting but surging forward. He was a practical man, a man of facts and figures, but the sheer, overwhelming presence of the green lights behind him was undeniably real. He glanced in his mirror again. The truck was almost on him now, a monstrous, half-transparent silhouette, its chrome gleaming with an unearthly light. He could make out the faded, ghostly letters on its side: PHANTOM 309.

As the spectral rig pulled alongside him, Frank gasped. Through the swirling mist, he could see the driver. A skeletal figure, its eyes glowing with the same eerie green as the headlights, stared directly at him. And in its boney hand, clutched almost protectively, was a small, tattered, well-loved Scooby-Doo plush toy.

The Phantom's rig emitted a mournful horn blast that echoed through the night, a sound that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality. The ghostly truck pulled ahead, and as it did, Frank could see the words scrawled in faint, glowing letters on its rear bumper:

"ZOINKS! SOME ROADS ARE BEST LEFT ALONE."

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the Phantom 309 vanished, dissolving into the driving rain. The eerie green glow faded, the engine roar died, and the only sound left was the steady thrum of Frank's own truck and the drumming of rain on the roof.

Frank Carson pulled over to the side of the road, heart pounding like a jackhammer. He stared out into the darkness, a strange mix of terror and awe washing over him. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to scoff at ghost stories again. And he definitely wasn't looking at Scooby-Doo cartoons the same way. The highway, he realized, held more secrets than he could ever imagine, some of them stranger and more ghostly than he ever thought possible.

The Bloody Tower

 It was a dark and stormy night, as all the best horror stories begin, and Phil Williams, 38, of the Welsh Guards, was on duty at the Tower of London. The rain lashed down, turning the ancient cobblestones into a slick, treacherous mirror, and the wind howled like a banshee with a head cold. Phil, a man whose most thrilling military experience to date had been accidentally saluting a particularly convincing garden gnome, shivered inside his immaculate uniform.

"Bloody typical," he muttered, adjusting his bearskin hat, which felt less like a symbol of regal authority and more like a soggy, oversized badger on his head. "Another night of staring at bloody stones while tourists snore in their hotels."

He was stationed near the Bloody Tower, naturally. Because where else would you put a man named Williams on a night like this? The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something faintly metallic, like an old penny left out in the rain. Phil told himself it was just the Thames. Probably.

Suddenly, a faint scraping sound echoed from within the tower. Phil, whose courage usually manifested as a strong desire to avoid confrontation, froze. He squinted into the gloom. Nothing. Just the rain.

Then, a low moan. Not a human moan, more like the sound of a particularly unhappy badger being dragged through a hedge backward. Phil's heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped his rifle, though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd do with it. Ask the ghost if it had a permit for loitering?

The moaning grew louder, joined by a rhythmic thump… thump… thump. Phil swallowed. He’d heard the stories, of course. The Princes in the Tower, Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey… all the Tower's greatest hits. He’d always scoffed, preferring to believe that the only things haunting the Tower were over-caffeinated pigeons and the lingering smell of medieval sewage.

A spectral, shimmering figure drifted out of the Bloody Tower. It was headless, which, Phil thought, was a bit rude. Especially since it was holding its head under one arm, like a particularly gruesome rugby ball.

"Evening," the head croaked, its eyes rolling in a distinctly unnerving fashion. "Bit nippy out, eh?"

Phil, who was now sweating profusely despite the cold, managed a strangled, "Good evening, ma'am. Sir. Whatever."

"Name's Anne," the head said, with a distinct sniff. "Anne Boleyn, if you must know. And honestly, this weather is doing wonders for my complexion. Or what’s left of it."

The headless body did a little jig, which, combined with the head’s nonchalant chattering, was utterly surreal. "Just popping out for a bit of a stretch," Anne continued. "Been cooped up in there for centuries. You know how it is."

"Right," Phil mumbled, trying to maintain a semblance of professional composure. His training certainly hadn't covered spectral headless queens complaining about the weather.

"You wouldn't happen to have a spare scarf, would you?" Anne asked, her disembodied eyes fixed on Phil’s bearskin. "This breeze is playing havoc with my… well, with my neck. Or lack thereof."

Before Phil could respond, another figure emerged, this one smaller and clad in a rather dusty velvet doublet. It was dragging something that looked suspiciously like a tiny, spectral pony.

"Richard!" Anne shrieked, her head swiveling to face the newcomer. "Not again! You know you're not supposed to bring your invisible ponies out after curfew!"

The small figure, who Phil vaguely recognized as one of the Princes, looked sheepish. "But he needed a trot, Anne! And it's so boring in there!"

At this point, Phil realized his career was probably over. Or he was having a particularly vivid dream after too much cheese. Either way, he was a Welsh Guard, and a Welsh Guard does not, under any circumstances, engage in casual conversation with headless queens and spectral pony enthusiasts.

He snapped to attention, saluting the empty air. "Apologies, ma'am, sir! Duty calls! Must ensure the proper maintenance of… historical artifacts!"

And with that, Phil Williams, the bravest man to ever contemplate feigning a sudden and violent allergy to historical masonry, turned on his heel and marched as quickly and as dignifiedly as possible in the opposite direction, leaving the spectral figures to their bickering. He didn't stop until he reached the mess hall, where he promptly requested the strongest cup of tea they had and a very large, very stiff drink. He’d probably never look at a bearskin hat the same way again. And he was definitely going to ask for a transfer to something with significantly fewer historical decapitations.

Trauma of the wilted lettuce

 Chuck Burke, assistant manager of the Summerside Superstore, considered himself a man of unflappable calm. He'd handled everything from a rogue lobster in the seafood aisle to a customer demanding a refund on a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, all with the serene composure of a Zen master. But that was before the lettuce.

It was a Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday that felt like a Monday's grumpy older brother. A new shipment of produce had just arrived, and Chuck, ever the diligent leader, was overseeing its transfer to the display cases. That's when he saw it. The lettuce.

Now, to the untrained eye, it looked like perfectly ordinary romaine. A little damp, perhaps, but otherwise unremarkable. To Chuck, however, it was a verdant abomination.

"No, no, NO!" he bellowed, startling a nearby stock boy who dropped a crate of organic kale with a crash. Chuck swooped in, his eyes narrowed, his usually neat hair already developing a distinct wildness. "Look at this! Just look at it!" He held up a limp, slightly bruised head of lettuce as if it were a venomous snake. "This isn't romaine! This is… this is sad romaine! It's been through things! Bad things!"

The produce manager, a stoic woman named Brenda who'd seen Chuck through many a minor meltdown, sighed. "It's just a bit wilted, Chuck. We can mist it."

"Mist it?!" Chuck's voice ascended to a pitch usually reserved for distressed poodles. "Brenda, misting this lettuce would be like putting a tiny Band-Aid on a broken heart! It needs therapy! It needs a sabbatical! It needs… hope!"

He began pacing the produce aisle, his arms flailing. "Our customers, Brenda, they deserve the crispest, the most vibrant, the most joyful lettuce! This… this barely has the will to live! Imagine a family dinner, Brenda! The salad, limp and defeated! The children, weeping at the table, their tiny faces etched with the agony of flaccid greens!"

A few customers, initially drawn by the commotion, were now slowly backing away, clutching their reusable shopping bags a little tighter. One elderly woman cautiously placed a perfectly fine head of iceberg back on the shelf.

Chuck, oblivious to his growing audience, was now addressing the lettuce directly. "What happened to you, little leaves? Was it a long journey? Did you miss your family? We're here for you! We're the Summerside Superstore, and we believe in second chances! Especially for leafy greens!"

He then grabbed a water spray bottle and, instead of misting the lettuce, began spritzing it with an intensity usually reserved for extinguishing small fires. "Hydrate! Rejuvenate! Embrace your destiny as a delicious salad component!"

Brenda finally intervened, gently prying the spray bottle from his grasp. "Chuck, you're scaring the zucchini. And you're soaking the floor."

Chuck deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping. "But Brenda, the lettuce!" He gestured dramatically at the sad-looking batch, now glistening with Chuck's impassioned hydration efforts. "It just doesn't have that… that zing! That je ne sais quoi of a truly confident leaf!"

Later that day, after Chuck had been coaxed into the back office with a strong cup of tea and a promise of extra-crisp potato chips, Brenda managed to sell off the "traumatized" lettuce at a slight discount. Most customers didn't even notice. But for Chuck Burke, the assistant manager, the Great Lettuce Crisis of August 24th, 2024 (or whenever it happened), remained a vivid, almost mythical, blot on his otherwise pristine record of unflappable calm. And from that day forward, every time he walked past the produce section, he'd eye the romaine with a lingering, almost sympathetic, gaze, silently willing it to be its best, most joyful self.

Do you think Chuck will ever truly recover from the trauma of the wilted lettuce, or will every head of romaine now be a potential emotional minefield?

Night of the Ghouls

 The sudden, inky blackness swallowed Owen and Lisa whole. One moment, they were bickering good-naturedly over a board game, the next, the familiar hum of their Summerside home was replaced by an unnerving silence. "Great," Owen grumbled, fumbling for his phone. "Power's out."

Lisa sighed, but a small smile played on her lips. "At least we have each other for entertainment, right?" She lit a few candles, their flickering glow casting dancing shadows that made the familiar living room seem alien. The rain lashed against the windows, a relentless drumming that drowned out the usual night sounds.

They talked, sharing old memories and future dreams, the darkness outside forgotten in the cozy intimacy of the candlelight. They had no way of knowing that beyond their small, illuminated bubble, chaos was unfurling. The date, May 30th, 2025, would forever be etched in history as the night the dead walked.

It began subtly, an isolated scream swallowed by the storm, a distant moan mistaken for the wind. Then, the guttural moans grew louder, closer. A chill that had nothing to do with the lack of heat slithered down Owen's spine. "Did you hear that?" he whispered, his eyes darting towards the front door.

Lisa, her face pale in the candlelight, nodded slowly. A thud, heavy and sickening, echoed from their porch. It sounded like something dragging itself across the wood. Then came the scratching, a nails-on-chalkboard sound against the door, followed by a low, guttural growl that made the hair on their arms stand on end.

Owen grabbed the old baseball bat he kept by the door, his knuckles white. Lisa clutched a heavy ceramic vase, her breath catching in her throat. The scratching intensified, joined by more of those dreadful moans, coming from all directions now. It wasn't just their porch. It was their street. Their town.

A shadow passed by the window, too slow, too shambling to be a person. Another scraped against the glass, and through the gloom, they saw it – a gaunt, decaying face pressed against the pane, eyes milky and vacant.

"Oh my god," Lisa choked out, dropping the vase with a clatter.

The thudding against the front door became relentless, a relentless assault. The wood began to splinter. Owen braced himself, the baseball bat feeling flimsy in his trembling hands. Outside, the sounds of a nightmare unfolded: more screams, the splintering of wood, the unmistakable wet tearing of flesh. Summerside, on this dark, rainy night, had become a feasting ground for the risen dead. And Owen and Lisa, trapped in their powerless home, were utterly, terrifyingly, alone.

Do you want to know what happens next to Owen and Lisa, or perhaps what led to the walking dead rising in Summerside?

The splintering groans and dragging shuffles of the undead pressed in on all sides, a chorus of decay surrounding the small, isolated house. Inside, Owen and Lisa moved with a frantic, desperate energy, their eyes scanning every familiar object with a new, horrifying purpose: finding a way to survive.

Dust motes danced in the muted light filtering through the grime-streaked windows as Lisa tore through kitchen drawers, her fingers fumbling over cutlery and forgotten gadgets. Owen, meanwhile, made a beeline for the basement door. He knew, with a grim certainty, that their best hope lay downstairs.

He descended into the cool, damp air of what he affectionately called his "regimental cave." It was a sanctuary of a bygone life, filled with mementos of his time in uniform. His gaze fell immediately upon the wall where it hung: his SLR L1A1, the familiar lines of the rifle a stark comfort in the face of the encroaching chaos. Its bayonet, still fixed, glinted menacingly in the dim light. He reached for it, the weight of the rifle a welcome presence in his hands. This wasn't just a relic; it was a tool, a shield, and he would use it to protect Lisa from the horrors gathering outside.

The air in the kitchen, once thick with the scent of simmering coffee, now reeked of decay and dust. Owen had just grabbed his first mug when the French doors exploded inward, splintering wood and sending shards of glass across the tile. A wave of shambling horrors, their eyes milky and vacant, poured into the room like a grotesque tide. Their moans, a low, guttural chorus, sent a chill down Owen's spine.

"Lisa, upstairs! Now! Get to the roof, I'll meet you there!" he roared, shoving a heavy oak chair in their path.

Lisa, her face pale with terror, didn't hesitate. She scrambled up the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the sudden silence of their flight. Owen, meanwhile, grabed the SLR LA1A Rifle he'd instinctively snatched from the block. He slashed, he cut, he stabbed. The blade sank into rotting flesh with a sickening squelch, but the creatures barely flinched. They just kept coming, their clawed hands reaching, their teeth gnashing.

Desperation clawed at him. He was losing ground, pushed back against the counter, the sheer number of them overwhelming. Then, purely out of frustration, he swung the SLR in a wild arc, a desperate, Hail Mary attempt. The edge of the blade connected with a sickening thud against the forehead of the lead zombie. The creature stumbled, its vacant eyes momentarily wide, and then it toppled, hitting the floor with a surprising finality. It didn't twitch, didn't groan, just lay there, utterly still.

A jolt of understanding, cold and sharp, shot through Owen. Not the chest, not the gut, not even severing a limb. It was the head. That was it. That was the kill shot.

He stared at the fallen zombie for a split second, then back at the relentless horde. A grim determination settled over him. He knew what he had to do. His grip tightened on the Rifle with bayonet fixed, a new purpose fueling his every move. He had to fight his way out, to get to Lisa, and every single one of these things was going to get a head job before he was through. The kitchen, once a place of comfort, was now a gruesome battlefield, and Owen, the accidental warrior, was ready to deliver his brutal lesson.

The air was thick with the stench of death, a brutal lesson Owen had learned repeatedly: stay alive. His wife, Lisa, depended on him. He fought with a desperate ferocity in the kitchen, every swing of his Rifle with Bayonet attached fueled by the need to protect her from the undead horde. They piled up around him, a gruesome wall of decaying flesh extending for fifteen feet. Thirty agonizing minutes it took to clear a path, just to reach the bottom of the stairs.

"Owen! Get up here! We need to get on the roof!" Lisa’s screams were a raw, panicked sound from the bedroom above.

He began his retreat, battling his way up the stairs, each step a struggle. Blood and rotting flesh clung to him, a grotesque second skin. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones, but the sheer press of the walking dead, a tide of moaning hunger, paradoxically offered a chance. As they piled up, creating a gruesome ramp, Owen found a fleeting moment of respite. He surged forward, bursting into the bedroom. The door slammed shut, the heavy click of the lock a small victory. He dragged dressers, a nightstand, anything he could find, piling it against the door, barricading them in.

The adrenaline began to drain, leaving him utterly spent. He slumped to the floor, the stench of decay and his own sweat filling his nostrils. His eyelids grew heavy, the fight too much. He drifted off, the sounds of the horde fading into a dull thrum.

A persistent knocking jolted him awake. Not the wet, guttural sounds of the undead, but a rhythmic, familiar thud. Not once, but a good few times.

"Owen? Are you ever going to open this door? I'm exhausted!"

His eyes fluttered open, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through the living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He was on the sofa, a blanket askew. The knocking came again.

He stumbled to the door, the vivid nightmare still clinging to the edges of his mind. It was Lisa, keys in hand, a tired smile on her face.

"Rough day?" she asked, stepping inside.

Owen just shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face. "You could say that. 

The moral of the story was. I think I had a little too much Walking Dead last night." and it was all a Dream 

                     THE END 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Humpty Dumpty and the Welsh Guards: 1980

 Humpty Dumpty and the Welsh Guards: 1980

Humpty Dumpty, a man of considerable girth and an egg-shaped head, always felt a pull toward something greater than merely sitting on walls. He yearned for purpose, for discipline, for a uniform that would make him feel… less fragile. The year was 1980, and the news was buzzing with the latest on the Falklands. A spark ignited within Humpty – the Welsh Guards. They were, after all, part of the elite Household Division, and their reputation for courage and steadfastness was legendary.

He ambled into the recruiting office, a rather grand building in Whitehall, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. The sergeant behind the desk, a burly man with a walrus moustache, eyed Humpty's unusual physique with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

"Name, son?" the sergeant grunted.
"Humpty Dumpty, sir!" Humpty declared, puffing out his chest, which, given his shape, made him look even more spherical.
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think you're cut out for the Welsh Guards, Mr. Dumpty?"

"Sir," Humpty began, adjusting his tie, "I possess a keen eye for observation. I am an excellent sitter. And I believe my unique build would make me… well, difficult to knock down." He conveniently omitted the part about his last fall.

The sergeant suppressed a chuckle. "Right then, Mr. Dumpty. Let's see about that."
Humpty, to everyone's surprise, passed the initial physical. His core strength from years of balancing on walls was surprisingly robust. He could hold a plank longer than some of the younger recruits, albeit a rather wobbly one. The drill instructors, initially baffled by his gait, found his determination infectious. He wasn't fast, but he was incredibly persistent. During drills, he'd often be the last one to finish, but he'd always finish, a determined glint in his eye.

His uniform, custom-tailored, was a marvel of sartorial engineering, designed to accommodate his unique form while still maintaining the crisp, ceremonial lines of the Welsh Guards. He wore his bearskin hat with immense pride, even if it did make him look like an even larger, furry egg.

Humpty never saw active combat in the Falklands, as his deployment came slightly later, but he served with distinction during his time with the Welsh Guards. He became a fixture during ceremonial duties, a surprisingly stoic and impressive presence outside Buckingham Palace. Tourists would often point and whisper, "Look, it's Humpty Dumpty!" and he'd stand even taller, a subtle, proud smile playing on his lips. He may have been an egg, but he was their egg, a Welsh Guard through and through.

Would you like to hear about another character joining a different regiment or perhaps about Humpty's life after the Welsh Guards?
 

Salad Tea

 The crisp, cool air of a late spring evening in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, drifted through Owen and Lisa's kitchen window. "Salad for tea!" Lisa announced with a flourish, placing two enormous bowls brimming with leafy greens, vibrant cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, and a generous sprinkling of sunflower seeds onto their small table.

Owen, usually a staunch advocate for anything involving potatoes or a good pie, eyed his bowl with a mock grimace. "Trying to turn us into herbivores, are we, Lisa? I thought we were aiming for 'robust islanders,' not 'svelte rabbits.'"

Lisa just laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Nonsense! It's fresh, it's healthy, and it's delicious. Besides," she added, wiggling her eyebrows, "you never know what kind of energy a good salad can give you."

They ate, the crunch of lettuce and the pop of tomatoes filling the quiet kitchen. Owen, to his surprise, found himself enjoying it. The dressing, a zesty lemon-herb concoction Lisa had whipped up, was surprisingly good. They chatted about their day – Owen's latest carpentry project, Lisa's busy shift at the vet clinic.

A Peculiar Transformation
As the last of the salad disappeared, a strange sensation began to creep over them. Owen felt a twitch in his nose, an odd urge to… wiggle it. He glanced at Lisa, who was looking at him with wide, slightly bewildered eyes, her own nose twitching subtly.

"Do you feel that?" Lisa asked, her voice a little higher than usual.
"Feel what?" Owen replied, though his lips felt strangely… long. He reached up, touching his upper lip, and felt a fuzzy softness. He looked down at his hands, which seemed a little more nimble, a little less… human.

Then, they both caught sight of their reflections in the darkened window.
Two pairs of large, dark eyes stared back. Their noses were twitching rapidly, their upper lips split in that characteristic way. Their ears, oh their ears! They were long, upright, and covered in soft fur, swiveling independently to catch every rustle of the evening breeze.

Owen instinctively reached for a phantom carrot, his teeth feeling surprisingly prominent. Lisa let out a small, startled squeak that sounded remarkably like a bunny's sniff.

"Rabbits!" Owen exclaimed, his voice a little muffled by his newly acquired incisors. "We look like actual rabbits!"
Lisa burst into a fit of giggles, which quickly turned into a series of adorable, high-pitched thumps as her feet, now distinctly foot-like, tapped against the floor. "You said we'd be robust islanders!" she managed between thumps. "You didn't say anything about being... cottontails!"

They spent the next few minutes in a bewildered, yet strangely amused, exploration of their new forms. They hopped around the kitchen, discovering an uncanny ability to jump surprisingly high. Every rustle of the curtains made their ears swivel. Owen found himself nibbling on a stray piece of lettuce that had fallen on the floor, finding it utterly delicious.

"This is all your fault and your 'healthy' salad!" Owen declared playfully, nudging Lisa with his nose.
Lisa twitched her whiskers. "Well, at least we're getting our greens in! And think of the carrots we can eat now." She looked out the window at their small backyard, her nose twitching excitedly. "I wonder if Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning petunias are still in bloom?"

Owen’s new ears perked up. He looked at Lisa, then at the moonlit garden, a mischievous glint in his newly rabbit-like eyes. "Race you!"

With a synchronized hop, the two 'rabbits' of Summerside, Prince Edward Island, bounded out the back door, ready to embrace the peculiar, fluffy, and surprisingly energetic evening ahead.

Do you think their transformation is permanent, or will they be back to their human selves by morning?

The race was on! Owen and Lisa, now gloriously fluffy and undeniably rabbit-shaped, bounded across their lawn. The moon, a fat pearl in the inky sky over Summerside, cast long, hopping shadows as they streaked towards Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning petunias.

Lisa, lithe and quick, pulled ahead almost immediately. Her long ears flattened against her back, her powerful hind legs propelling her over the damp grass with surprising speed. Owen, on the other hand, found his years—even if he was a 'senior rabbit' for only a few hours—catching up to him. His hops were a little less springy, his breathing a bit more labored.

"Go, Lisa, go!" he huffed, a rather un-rabbit-like cheer escaping his twitching lips. He watched, a mix of admiration and slight envy, as she reached the vibrant flowerbed first.

With a joyful, almost predatory gleam in her newly magnified eyes, Lisa dove into the petunias. There was a frantic rustling, a symphony of delicate petals being devoured. Pink, purple, and white blossoms vanished into the blur of her munching. She ate with an efficiency only a truly hungry rabbit could possess, a whirlwind of botanical destruction.

Owen arrived moments later, panting softly, just in time to see the last few petunia heads disappear into Lisa's satisfied maw. She looked up at him, a smear of purple petal on her chin, her whiskers quivering with delight.

"Mmmph," she mumbled, a contented sigh escaping her. "You were right, Owen. These are much better than salad. Far more… crunchy."

Owen, a seasoned man even in his new furry form, just shook his head. "And I thought I was a big eater," he observed wryly, noting the utter devastation of Mrs. Henderson's once-pristine display. "Well, at least someone enjoyed them. Us older chaps, you know, we appreciate a slower, more refined dining experience."

Lisa nudged him playfully with her nose. "Just admit it, you old rabbit, I'm faster!"
Owen chuckled, then stretched out his hind legs, feeling the pleasant ache of exertion. "Perhaps. But who's going to explain this to Mrs. Henderson in the morning, eh?" He eyed the now-bare flowerbed, then looked at the mischievous glint in Lisa's rabbit eyes. This was going to be an interesting day in Summerside.

What do you think Mrs.

Henderson's reaction will be when she discovers her prized petunias gone?

It was a glorious morning in Mrs. Henderson's garden, the kind that made her prized petunias glow with an almost ethereal beauty. Unbeknownst to her, nestled amongst the very stumps of those vibrant blossoms, lay Fluffy Rabbit Lisa and senior fluffy rabbit Owen, dreaming rabbit dreams. They had spent the night feasting on the tender petals, a fact that would soon ignite Mrs. Henderson's wrath.

The first rays of sunlight found Mrs. Henderson emerging from her back door, a contented smile gracing her lips as she made her way towards her beloved petunias, hosepipe in hand. She turned the spigot, a gentle spray arching through the air. Just as the water began to kiss the thirsty blooms, a sudden rustle caught her ear.

There, right at the base of her most cherished magenta petunia, sat Lisa and Owen, blinking awake with wide, startled eyes. The moment they registered the towering figure of Mrs. Henderson and the menacing glint of the hosepipe, a primal fear took hold. They bolted, a fluffy brown and white streak across the dew-kissed lawn.

"Oh, you little rascals!" Mrs. Henderson shrieked, her earlier contentment vanishing in a puff of indignation. She had seen the tell-tale nibbles on her flowers, and now the culprits were making their getaway. Revenge was swift. With a flick of her wrist, the gentle spray transformed into a powerful jet. Lisa and Owen, mid-dash, found themselves caught in a sudden, drenching downpour. They yelped, ears flattened, as the cold water soaked them to the bone.

Sputtering and shivering, they scrambled under the nearest hedge, leaving a trail of dripping water behind them. Mrs. Henderson stood triumphant, the hosepipe still pointed at the now empty patch of petunias, a satisfied, albeit slightly damp, grin spreading across her face. Justice, in her eyes, had been served.

The Phantom Flagman

 The Phantom Flagman

The streetlights of Aberystwyth cast long, skeletal shadows down Corporation Street, their feeble glow barely penetrating the thick, inky blackness of the moonless night. A biting wind, smelling of salt and damp earth, whipped around the corners, carrying with it the mournful creak of unseen signs and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the promenade. It was a night tailor-made for unease, and Owen "Gwyn" Evans, the most dedicated—and some might say, obsessive—flagman in all of Ceredigion, felt it in his bones.

Gwyn wasn't just any flagman. He was an artist of the orange cone, a maestro of the Stop/Go paddle. Even in the dead of night, for a roadworks project that seemed eternally stalled, he was out there, a solitary sentinel in his high-vis vest, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single, flickering lamp. Tonight, however, felt different. An oppressive silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the wind's mournful song and the tap-tap-tap of something unseen.

He’d been flagging for an hour when he first saw it. A faint, shimmering outline at the far end of the deserted street, just beyond the reach of his solitary lamp. It looked like… another flagman. But this figure was taller, impossibly thin, and seemed to float rather than walk. Its high-vis vest glowed with an eerie, internal luminescence, and its paddle, instead of displaying "STOP" or "GO," seemed to ripple with a shifting, unreadable script.

Gwyn, a man of routine, initially dismissed it as fatigue. Too much late-night flagging, perhaps. But then the figure glided closer, its movements smooth and silent, utterly devoid of the scuff of boots or the rustle of fabric. As it drew nearer, Gwyn felt a chill that had nothing to do with the biting wind. The air around the spectral flagman grew perceptibly colder, and a faint, sweet smell, like damp earth mixed with something ancient and forgotten, wafted towards him.

He gripped his own paddle tighter, his knuckles white. The phantom raised its own paddle, not to direct traffic, but as if in a silent, chilling greeting. The shifting script on its sign resolved into a single, stark word: "WAIT."

A cold dread seeped into Gwyn's very core. This wasn't a living person. This was something… else. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice caught. The spectral figure continued its slow, inexorable approach, its eyes, if it had them, hidden in the shimmering distortion of its form. As it drew within feet of him, Gwyn could feel the raw, icy grip of its presence. The wind suddenly died, and the silence became absolute, suffocating.

Then, the phantom flagman did something truly terrifying. It slowly, deliberately, lowered its glowing paddle, then extended a long, translucent arm towards Gwyn. A single, bony finger, glowing faintly, pointed directly at his chest.

And from somewhere deep within the silent street, a whisper, ancient and sorrowful, slithered into Gwyn’s mind: "You've waited long enough..."

Gwyn Evans, the unflappable flagman, didn't hesitate. He dropped his paddle with a clatter that sounded deafening in the sudden stillness and sprinted down Corporation Street as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, leaving the glowing spectre to its eternal, silent vigil. 

To this day, if you ask him, he'll tell you he saw a particularly aggressive gust of wind. But he'll also tell you he flags exclusively during daylight hours now, and he never, ever, looks at the far end of a dark street.

Do you think Gwyn will ever go back to flagging at night, or has this experience changed him forever?