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Dumpy Little PrincessTHE DUMPY LITTLE PRINCESS
Jay Ward and Bill Scott pastiche by Doug Holverson
PAGE#1, PANEL#1: (Title card.)
Title Truncated Tall Tales
The Dumpy Little Princess
PANEL#2: (The Dumpy Little Princess doing a little courtesy.)
Caption Once upon a time there was a princess.
PANEL#3: (The Dumpy Little Princess with her arms akimbo looking annoyed.)
Caption No ordinary princess she, for she was a Dumpy Little Princess.
Dumpy Little Princess Hey, narrator-boy! You ain't no Cary Grant yourself!
PANEL#4: (A sad Dumpy Little Princess pulls her patched pockets inside out as a moth or two escapes.)
Caption Fate was even harsher on our princess, for she was born into the crumby end of the upper crust.
PANEL#5: (A clique of mean royal teens is brushing off the Dumpy Little Princess.)
Royal Kid You lack the bread to loaf with us.
PANEL #6: (A clique of mean peasant teens is brushing off the Dumpy Little Princess.)
Caption Nor was she warm and toasty with the crusty end of the crumby class.
John HenryJohn Henry
Jay Ward pastiche/update
By Doug Holverson
PAGE#1, PANEL#1: (Title panel, all caption in scrolly mock decorative type.)
Truncated Tall Tales:
"John Henry Gets Spiked"
"The Hammer & Fickle"
PANEL#2: (John Henry shows up for work in front of the building for the H&O Railroad. Standing there is Shorty, a diminutive white trashy fellow with an engineer's cap and overalls and a straw dangling from under his bushy mustache).
Shorty How's things, John Henry?
John Henry I'm rarin' to beat my personal best rail spike poundin' record!
PANEL#3: (John is taken aback by bad news from Shorty.)
Shorty Ya cain't, all ya steel drivin' men have done been laid off 'n' replaced by a gismo called the Inky Poo!
PANEL#4: (John strikes an assertive pose while Shorty just stands there.)
John This can't be! I'll going to the complaint department!
Shorty Ya cain't! They's been replaced by voice mail…
PANEL#5: (John strikes an assertive pose while Shorty just stands there.)
John Then, I'm seei
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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