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Themoon 2

A whimsical narrative describes a flock of flaming lawn chairs migrating south, filled with sunscreen and regrets. At a train station, dreams are sold, and a giraffe conductor checks passengers' metaphors, while a refrigerator hosts a quirky reality show. The story culminates in a surreal moment where gravity falters, leading to a playful transformation of the world into jazz.

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Ajla v
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13 views1 page

Themoon 2

A whimsical narrative describes a flock of flaming lawn chairs migrating south, filled with sunscreen and regrets. At a train station, dreams are sold, and a giraffe conductor checks passengers' metaphors, while a refrigerator hosts a quirky reality show. The story culminates in a surreal moment where gravity falters, leading to a playful transformation of the world into jazz.

Uploaded by

Ajla v
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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A flock of flaming lawn chairs migrated south for the winter, carrying luggage filled with

sunscreen, postcards, and unspoken regrets. “We’ll be back when the snow stops judging us,”
they declared, flapping awkwardly into the sunset.
At the train station, a ticket booth sold dreams at half-price. One customer tried to buy a flying
lesson in confidence but was upsold a bundle that included curiosity, mild confusion, and a
complimentary balloon shaped like ambition. The conductor, a giraffe in a trench coat, checked
each passenger’s metaphor before letting them board.
Back in the kitchen, the refrigerator hosted a reality show called Chill or Be Chilled. Contestants
included a bottle of mustard with commitment issues, a cucumber who wanted to be a pickle but
feared change, and a piece of cheese that spoke only in Shakespearean monologues.
Suddenly, gravity forgot how it worked. Forks floated, teacups danced, and thoughts drifted
gently toward the ceiling like helium-filled butterflies. An old shoelace wrote a poem about the
sensation of falling upward and submitted it to a literary journal run by bees.
And just as a cloud shaped like a confused pancake passed overhead, the sun whispered, “Plot
twist,” and everything turned into jazz for eight seconds.
The world exhaled in lowercase, and Tuesday quietly high-fived a passing breeze.

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