The Problems of the World

This was a flash fiction written to a prompt, which didn’t get published originally, as I decided it was maybe too daft. However, I have a category on here, Strange Brew, just for such abominations and whimsy and as I quite like it now, here it is:






The moon in aspic was entering the solar plexus. The sun rose a day ahead of schedule and beavers abounded; if anything should abound it ought to be bluebells or rats.
A worry gnawed at The World like another beaver. His design was in chaos.
He scratched his Norwich, a tethered goat slipped down the crack of a mild earthquake and a crossdressing partridge squawked “plastic” from somewhere north of Ushuaia.
The World pondered the drawing board.
He’d used colours before but they’d assimilated all sorts of unintended baggage.
“Perhaps if I went back to monochrome and jettisoned the oil.”