The Micro Bard Daily

“Cheerio!” The cheeky Cabbie cheers, as his carriage charges off to chase the horizon. At last, the pair find themselves with their feet on solid ground. Bam! Bounty tackles Josephine, he’s desperate for a cuddle after his traumatic troubles. Josephine giggles, “Oi! You soppy thing. Yes, we made it, didn’t we?” “Moo!” “I must apologise though, I won’t put you through that again. Guess it’s difficult to imagine your hero having flaws. Sorry Bounty darling.” Bounty bounces to his hooves, brandishing an adorably dorky smile. “Anyways, we’ve got work to do.This way sweetie.” Trotting down the road, they enter the town, as onlookers pass whispers like a pepper grinder. These folk only know Bounty through rumours; suspicious, they sit back waiting for him to make an impression. As requested by someone in need, Lady and Cow arrive at the address—happening upon a sign that reads, ‘Perry & Potter’s Home for Children’. PREVIOUS ISSUE FIRST ISSUE HIGHLAND HUGS

How can I leave a piece of myself on the page? My thoughts, feelings and anxieties won’t simply boil themselves down into easy to read—easy to write—sentences. It seems it is par for the course for 24 year olds to feel this way; we have zero answers and despite the current that flows against us, we continue to etch our names into the sand. Today’s world seems to have the biggest tides of them all. Tides that wash away who we once were and force us to rebuild from what is left behind, but there is never enough left. Ouroboros. A snake eating its own tail. An endless cycle. If I could parse all the anger, guilt and shame that plagues my mind, I would: shout to the world, demand what’s mine, get right up in their faces, call out their crimes, scream, swear and simply walk away.

Munch and chew . Smack and crunch . Ogres are feasting on their lunch. What an absolutely disgusting bunch! Their appetite’s so mighty, it refuses to stave. When at the table, they fail to behave; not a single fork to be found in the cave. With dirty chops and mustard stains, the Ogres fight off their hunger pains— dignity to be lost and weight to be gained. As juice drips down his warted cheek: an ogre raises the level of freak, as he lifts his bum, expelling a reek. Erupting from the table, the Ogres roar; ever so funny, there must be more. Instant regret, mess on the floor, retreat to the toilet, holding a bottom that’s sore. Despite all the drama, there’s no interruption. Gluttony is a force of complete corruption, a bottomless cup filled with a sinful concoction. In the name of having more, souls are put up to auction.

The saint is staring solemnly at the sunset. Choosing to withhold his worship, the holy man embraces the opportunity to withstand the wet. He still loves God, but it is not his duty to serve him—for he is a man responsible for men. Cold rain washes over the devoted believer, delivering his tears to the earth; feeding the soil with anguish. God's grace is selfish. Defiance is born from incompetence, the saint would battle his own deity, as a bid to prove he is no more or less deserving than his peers. Judgement is not befitting for a king, when your people dream of hope and freedom. Darkness encroaches, rainfall persists. No one listens if you refuse to bend the knee, empathy is reserved for those who pray.      “I will always love you, but the human project belongs to humans.”

“Come on, Bounty. We’ve been walking for days, let's take a cab today—save us some trouble.” Josephine, with one foot already on the carriage, waves gleefully towards her fluffy companion. Our highland hero sheepishly approaches, lifting one hoof after the other cautiously into the vehicle. They set off at once, the wheels spin, hop and shudder along the road, unfortunately the turbulence only adds to Bounty’s unease. He sits stiffer than a rusty door hinge, eyes fixed wider than a mountain and Josephine begins to wonder if her friend is at home. “What’s wrong with your friend?” Chirps the Cabbie, pipe dangling out of his mouth and his sight looking anywhere but the road. “Not a clue, sir. I’ve never seen him like this before.” Josephine responds, “What’s wrong sweetheart? You look afraid.” Suddenly Bounty claws the curtains open, sticking his head outside to his instant relief. “Claustrophobic, eh?” The Cabbie inquires in a rat-like tone. He scribbles a note. PREVIOUS IS...

Sixty Names I Call My Dog One. Ollie (His actual name) Two. You Three. Oliver Four. Olivander Five. Ollie-bear Six. Ollie-dog Seven. Dog Eight. Doggy Nine. Pup Ten. Sweetheart Eleven. Darling Twelve. Lovely Thirteen. Sweet cheeks Fourteen. Fluffy Fifteen. Floof Sixteen. Fluffy butt Seventeen. Mr waggy Eighteen. Mr waggy bum Nineteen. Mr waggy tail Twenty. Tappy toes Twenty-one. Twinkle eyes Twenty-two. Chicken Drumstick Twenty-three. Cheeky monkey Twenty-four. Boo Twenty-five. Slow coach Twenty-six. Trouble Twenty-seven. Happy boy Twenty-eight. Good boy Twenty-nine. Beautiful Thirty. Handsome Thirty-one. Gorgeous Thirty-two. Good looking Thirty-three. Chaos Thirty-four. The leader Thirty-five. Boss Thirty-six. Minion Thirty-seven. Fiend Thirty-eight. Terror Thirty-nine. Cuddle monster Forty. Teddy bear Forty-one. Cutie Forty-two. Pooper Forty-three. Poopy butt Forty-four. Little shit Forty-five. Hungry boy Forty-six. Hopeful Forty-seven. Chief bubble hunter Forty-eight. Sir Wagsalot Fo...

Parliament Square Gardens, London, UK. The Witches Against Fascism (or TWAF) are an activist organisation of individuals who are acquainted with the occult. TWAF have gathered in protest, furious with the government for attempting to pass legislation that bans the importation of mandrake. Arriving in the late afternoon with their picnics, they enjoy each others company by making daisy chains, whilst listening to Typical Girls by The Slits—playing off some random Bluetooth speaker. Once sundown arrived, a séance commenced, inviting parliament’s victims to speak to the masses. The harrowing truth for the whole of London to hear. The cowards defenestrate a priest, he stumbles to his feet and mutters in Latin. It is futile, for no great witch on the British Isles would dare to allow him to interfere. Anarchy in the UK. A nation rocked by a rebellious spirit, The Witches Against Fascism fighting the good fight; not for themselves, but for all of us.