The Fibbers' Page

Mr. Keeper, known to his friends as Fat Pat, smiled as he walked away from the pantry with a hot cup of coffee and a donut on a saucer. After putting them by his computer console and before sitting down, he stretched his arms all the way up, put his hands on his waist next then twisted his body to the left and the other side. "Hmm!" he exhaled, content at relaxing the tensions which had built up on his back. Something caught his attention on one of the many monitors mounted next to each other on the wall. A young man suddenly ran off from the waiting area, startling an old man sitting silently in a wheelchair, leaving behind a white paper on the bench. "What's going on?" Pat asked scratching his curly black locks, curious why the teenage boy stormed away. Pat pressed a key for replay. Slowly, the events ran backwards. He saw the young man on the chair with a paper and a pen in hand, writing, thinking then writing again. Then the teen walked over to the ...

A young lady in a dark leather hooded jacket underneath a thick grey wolf fur cape ran with long strides through the redwood forest. Far behind her she could hear the genetically-modified bloodhounds barking like crazed devils. Images of their elongated muzzles and talon-sharp fangs that could split a rock into two scared the hell out of her. "Kaboom!" she heard a loud explosion coming from the direction where she was running to. She halted and hid herself behind the mossy red sequoia tree, putting a palm to her chest and gasping for air. "I got to find out what was that before I run into more trouble," she thought. A strong gust of wind blew the hood off of her head revealing a pretty oval face topped with long straight blond hair. Her brows rising gently up the brow bone then curving smoothly down. Long lashes shelters her caramel eyes from the small glint of sunshine coming through the leaves above. Her thin nose rising upwards in a smooth straight line ...

Angry war drums exploded from the heavens. Sharp deadly electrical spears strike towering trees "Kaboom!". Theresa, seeing a dark hole from under huge wet fern leaves, crawled quickly on her knees and elbows towards it. "Plum! Mela indi." She bid the Amazon boy named Alakba to follow her inside, not minding if there's danger waiting in it. Out in the open is not less dangerous than from inside this small muddy hole carved out by some wild territorial boars. Theresa would prefer to die from an animal attack than from her pursuers. "Arta blabakum sisiska ," the boy pleaded for them to keep walking towards the next village. "Sisikum papuri kibi sisamum impipi," Theresa reminded the boy that they can't just run impulsively for the chip she keeps have government secrets. If the NSA catches them, all is lost. "Frilakam asusmi doriritos," Alakba feared that when daylight comes they'd be dead then. It was a good point. Sh...

I’d always known that I should never interfere in the affairs of humans, but I never listen. This week, I am secretly hiding in a small farming plateau. This is where Leron lives. Every day at sun break, before Leron attends to his papaya and coconut farm, he helps his neighbors by giving away sackful of dry grasses to those who need to feed their milking cows. Before noon, he is at the town market deliver ing his produce to his long-time patrons. One windy day, a golden flying pumpkin from the progressive city of the south arrived carrying a lady who walked gracefully as a cat, a dog with furs pigmented as corns’ hair and seven men dressed in dark robes who ducked their heads as they stepped out of the craft. The men walked around town interested in business particularly with Dita, the town’s healer. Meanwhile, the lady and the dog seemed to be an inseparable pair. She walked around town gaily looking at the crafts and wares peddled on the busy narrow streets. “Ayyy Dios ko ...

It was Monday. Miss Patterson, the fourth grade English teacher, asked her students to write an analysis of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky poem that she had distributed. The turnip-faced student with swirling caramel locks grinned from behind a narrow-eyed Hiroshi.  The boy  tilted forward, whispering, “Hey chopstick, does that taste good?” Hiro understood that his classmate was referring to his left middle-finger that he absent-mindedly nibbled as he worked on his seatwork.  A trio of boys nearby who heard what was said chortled. Two girls to the right also joined with a giggle. Miss Patterson caught wind of the commotion. “Greg, anything funny you'd like to share with the rest of the class?” she asked with a raised brow, and a sigh. “No, ma'am. Already shared it. Thank you.” The boy, called Greg, leaned back on his chair with one last wicked look at Hiro. After school, Hiroshi walked out by himself, slouching with his hands rubbing the back of his elbows. His ...