Fiona

A very beautifull lady who never lies. Many girls wish they could be like her, and guys wish they could date her. Often the coolest person in paradise. Her mother was a hippy

1. Whoa, did you see that sexy momma? she's sooo Fiona

by Jonyboy December 24, 2006 

fíona

term used to describe a very small penis

did you hear that guy has fíona

by trash69 September 16, 2014

"Now MORE chocolately chips?" exclaimed Cube, observing the box of Cookie Crisps cereal in front of her, "that's literally the best thing ever!"

In accordance with Cube’s statement, a lot of other things immediately became a lot worse.

Planes, birds, rockets, hot air balloons, and those who were intoxicated with cannabis lost the ability to fly.

The recipes of delicious desserts like creme brulee, custard and cheesecake were changed, with dairy products being substituted for soya-based derivatives. Doesn’t sound too bad? That’s because you’re thinking of soya beans. What I was referring to is Yelena Soya, a Russian synchro-swimmer.

On top of these two devastating changes, every book ever written, from 'The Bible' to 'Ulysses' to 'It’s So Lonely Being Me: Confessions of a Homicidal Maniac' immediately dropped in the quality of its written communication; lost its ability to shape meanings through structure, form, and language; and all connections that could be made between one book and another were immediately severed, earning their authors -- God, James Joyce, and Asteroth, respectively -- a U at English Literature AS-Level.

“Mmm-mm-mm!” mm’d Cube to herself. “These cookie crisps sure are good! Why didn’t they increase the number of chocolate chips before?”

Pleased with her purchase, Cube resolved to buy Cookie Crisps, and only Cookie Crisps, for the rest of her life.

Except she didn’t. In fact, this whole story so far has been a lie. Cube was actually a very cynical person who, as soon as she read “Now with more chocolate chips!”, snorted and smirked. She proceeded to say, “That’s literally the stupidest thing ever,” and so a lot of things (and I’m not kidding this time, I promise) became a lot smarter as a result.

For example, take the common chestnut tree. It does a lot of growing and a lot of standing, but if we take the Ice Age franchise screenwriter’s word for it, they get targeted by squirrels a lot. Have you ever seen a chestnut tree fend off a squirrel? No. That’s because they aren’t very smart.

Or at least, they weren’t.

Let us observe a chestnut tree in an otherwise empty desert. It is over eight hundred years old, tall and majestic, and its bark is a deep, earthy brown. It is a respectable tree, and perhaps even a tree to be fearful of. And yet, what’s this? A squirrel bouncing through the desert towards the only source of food in sight? It kicks up clouds of sand behind it that glitter and twinkle in the searing sun, but the squirrels purpose is much less beautiful than the images it evokes with its bounds.

No, this squirrel is looking for trouble.

“Nyeh-heh-hehhhhhh,” the squirrel thinks nerfariously. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

The squirrel approaches the tree and motions to scurry up its trunk, but with a quick swoop of its branch, the squirrel is squashed flat, and its body is quickly absorbed into the trees body so that its nutrients can be recycled.

That was an example of what the word ‘literally’ can do. It can do anything. Why, if I were to place the word ‘literally’ into the previous sentence (figuratively speaking, this would result in the sentence: ‘It can literally do anything.’), then the word ‘literally’ could jump off this page and bash your brains in with a mongoose skull. And it could do it with a smile on its face, or a frown, or it could do it with tears streaming down its cheeks, because when I say ‘anything’, I mean ‘anything’.

Understand? Good. Because understanding the power that the word ‘literally’ holds is crucial to understanding this story.

Now forget about Cube, forget about the chestnut tree, and forget about the mongoose skull. This is where the story really begins.

*

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Fiona rolled over and punched her alarm clock in half. She dug her fingernails into the pillow - once cream, now black - behind her head and folded it over her ears. She rolled onto her front and tried to go back to sleep.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

A second alarm clock?

That could only mean one thing.

She had survived another Winter.

Cursing as she sat up with the struggle and stiffness of a 6,000 year old skeleton who had rolled in super glue, Fiona contemplated the year ahead.

"This one's going to be terrible," she croaked, "I know it."

She realised her throat was dry.

She suppressed the urge to yawn as she stretched her arms.

She suppressed the urge to swear as her bare feet touched the floor.

Cold, laminated wood.

Why she hadn't got a nice fluffy carpet put in, she had no idea. But then again, if she cared about her living conditions even a little bit, the bear corpse fermenting in front of her fireplace would've been moved years ago.

Fiona went to the kitchen, got a glass from the cupboard, poured some water, took a sip, did a yawn, went back to the cupboard, got a bowl, poured some cereal, poured some milk, got a spoon from the drawer, put the bowl on the table, and sat down to eat.

The cereal was stale, the milk was off, and the spoon was grubby.

Fiona supposed that, after going into hibernation for the winter, she couldn't expect her home to be as clean as it was when she went to sleep.

She checked her jeans pocket.

Her phone still had some charge in it.

"Not bad for three months," she said, sliding the phone open. It was an old Sony Erricson, and it was the most reliable thing in her life.

Shame there was nobody to call.

And nobody to text either.

She checked her inbox.

No missed calls

No unread texts.

Fiona went to the living room, switching her router on along the way, and retrieved her DELL laptop from under her armchair, plugged the charger in and checked her Facebook account.

There were five messages waiting for her: Two Nigerian princes, a PS4 giveaway, a "shocking" "video" with "her" in it (56 recipients), and - of course - the seasonal "forgive me" message from Phillip.

She deleted it without reading, as she had done with the last sixteen messages for the last four years.

The bear by the fireplace looked three months deader, the cobwebs in the corners of the walls looked three months thicker, and as Fiona drew back the roof window's curtains and saw the clear blue sky, she heaved out another heavy sigh.

She murmured to herself, “I‘d better get some food.”

The door came off as she put the key in the lock. Fiona saw, as they scuttled away, that termites had eaten through everything that connected the door to the frame during the Winter.

"Looks like it's an open house this year," said Fiona, stepping over the threshold.

Fiona's house was built into the side of a hill, and on top of that hill was an apple tree that she'd affectionately named Harold when she was younger and less miserable. Harold bore sweet, shiny, juicy, plump red fruit called apples, and gladly provided Fiona's breakfast for three quarters of the year, every year.

"Good sleep?" Harold asked as Fiona topped the hill.

She placed her basket on the ground.

"So-so."

Fiona got onto her tip toes and, stretching her arms as far as they would go, managed to pluck an apple from a branch. She motioned to move away from the tree but seemed to change her mind, taking an extra few apples instead.

"Hungry this morning?” Harold chucked, “you usually take just one."

Kneeling down to drop the apples into the basket, Fiona's blue, flower-patterned dress grazed the ground and came up considerably dirtier when she stood up again.

"I have pets to feed now now," she said dully.

"That’s good news. I hear pets are good for a troubled soul. Cat or dog?"

"Termites."

"Ah, I see. Well, see you tomorrow then, Fiona."

Fiona went back down to the hill grotto and placed the basket of apples down by the door threshold. She took one apple for herself, then pulled up a chair and watched as the termites swarmed over the apples and ate through them in less than a minute.

Once they'd had their fill of apples, and nibbled the basket away, too, the termites scuttled back into the door frame and continued gorging themselves on Fiona’s house.

"They'll probably have eaten through the house by next week," said Rodney.

Rodney was, of course, the dead bear in front of the fireplace. Rodney manifested himself between 9 AM and 10 AM, and spent the other 23 hours of the day just taking up space.

"You gonna get rid of them?" the bear corpse continued.

"No," said Fiona. "With any luck they'll eat away enough of the house to bring the hill down on top of me while I sleep."

"Very dark," said Rodney. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed this season? What do you even hibernate for anyway? I don't hibernate, and I'm a bear."

Fiona ignored him and bit into her apple.

She'd have to leave the house alone for a few days while she took the seasonal trip to the local town, Downfall (which is a very depressing name for a place), to buy groceries, seeing as they’d all rotted over the Winter.

“I've got to go out to Downfall and get food,” said Fiona through a half-mouthful of apple. “Can you look after the house while I'm out?”

“I think you forget that I’m a dead bear, Fiona.”

“Yes or no?”

“. . . Sure.”

With the business of housekeeping sorted, Fiona packed all of the things she’d need (which I won’t describe, seeing as the ambiguity of this sentence allows Fiona to possess items as the plot sees fit) into a bag. She put on her pumps and, seeing that there were multiple holes in the soles, added “new shoes” to her shopping list.

Her shopping list read as follows:

• Lettuce

• Tomatoes

• Mayonnaise

• Potatoes

• UHT milk (pasteurised = bad idea!)

• Cereal (whatever's cheapest)

• New shoes (boots this time? pumps keep breaking)

She folded up her list and tucked it away into her pocket, waved goodbye to Rodney, and embarked on the long trip to Downfall.