More depraved works of fiction

A tree or possibly more, forgotten in a field.

The long road home is shorter than you may think.

OK; you add smoothie to yogurt, not the other way around. The remains may require rapid spooning for maximum enjoyment and nourishment.

If only I could find some of the late and lost Picasso's lost works under the bed, in the loft, in the glove compartment or maybe at the bottom of my briefcase. Perhaps left in a battered carpet bag by a wheelie bin that I then happen to come across or in the wardrobe of a cheap hotel. Maybe by the ticket machine at a badly surfaced local authority car park, or deep in the freezer section at ASDA besides Aunt Bessie's' Yorkshire puddings. In a duffel bag bought in a pawn shop or charity shop or just sitting there, wrapped in newspaper like a 70's bulky fish supper on the parcel shelf on a red and white bus to Tulllibody. In a cardboard tube, rolled up with a Postman's band and popped through our letter box while we are out walking a borrowed Labrador in deep and unseasonal snow. Finally one of the cats (not sure which one) thunders through the cat flap carrying some rolled up parchment or thick artist's paper, turns out it's a developmental sketch done by the great man and buried our garden, the cat recognised his style and signature just as he (?) was about to take a cat-pee. Nice.