45) Literary Balls

Two English students are sat in the Bristol Pear in Selly Oak, Birmingham. Outside there is a light drizzle as a train rushes over the nearby bridge. A bus nearly hits an old lady off her bike who tells the driver where to stick the non-existent sunshine. One student drinks a cider. The other a beer.

‘I’m thinking of writing forty five stories in a day,’ the cider drinker says.

‘Forty five stories?’ the beer drinker says, ‘That’d take some literary balls.’

They let the new found phrase hang in the air. They both smile. It’s a keeper.

‘Who do you think has the biggest pair of literary balls?’ the cider drinker says.

‘Someone Russian,’ the beer drinker says, ‘They published their stuff even though they would be exiled from their home, friends and family for doing so.’

‘Plus it’s bloody cold there,’ the cider drinker says.

The beer drinker nods.

‘It’s pretty cold in Birmingham too.’

The beer drinker arches his eyebrow.

‘What’s your point?’ he says.

‘Nothing. Nothing.’

They both take long sips of their drink.

‘It’s just, forty five stories is a lot,’ the cider drinker says.

‘Really? You’re going to do this,’ the beer drinker says.

The cider drinker shrugs his shoulders: ‘Do what?’

‘Zamyatin had to leave Russia! You’re a middle class white boy who’s writing for a bit of fun.’

The cider drinker mumbles something under his breath. The beer drinker points to his ear.

‘I said I’m doing it for charity too.’

‘Oh,’ the beer drinker says, ‘Then yes, you are completely right. You definitely have more literary balls than a man who was forced out of his country for life! Writing forty five stories for charity definitely means you have the biggest literary balls of every writer who suffered war and famine just to get their work published ever. Are you happy?!’

The cider drinker sinks into his seat and takes a sip from his drink.

‘But they’re quite big literary balls, right?’

The beer drinker finishes his pint and walks out into the rain.

44) The Leopard Slug Next to the Bookcase

Weird things could come out of books. As a Librarian, now keeper of only his personal collection, Raphael knew this. He was not good for much else other than looking after books, and as a result spent most of his days indoors, only reading about the wonders out in the world. This made him happy; the world spooked him.

Naturally, the leopard slug startled him. It clung to the side of Napoleonic History, a shelf which he rarely touched, but which led to his books on volcanoes. Raphael liked volcanoes (reading about them, not experiencing them). He spent the morning sat on a stool. For as long as he stared the leopard slug did not move. Raphael sidled past it and grabbed a book called Volcanoes and Legends.

During his reading he was distracted by sobs. He glanced around the corner to wear the leopard slug clung to the bookcase. Its body was retching like a cat coughing up a fur ball. It was the leopard slug who was crying. Raphael wished he could help, but he knew there was nothing that he could do.

As he read through his book he came across the leopard slug in his reading. A creature birthed when the fumes were released during an eruption, the leopard slug thrives in the centre of volcanoes. Raphael learned they were also sociable creatures and if this need was no satisfied it could lead to depression.

The leopard slug sobbed, popping its slimy body up and down the book case. Raphael could not concentrate with this noise. The obvious solution was before him in the book. The notion of what he was thinking terrified him, but so did having to spend the rest of his days with a damaged soul. He closed the book and rang the local travel agent.

43) The Death of the Party

A glass was chinked. Vincent stood at the head of the table, his many violet rings clattering against the glass of red wind in his hand. He swept his long black hair away from his eyes and bowed ever so slightly.

‘Thank you all for coming, I hope you enjoyed your meals.’

Sniggers made the rounds from the shadowy figures sat at the table.

‘Tell me Garesh, what did you say the dish was?’

A hairy man wearing chain mail slammed his fist on the table.

‘It were Simon, the baker’s son,’

He threw the head of the baker’s son into the punch bowl, much to the amusement of the other guests.

‘Very good, very good,’ Vincent said, ‘Which brings me onto the last formality of the evening. It’s time to announce the Death of the Party.’

The dinner guests tapped their flagons against the table three times.

‘The votes are in. Garesh, your dinner was quite delicious but you’ve just fallen short. Tonight you are third.’

He cursed his luck under his breath and a long fingered female stroked his arm as a gesture of commiseration. Garesh perked up at this touch.

‘In second place is the darling Lara for her drowning of Farmer Pitchfork by making him chase an illusion of his dead daughter into the river.’

Lara was the long fingered female. She lapped up the applause by waving to the table and leaning forward to reveal her cleavage. Vincent lost himself for a moment. He was brought back by Garesh’s grumbling.

‘And yes, so that makes the ultimate winner me,’ he said, ‘For my castrating, skinning and crucifixion of the priest.’

Garesh made the loudest clap with his gigantic hands. He had wanted to win, but kudos had to go to Vincent this evening who drank up his wine. There was no way anyone could top that.

‘Actually Vinnie, I think you’re forgetting one death,’ Lara said, stroking her fingers on her chin.

‘And who would that be my dear,’ he said.

Lara tapped the glass. Vincent glanced around the room. He was the only one drinking red wine. He clutched his chest as the venom blocked his arteries. The glass shattered in his hand. His eyes flared red and bloodshot. A croak escaped his throat before he fell forward onto the table.

Lara looked around at everyone else. A golf clap was the appropriate reaction. They would miss Vincent, but a good deceitful death was always fun.

42) Estimated Time of Arrival

The ticket inspector pressed out the creases in his blue uniform as he stood at the golden platform. Puffy clouds hugged the railway lines. The clock didn’t move. There were no trains at the station. The inspector whistled to the tune of ‘We Three Kings’. He didn’t care that it wasn’t Christmas.

Finally, someone wandered onto the platform: a blonde young lady with a centre parting and an untucked Gillingham football jersey. She approached the inspector sheepishly who had his arms crossed.

‘Took your time didn’t you,’ the inspector said.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Thought you’d hold on a little bit longer did you? Got some last words you needed to say eh? Well I’ve got a schedule to keep here.’

The lady blinked twice. She rubbed her forearms to check they were hers. She pinched herself. The inspector did not go away.

‘What is this place?’ she said.

‘Oh bleedin’ hell,’ the inspector said as he rolled his eyes, ‘This is the Holy Station, the gateway to Heaven. The trains run one way and are normally on time.’

He cleared his throat.

‘I’m sorry. The last thing I remember was laying in the hospital, holding my mum’s hand-’

The inspector waved his hand in front of the lady’s face.

‘You’ll have plenty of time to tell your story once you get upstairs. Now if you just give me your ticket I’ll send you on your way.’

The lady patted her pockets. Her forehead crinkled. She dug into her pockets.

‘I don’t have a ticket,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ the inspector said, ‘Odd, don’t normally get many of your getting through.’

The inspector grabbed the lady’s hand and stamped it with a black stamp he swiftly withdrew from his pocket. The girl’s hand read ‘VOID’ in big red letters.

‘Enjoy your trip ma’am.’

The floor opened up below her. She screamed as she fell into the black pit below. The station surface was restored to full purity by puffs of clouds covering the hole. The inspector went back to whistling.

41) Blue-Black Water and the Cracks in the Ice

They had reached the mountain top where the Raddlelink supposedly rested. The Raddlelink was a furry beast with the coat of a mammoth. The creature stood on its hind legs but ran like a gorilla, with four tusks ready to gorge anything that got in its path. Its tale was an ice breathing snake which froze its prey before melting through the ice to eat the flesh in stages.

The Raddlelink was truly frightening, which is why Wolff had to find it. He had done the boring stuff like sleep with lions and wrestle a bear. Now he wanted to become a legend. And the best way to become a legend was to find a legend.

The surface of the mountain top was cracked. Deep inside it looked like blue-black water was frozen and had formed an aqueduct. Beyond that was something hairy and woolly. Wolff was sure this was where the Raddlelink slept. According to the books, the only thing which could it was cutting of its tail; that was where the brain was centred.

He picked away at the ice until there was a crack wide enough for him to slip down. The ropes allowed him to abseil down into the cavern and perch on the aqueduct. He took a picture with a camera; the Raddlelink was massive, even when hunched over in its frozen state. He walked along the frozen water and round to where the tail was, baring its isosceles triangle fangs. Wolff leapt onto the tail. He slipped on the surface but quickly regained his balance. He lit a flame near the base of the tail to start melting the ice.

The snake wiggled and stretched, shattering the ice around it and causing Wolff to fall onto a lower aqueduct. Wolff took out his knife and waited. He could hear the snake hissing and feel the chill of its breath all around him. It coiled around the aqueduct Wolff stood on. Wolff charged towards him, but quickly backtracked when the snake breathed frost at him. He lit up another torch and once the snake had finished, threw it at his open mouth. Wolff charged. The snake couldn’t muster up anymore frost so darted at Wolff. The hunter rolled forward and clung to the snake’s neck. It writhed as it tried to get Wolff up, but he clung on and brought the knife across the unscaled flesh. The snake collapsed instantly.

Wolff took a couple of seconds to compose himself before looking at his kill. There was no way he could carry the head back to base with him. He took a picture and then marvelled at the rest of the beastly creature still encased in ice. Imagine fighting the Raddlelink in its prime. He would never know that joy.

40) Mr Ringtoss

The Carny folk have many a tall tale to tell. My favourite was of Mr Ringtoss. Maybe not the most glamorous of stories, but it has a charm.

His origins date back to a county fair in Florida around the 1990s. He was only just a man at that stage and had a young lass he wanted to care for. At the ringtoss game was a large stuffed panda with huge blue eyes that the lass desperately wanted. It were three rings to get the panda, so he threw down the last five bucks in his pocket and picked up three rings. The game owner laughed behind his stoic face because like his spine, he knew the game was crooked. Yet the little UFOs spun in odd circles as if moving backwards while moving forward and landed on the posts. All three of them. The game owner jumped over the counter and called him a cheat for winning at a crooked game. Realising his mistake, he tried to cover up his own misdeeds. The game owner ended up in jail and kicked out of the carny troop for good.

Although someone had tried to dupe him, Mr Ringtoss felt a tremendous power had been bestowed upon him. Another fair came the following month and once more he took up the ringtoss challenge for his darling lass. All three landed without fail. This game owner was smarter than his predecessor, and while he knew he had been played he smiled and gave the boy his toy.

It was an undeniable talent. County fairs came, as did the amount of stuffed toys. Mr Ringtoss and his lass had so many that they started selling them and making quite a bit of money. The idea came to Mr Ringtoss that he should go on tour, finding carnivals and winning toys on the ringtoss. His lass went along for the ride.

They rode around five states, playing ringtoss and having a whale of a time. Life was very comfortable for the pair of them over the next year. They built up a nice little nest egg for their future children and moved in to a flat near the Everglades. They didn’t tour anymore, but when a county fair came along Mr Ringtoss was sure to be there.

Without realising he went to the county fair where he had first discovered his talent. Waiting for him was the game owner who had been jailed. He didn’t wait for him at the ringtoss game. No, the back of an alley was better for breaking a man’s arm. Mr Ringtoss cried out in pain, but the game owner got away. His arm never recovered; the rings no longer floated like UFOs but dropped like apples from trees.

He and his lass lived out the rest of their days comfortably. Yet she could tell you that a little spirit escaped from Mr Ringtoss as the years went on. The last flicker of excitement in his eye was lost when people started calling him Mr Robinson.

39) The Adventures of the Time Travelling Talking Pie

No one could understand what the pie was saying. The Ambassador of Time Peace (a role which had been created and filled within two hours of the pie’s discovery) sat with his heads in his hands. He had been working a desk job for the FBI a few hours ago. Now he was talking to a pie. He could feel his grey hair falling onto his shoulders. The pie waffled through a gap at the crest of the lid of the crust. Its breath smelt like blueberries. The Ambassador reiterated to himself that he was talking to a pie.

‘What I need to know…Pie, is how you found this microchip.’

The Ambassador lifted a green microchip, cut off at one corner, to the pie. The pie mixed it’s blueberries around and moved its crust lips as a response. The Ambassador ran his hand through his hair and felt the strands nestle in between his fingertips.

The microchip was a brain controlling device that had not yet been invented yet. The first concern regarding the pie was whether it was made in Russia or not. The Ambassador insisted that Russian pies were not particularly renowned, but a background check had to be run. The blueberries were from a farm in California, but the pastry was a mystery. Therefore the pie was still suspicious.

‘What does a-’ The Ambassador stopped to groan, ‘What does a Pie need with a brain controlling device?’

The pie’s gooey insides squelched in reply. The Ambassador swore the noises were higher pitched, as if the pie were speaking with urgency. Then the Ambassador reminded himself, he was interrogating a pie. He could be at home with his normal human children and his normal human wife yelling at his idiotic normal television set.

He took the brain control chip between his thumb and forefinger. An idea came to mind. The pie’s crust trembled, as if it knew what the Ambassador was about to do. He placed the microchip onto the pie’s surface. This was probably outside of what was allowed but he had two excuses; he was still getting used to the job and the suspect was a pie and therefore had no human rights.

‘English. Speak English,’ The Ambassador said.

The pie’s mouth moved slowly, the blueberries churning.

‘Okay.’

The Ambassador clapped his hands together.

‘How did you get the microchip?’ he asked.

‘From the future,’ the pie said, ‘It is all over for you.’

The Ambassador leaned forward with his palms together.

‘Just what are you saying?’

‘The pie is the master race. The human’s time will end.’

The Ambassador felt his stomach churn like a collection of steamed blueberries which had been lightly sugared. Then, one last time, he reminded himself of the situation. He took the microchip off the pie and put it back into the plastic evidence bag. The pie was placed in a Krispy Kreme doughnut box and whisked away.

The Ambassador needed to go home.  There had been a steak pie in the fridge for him to eat when he got back, but he didn’t feel like eating it anymore. It would stay good for another day; what was the harm?

38) Jane and Jam

I have never been married in my life. Nor do I ever wish to be. I find love only in the miraculous jams I make. Or used to make. My brand was locally renowned, about to break national and who knows how far it could have gone. Jane’s Jam, smeared over every piece of toasts in the country. It wasn’t to be. You see I lost sight of the bigger picture.

The reason my jams were so magnificent is because of a secret ingredient. A rare sweet spice plant my grandfather found in the jungles of Brazil many years ago. He brought a couple back and nurtured them in his garden. He used to use the spice on pancakes, but it my mother and I who figured out they were perfect for jam. My mother started the business but passed away before it really took off. I quit school and took over the shop full time. It was a sacrifice I was happy to make and it wasn’t long before I was making a real nice profit.

Money and happy customers are all well and good, but I missed out on teenage experiences like first loves and underage drinking because of the shop. So when Mr Young entered my shop one day and took such a liking to me, it was only naturally that I was swept up by his charm. He had a soft face and rounded ears like that of a chubby boy, yet was tall and thin. I remembered his face and the way he spoke softly, though I probably would have forgotten it after a few days if he hadn’t turned up the following morning. He whipped out a business, far more sharp in his tone. This jam has to be bigger. Let’s take it to the world.

The whirlwind sucked me up and away I was going. We went out for dinner to discuss terms and a business strategy. We ended up flirting outrageously. Well, he flirted with me and I giggled as he used every superlative to describe me. That night I turned up to work late, if you catch me.

This happened on a nearly nightly basis for two weeks as he slowly drained information about the company out of me. He knew there was a secret, but for all his wine and kind words, I would not drop the name. He gave it up and a week later presented me with a contract. I wonder if he knew it would have been so easy to get the secret whether he would have tried this ploy earlier. I signed it blindly and with that I signed away the secret. Section 1:1 which states Mr Young is a joint owner of the Jane’s Jams and Section 4:5 which states all owners must know everything about the product (or words to that effect). Combine the two and Mr Young had what he needed.

The dinners stopped, as did the visits. A month later, Brazilian Jam hit the shelves of every supermarket nationwide. I tried to sue but did not have the finances or resources to scare Mr Young. I spend most nights at the shop, trying to create new flavours and find a different way to use the spice. I feel it is a useless endeavour. The only solace I can take is that the locals say mine tastes better.

37) (Flash) Ode to a Purple Grape

You are the one that I want, the one that I want, ooo-hoo- hoo honey. You wear your colour so divine; it’s why I don’t peel you but eat you up all in one. Who cares what the inside tastes like when I know what it’s like to tease you between my teeth, with delicate squeezes of my jaw until pop. The sweet juices flow onto my tongue and down my throat. Just one of you isn’t enough. I always need more, at least fourteen so you can’t as one of my five a day. Oh but in my head you are five out of five every day. Unlike your bastard brother. Is he white, is he green? What’s the difference, neither suit a creature of his stature. He’s a mouldy raisin, a shrivelled up mango, a kiwi without the shag and who would want that? Not I. No, it is only you purple grape. You are the one that I want, the one that I want, ooo-hoo-hoo honey.

36) The Cat That Could Only Talk to Dogs

Depending on how one looked at it, Mittens was either the smartest of his species and name, or the dumbest cat to have ever lived. His youth was spent slinking in a garden next door to a young puppy. Mittens watched the Labrador chase up and down the length of the garden collecting tennis balls. He paid particularly close attention to how the Labrador celebrated each collection with a bark.

Under the moonlight, Mittens would try to mimic the Labrador. He patted a worn cricket ball he found in the shed and chased after it. After retrieving the cricket ball, he’d place it by the imaginary owner’s feet and bark. This is how Mittens learned to talk to dogs.

The Labrador moved away shortly after Mittens acquired this arguably useless talent. The other cats ignored Mittens because he was too energetic for them. After a lonely week, a new dog moved in next door. She was a giant Alsatian with a thinning coat of fur. She spent her days moping in the garden, occasionally howling at the moon in the hope someone might talk to her.

Mittens watched the Alsatian from the fence of his garden, intimidated by her size. He barked at the dog, whose eyes slowly rolled to where the cat was. The cat barked again and the Alsatian walked over. They exchanged greetings. Mittens asked how the Alsatian, who was called Tinker, liked her new home. She whimpered. It was smaller than her old home (or maybe she was just bigger she contemplated), her owner wouldn’t take her for walks and the birds kept pecking her.

Mittens looked over to the fence where three blackbirds stood very still. The birds had tried to torture him and the Labrador when they were growing up. Mittens knew all it took was a little roughing up to get them to back off for good. Yet Tinker seemed opposed to the idea of fighting. She went back to sunbathing under the overcast and as Mittens left her the blackbirds jumped along the fence.

That evening, when Tinker was allowed inside, the blackbirds stared into the house watching her sleep. They pondered the ways they could annoy her; pull her tail, rip out her hairs, peck her ears. They croaked quietly in amusement. One of the three finished croaking before the other two. They glanced over to see Mittens with the bird’s head buried in its mouth. They screeched at Mittens and took flight.

Tinker came to the door to see what the fuss was. She saw Mittens playing with the bird at his feet, smiling. Tinker’s face dropped as she slinked away from the window.

The pair never spoke again and no new dogs ever moved nearby. Mittens spent his days howling at the moon like Tinker had taught her. He could talk to dogs, but he learnt to late that he didn’t know how to listen to dogs.

35) Three Coins on the Moon

The Space Rover crawls forward at a tremendously slow pace. No more than five miles per hour. The lights are weak, meaning I can only see a few feet in front of me at a time. It’s all craters and stuff. I must remain vigilante though. On one of these craters is an alien symbol; a rectangle with a zig-zag through the middle. Below that symbol is the last of the three coins on the moon.

The first two were found in the late 90s by a Russian team in secret bunkers under craters. Tests show alien bacteria on the coins which was luckily not harmful to humans. They also found texts and scripts about the three coins in the bunkers. Removing all three from the moon would open the gate to paradise. It’s a guess more than a fact though. The scripts had to be translated from a language no one was fluent in. Its made with the assumption the aliens have the same language patterns as us. The Russians were meant to come back for the third coin, but political troubles meant the project was scrapped.

I came across the research by chance. A work buddy sent me the files as a dismissive joke. I read into it. I believed what I saw.

It’s always cold up here. I’m constantly shivering and it makes me feel like I’m always about to throw up. I want to close my eyes, but then I might miss the symbol.

I informed people with power about my intentions. At least, I informed them I wanted to do some moon exploration as part of potential moon emigration projects in the near future. They approved and shot me up. As soon as I got here I went AWOL. Cut all communications. I can get back fine by myself. I’ll answer the questions when I get home.

It’s there. A deep green mark on the surface of the moon.  I start the shovels digging. As they get deeper the ground gets blacker. Something starts to ooze out. This isn’t a bunker, or a treasure. It’s a trap. The ooze grabs my rover and solidifies itself around the track. I can’t drive away. The wheels just grind against the stone substance. A black arm, like a squid’s tentacle covered in oil, slaps the window to my rover. It’s going to break in. This is not Paradise. We got it wrong. We-

34) Little Green Wounded Warrior

I leave my dying thoughts to the wind. I hope it carries them far enough so my wife may hear them in our home by the lake. Goodnight forever my darling, and goodnight to our sweet little daughter. May the lands stay fruitful despite my absence.

To the warriors, present and past, who still wield the shields of green. Do not give up hope through my demise. Let my spirit dwell in the trees and the animals of this glade. May they allow me to guide them to safety from the tanks with rolling pins for wheels, and may they allow me to know their secrets so I may pass them onto you.

To the leaders who fight on the lines back home, in the offices and in the courts. May your wit remain as the rich lawyers try to con you with promises off preservation. Remember always that they are the liars who led us into this three way war, between them, us and the Earth.

And finally to the enemy in your fine suits and tall skyscrapers. Come down to the ground level. See how the poor and in these blood stained countries suffer. See how they work tirelessly for a wage that you wouldn’t get out of bed for. See how we have tried to reason with you for just a scrape of humanity, and see where it has got us. We are coming for you with the same saws you used to cut down our homes and the same guns you used to mow us down.

You call us eco-terrorists. You’re wrong. We are the Green Warriors. And while my wounds may not ever heal, there is still time to save Earth. I hope for a world for my daughter to live in, and so I pray that your demise comes before the planet's.

33) The Small Man and the Dried Biscuit

His cardboard sign in the street reads like the title of a Porno no one would really want to watch. Yet it seems perfectly clean. He is a small man with a brown beard which serves as his blanket. His wears a blue gown with golden threads. His facial features are perfectly straight. In front of him on a red and white striped podium is a McVitie’s digestive biscuit. No other information is given.

I sit on a park bench over the road from him and watch for a while. Many pedestrians wander by, some stop to observe but others rush on before he asks them for change. He does not talk. The pigeons eye up his biscuit but none have the courage to dart for it.

After about ten minutes I go over to him and place a pound coin down on the podium. I look at him, but he looks right through me. I hover my hand over the biscuit, hoping he’ll palm my hand away with lightning reflexes, but still he does not move. I pick up the biscuit. Nothing. Dangle it above my mouth. He doesn’t care. On the bottom of the biscuit there is a piece of paper cello taped. It’s a note which instructs me to turn the podium over. I do as is told of me. Underneath the podium is a full packet of digestives, minus one biscuit.

The small man picks up the packet, bows before me and wanders away. He leaves the podium, the sign and the single digestive that’s in my hand. I can only assume this is some sort of proverb. I wonder how long he’s been sat there, how long the biscuit must have been out in the open. I tip the podium upright and leave the biscuit where it had been before. The pigeons dive furiously at it.

32) Grabbing Thorns

Their mothers named the Tiny Tykes despite the fact they were ten years old and more than capable of looking after themselves. They let their kids frolic in the field next to the housing estate as long as they came home before six so they could have dinner and didn’t go further than the wooden fence..

Michael always led the way on their adventures because he was scientific binoculars. Louise was aggrieved by this decision: while her binoculars may have been made out of plastic, the only difference she could decipher between hers and Michael’s was that his were heavier. Karen never complained. She liked to follow, whether it be through shrubbery or books. She always took one when they went on a picnic.

Their adventures were mostly created by their imaginations. Yesterday they had fought a herd off devil cows and saved a town of gnomes who spoke in rhyme. As they ran through the bushes they came across a new opening beyond where the wooden fence normally signalled the boundary. Stationary diggers were nearby, as were cement mixers and a brook with a small amount of water flowing through.

‘We should explore,’  Michael said.

Louise grabbed his arm: ‘No, it’s beyond the fence. We can’t go beyond the fence.’

‘There is no fence here,’ Michael said, opening his arms wide, ‘Therefore we can roam!’

They both looked at Karen who shrugged, holding onto a detective novel. Michael ran off before Louise could protest any further. He ran parallel to the brook. The amount of water running over the pebbles was never more than a dribble. They came to a barred gate which had newspaper glued together with sludge. Behind the gate was a tunnel where the water was meant to come from. Michael looked through his binoculars even though he was no more than a few metres from the gate.

‘Team, we must clear this gate for the gnomes to get their water.’

‘And how are we going to do that genius?’ Louise said.

Michael scanned the area, first with his binoculars and then without, the latter proving to be easier. On the other side of the brook was a large tree branch. He skipped down into the river bed, jumped over the forks in the trickling water and grabbed the branch. It was heavy, making him unbalanced. He swung the branch into the gate and both him and the gate recoiled with a shudder.

‘It’s not safe,’ Louise said.

He put his hand up to her. This time he was more careful in his approach and prodded the branch through the gap. There was something heavy behind the sludge which needed to be dislodged. He got the branch underneath it and started levering.

‘Look,’ Karen said.

A large hole of water gushed out around Michael’s feet. His trainers were caked in black water, but he had achieved his goal. As she stood triumphantly, he was taking by surprise at how quick the rest of the water burst out. It was like being hit by a water canon. Michael was knocked over and banged his head on the river bed. Neither Louise nor Karen could react quickly enough to stop Michael submerging underneath the sewage.

Karen went pale. Louise yelled at Michael to quit joking around. His binoculars floated to the top. Michael remained below.

31) Knife Play

Fernando was the best at this game. Rolling the hilt of the knife over and under his palm while his prey sat across the table from him. It was a simple game he invented for just these special occasions. The rules were simple. His prey had to close their eyes and guess when the knife was in his palm. They got one guess. If they got it right, they would be given the knife to roll around. If they were wrong, they died. If they didn’t close their eyes, they died. If they dropped the knife, they died. Fernando had never lost.

During the times Fernando wasn’t slicing and dicing, he ran a drugs cartel from Mexico to America. Most of his prey were fools who thought they could outsmart him. They always ended up in front of him. Sometimes, if Fernando was really lucky, he landed a big fish; CIA or FBI operative trying to bust his business wide open. Fernando didn’t like that one bit.

In the seat opposite was one of these hotshot agents, glasses snapped in two resting on his nose. He was a kid, far younger than him, far less experienced. Fernando rolled the knife over in his hand. The rules of the game were already explained to him. The agent took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Fernando barely rolled it over the back of his hand once when the agent called it. It was in his palm. It was best to call it early before losing track of the rhythm of the knife. Fair was fair. He gave the agent the knife and closed his eyes. Fernando also called it early. He opened his eyes and saw the knife was flat on the back of the agent’s hand.

Fernando revealed his yellow teeth. The agent rolled the knife into his palm and lurched forward to stab. The chains around his mid rift held him back. Fernando laughed. The hidden rule of the game was Fernando’s favourite. Always bring a gun to a knife fight.

30) The Girl with the Purple Tuba

I have never, nor will I ever again, meet some who makes playing a tuba look cool. She was in the school band, crimson red hair and a nose ring. She was the anomaly to the glasses and acne. The best part was she knew it. She would throw her purple tuba around like it was her dance partner and boss the solos. Everyone would scowl and roll their eyes at her energy, but I smiled like a goof. After watching her perform I would go home and play air tuba to all the guitar solos in my CD collections.

The sad thing was, though she had caught my eye, I never seemed to catch hers. She was in the year above me and there were plenty of more mature guys that she could kill time with than me. I persevered though. I continued going to the shows and each time went to more extreme lengths to be noticed. It started with bumping into her, though that seemed to piss her off when I nearly knocked her precious tuba out of her hand. Next was saying very loudly how I liked a band I knew she definitely liked, though I think she knew I definitely did not like that band as she demanded me to name my favourite song of theirs. I came up blank (ironically, the title of one of their songs). My final trick was dying my hair purple: she ran from the stage to her car and drove off.

And if it had ended there, all would have been fine and good. An embarrassing life lesson well learnt. Except I hadn’t learnt.  I still had hope. I still had her sister; the girl who played the clarinet of doom. Her instrument was named so because the first two shows she ever played it at, an audience member died: one in a car crash on the way home and another of a heart attack in the bathroom at the interval. She was plainer than her sister; a rounded nose with no piercing and mousey brown hair tide neatly into a ponytail. She didn’t play with nearly as much passion as her sister. However, the one thing she did have going for her was that she liked me. I pandered to this, going on walks, watching films and even hand holding. After a couple of weeks of dating, she invited me over to her place.

I’ll fast forward the meeting parents and the description of the double garage driveway and skip to the important parts. First, when purple tuba girl walked in, she was mad. Tears running down her face mad. I was in the living room with her sister at the time watching a quiz show on television with her parents. I sensed an opportunity and excused myself to go to the bathroom.

In my head, this is how this played out: I knocked on her door, she runs into my arms and cries all her problems away, she realises I’m a lovely guy and for my reward we have loud and long sex. I know there are just so many problems with this plan, but I was a horny teenager. Rather than have you shake your heads at me, let me tell you how it played out.

I pressed my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything. I knocked and still nothing. Maybe she’s not in? But to see her room would be great. Just a quick peak. Her room was a tip: photos of boys littered everywhere, many skull designed earrings scattered across her desk and… Pants. Actual female underwear.  I WAS A TEENAGER. I picked them up, lacy and black. They felt so soft in my hand. For some reason I had the uncontrollable desire to rub them on my face (STUPID, STUPID TEENAGER) And then a scream. In a towel, back from the bathroom, was the purple tuba girl.

Long story short, I was never allowed back in their house again. Her sister broke up with me and told all her friends I was a cheating pervert, while the guys spread rumours about the naked body I supposedly saw. I didn’t go to anymore band concerts. Purple tuba girl got a scholarship somewhere good and went to play in Italy for a really classy band. She doesn’t have the nose ring anymore. She’s moved on.

29) Amending the Genetic Code of the Quagga to Enable Flight

Day 1

I’ve been given clearance and funds to support my new study. It’s like nothing before, essentially bringing an extinct animal back from the dead. The quagga was the director’s choice of animal: his daughter prefers them to Dodos, and although I think this experiment would have a better effect on the flightless bird, it could be interesting to see the effects on what is essentially a yellow zebra. First things first I need to alter the DNA of zebras and force breeding in order to get a suitable test quagga. It sounds horrible and complex, but it’s harmless. The zebras are almost non-existent anyway.

Day 15

Suitable zebras with genes that can be easily modified have been contained and have already started breeding. Looks like love at first sight. Kind of sweet. The zebra should be pregnant soon.

Day 34

That was quicker than expected. Just have to wait nearly a year now although genetic changes will have to be made in the next few months. This is plenty of time to amend the genetic alteration machine. It’s this kind of technology that could lead to us one being able to change the eye colour of children. I however, plan to use it to give birth to a dead animal.

Day 112

The machine took a little longer than expected to prepare, but I managed to alter the DNA just before the critical deadline. Hopefully the pregnancy runs smoothly and at the end of it we should get our quagga.

Month 14

Geoffrey was born today. A healthy young. Most importantly, definitely a quagga. There are two odd bumps around his front hip sockets. It could be quite possible that I’ve bred the first real life Pegasus. Geoffrey’s mother is apparently quite distraught she can’t see her son. The sacrifices for science.

Month 17

Geoffrey has developed the skeletal structure of wings. They currently look like tiny bony talons. It doesn’t seem to be affecting his development of growth either. Hopefully it won’t affect his ability to run or charge in the long run either. One interesting development is that it doesn’t mind eating meat. Unusual, zebras are herbivores. Will need to keep an eye on that.

Month 19

Geoffrey is becoming aggressive, slamming his head against his change and screaming at his carers. He only just about lets me feed him, and he will only eat rabbits and other creatures. His wings have gained feathers, but his front hooves have become infected. They’re turning fleshy and yellow. I worry for the poor creature.

Month 20

I fear Geoffrey is not a Pegasus. The hooves turned into talons and his chest, along with his wings, are covered in brown feathers. He is a Gryphon. He lets no one near him any longer. We throw food into his pen but he leaves it untouched. I do not believe he is long for this world.

Month 21

Geoffrey escaped last night. He has been biding his time and saving his strength. His talons are mightier than I anticipated. He was able to crush the bars and used his wings to fly away. He was last spotted flying south across the sea towards the Equator, yet no one has seen him since. It is possible Geoffrey has a yearning to return to his Zebra species in Africa. As a carnivore, I can’t imagine he’ll be welcomed back into the tribe.

If this experiment has proved anything, it is that animals can, in some form or another, be brought back from the dead. The director has given me clearance to perform the experiment on a dodo. I am sure the results will be satisfactory this time around.

28) Double O

‘Which one was the best?’ I say.

I can see Daniel’s mind tinkering despite the fact he’s fumbling for something under his bed. Roy jumps on the bed with his shoes on.

‘Daniel Craig, easy,’ Roy says.

Daniel’s mum yells upstairs to tell him to stop jumping on the bed. He grabs a torch from under his bed, switches it on and off and then places it on his bed.

‘Really? Have you seen any of the classic Bond films?’ I say.

‘Sure, I’ve seen Die Another Day. And Brosnan doesn’t know his glock from his co-’

‘What about you Daniel?’ I say.

‘George Lazenby,’ he says, searching through his draws for something.

‘He barely counts as a Bond,’ Roy says, jumping on the bed again. Daniel’s mum yells for him to stop.

‘He’s obscure,’ Daniel says.

‘Okay, okay. If you were going to be a Double O, what would your number be?’ I say.

‘Easy,’ Roy says, splaying his legs out on the bed before me, ‘Double O sixty-nine.’

‘Really?’

I frown at him. He retaliates by licking his lips.

‘Jesus. What about you Daniel?’

Daniel is more interested in grabbing a plastic box on top of his wardrobe. I don’t know why he wants it as all that’s in there is a tent and a fold away chair. I ask him again and this time he looks down at me after successfully pulling the box down after him.

‘Dobule O zero.’

‘Lame,’ Roy says, but I wave my hand at him.

‘It’s like George. A bit obscure, a bit hidden,’ he says.

He lifts up a black bag off the floor. It is filled with things he’s been packing during the entire conversation. I only notice this now.

27) Pirates Take My Baby Brother to the Orphanage

There yar some tings you nevar farget. That night at the orphanage be one of them. Arr captain pointed to the place on the map when we asked where Davey Jones’s pendant be. It made sense at the time; hiding it at sea would be too obvious. Hiding it in an orphanage on the coast, the bordar of his domain and the place he dare not tread. It all clicked.

It be, or were, a large place. Little steeple for ringing bells. They used it when we cannonballed the hell out of thar glass windows and hollow bricks. Fire spread quickly. Nevar stood a chance. When we went inside to plunder, thar be nothing but cold, white bodies. We showed the captain arr work. He started blubbering like a baby pushing his head into my chest. Poor soul. A deckhand put him down for a nap and we looked for the pendant.

The pendant was narwhere. We did find some interesting documents regarrding arr captain. We know whar his brothar be. A land lubber, lives on a farm. Not a life for a pirate like arr captain. We decided we’d keep an eye on him until he be ready to make his own decision. Would you want to go back to a family who abandoned ye to the like of me? Some child murderar! Yarh, I’ve done bad tings in my time, but that was the warst.

But forget all that. Tell me stranger, where do I have to cut this little baby’s throat to get to Davey Jones’s pendant?

26) The Last Slice

AND THEY’RE OFF.

Mother has just served up the pizza and garlic bread. Mmmm-yummy looks like pepperoni tonight. The kids have gotten in before Dad, a good tactical move. Looks like the younger brother is starting the night with a single slice of pizza and two bits of garlic bread, those sort of conscious good manners will cost you in this sport. Meanwhile the eldest sister as taken two bits of pizza and THREE pieces of garlic bread. Unbelievable. Wait a minute, the son has contested the decision and it goes to the umpire. Yes, mother agree that the daughter had made a selfish play and must return one slice of pizza and a piece of garlic bread. It was a risky move and she’s been caught out!

And now Dad gets his chance to shine, with his daughter already being reprimanded for being greedy how will he play it? Looks like his playing the smart game; two pizza and two garlic bread. Should tide him over until the second period. Mum gets in last and takes the same amount as Dad as she heads into the dining room.

So after the first period of intense action we have three pieces of garlic bread left and another six slices of pizza. Let’s move over to the dining room and see what’s happening there.

It seems like the sister is distracted by her sulks of protest and it is costing her precious eating time. The brother has already got through his two bits of garlic bread and is well on his way to completing his slice of pizza. But the strong favourite Dad is well ahead; no garlic bread remains on his plate and only one bit of pizza to go. Mum is keeping a steady pace which may bode well in the late game.

Look here! The brother has made a charge for the kitchen and has been intercepted by Dad who barges him out of the way. It wasn’t subtle at all, right under the watchful eye of the umpire. What is she going to call here? Yes a penalty to the son which means he gets first pick of the food items. And it looks like he’s going heavy, 3 slices of pizza and one bit of garlic bread. Dad tries to contest but Mum is already back in the dining room. Dad take two slices of pizza and none of the garlic bread either. If they both finish their plates they’ll be on four slices of pizza and two garlic breads.

Oh and it’s all gone horribly wrong as we return to the dining room. The daughter has been adjudged to be ‘moody’ and is complaining about the decision earlier. What’s this? Oh my, she’s been sent off to her room. What a silly reaction from the daughter, that will cost her the match. You can see she’s disappointed with herself as she storms out.

The brother and Dad are keeping good pace, but Dad has the advantage having already taken on a larger bulk earlier in the competition. His son’s complacency might be enough to give him the win here.

More drama! As we turn to the kitchen cam we can see the sister sneaking in and stealing the remainder of the garlic bread. That leaves just the last slice of pizza left. That will be the deciding factor between these two competitors tonight. The umpire who has been on such good form this evening has let an important incident slip under her radar. I’m sure there’ll be post-game ramifications for the daughter, but for now she gets away with it. In fact she’s just gone into the kitchen now.

We’ll join her later as shockingly, Dad appears to be choking on his pizza. His face is going red, and while it doesn’t appear fatal it is halting his tremendous pace! This has given the son a wonderful opportunity which he is gratefully accepting as he begins scoffing the crust of his last pizza. Dad has recovered and is also down to his last crust. It’s neck and neck, who’s going to do it. And experience prevails, Dad finishes his expertly and rushes to the kitchen. It’s unlucky for the youngster, his day will come but today Dad will take the last slice.

Oh no! I am wrong. Stick a black bin bag in my mouth because I’m talking rubbish. The last slice has gone. Dad is completely bemused. He’s checking under the plates, under the table. Did the daughter also nab the last slice of pizza? Let’s check our replay cams. Nope, just the garlic bread. Then who has it? The son comes out, and he too is baffled. Let’s turn on the living room cam.

It’s remarkable! I have never seen anything like this. Mum has taken the last slice of pizza AND taken the television so she can watch Casualty at the same time. My word, you watch this sport for so many years, and you think you’ve seen it all, then a wonder play takes you by surprise. I’m gobsmacked. I have no more words for you tonight ladies and gentlemen. Join us next time for more cracking action.

25) Tom Who Had Good Table Manners

Tom who had good table manners went on a date with a girl named Kate. Kate wore a cream coloured jumper and had her hair tied up in a bun. Tom assumed that based on Kate’s appearance she, like himself, was very good at eating at classy restaurants. Tom was incorrect.

Kate had never been on a date at any other place than Pizza Hut, who once had the slogan ‘We won’t mind if you put your elbows on the table’. This appeared to be the motto of Kate’s life. When they had a glass of red wine; elbows on the table. Checking out the menu; elbows on the table. Even when cutting with her knife and fork, when it would be advantageous to have her arms in the air, the table was occupied by her elbows.

However, Tom is completely unreasonable. No one’s perfect after all. Yet Kate seemed impressively imperfect when it came to getting solids and liquids from the table to her mouth. Before the menus had reached them Kate had spilled wine down her cream top. It was joined by the crumbs from the extra two rolls of bread she asked for and tomato ketchup slipping out of her children’s menu cheeseburger (everything on the menu had ‘salady crap’ in it).

After the main course, Tom went to the bathroom to calm down. The veins around his temples were throbbing and he was disgusted to see a strand of hair had parted from his sweeping fringe. He would apologise when he returned. Except when he returned she was picking the remnants of her kids sized burger from her teeth with the corner of the menu.

‘WHO DOES THAT?’ he yelled before he had taken his seat.

The piano which had been part of the background noise was suddenly noticeable because it had stopped. People stared. An old lady shamed the young man for a lack of table manners. Tom took his seat and apologised to Kate.

‘You know what,’ she said, pausing to belch, ‘I think I’m going to take off. Lovely to meet you and all, but you’re just a bit rude really.’

Tom wielded his fork like a trident; it took every fiber of gentlemanly conduct not to launch it at the back of her head. The waiter with a thing curling moustache came with the bill shortly after.

‘I’m afraid we’d like you to leave. Please pay the bill and go. Your kind are not welcome here.’

Tom stabbed the table with the fork and looked at the bill. Thank god all she had was a sodding kids meals. Should have taken the stupid cow to McDonalds. Tom was never quite the same again.

24) Banana Pants

‘You must be kidding me Sebastian,’ I said.

Sebastian snapped his fingers at me. The bangles on his wrist jangled as he picked them up again from the white table and waved them in the air as if it would make them more appealing.

‘Darling, do you see what I have here or are you blind?’ he said, rolling his eyes.

They were tiny shorts, neigh, underwear made from banana peels. The bright yellow colour was already browning in his hands. I imagined feeling slimy residue around my hips and shuddered.

‘This is too much,’ I said, ‘I mean Lady Gaga barely pulled off a meat dress. I am a young singer who has only just gotten her first number one. The most adventurous thing I ever wore before the fame was a pair of leopard print leggings. Sebastian, you have been a star, but I cannot wear those.’

Sebastian dropped the pants on table and rushed up close to me, flailing his hands around my face. I hated it when he did that; it was his way of taking control of the situation. He pressed his fingers on my lips as I opened my mouth to talk.

‘Darling, listen,’ he said, ‘I have been in this job for over fifteen years. And what turns a little girl with a one hit wonder into a chic superstar is fashion. Daring, adventurous fashion. These pants will make you a star. Everyone will say ‘Hey did you see that girl with the banana pants?’ and then they’ll listen to your music.’

I bit my lip. I imagine the thin strands in the inside of the peel getting stuck to the back of my calves as I walked down a red carpet. The press would have a field day. I shook my head again. He pressed his hands lightly on my shoulders to make me sit on a silver stool. His nose was pointier up close, his eyebrows more jagged.

‘Look darling, if you don’t wear the pants, I won’t design anything for you ever again. Which is a shame, because I want you to only wear what I make. So that would mean I’d have to tell all my big friends not to work with you. Then you’ll have no one. And that’ll make me sad. But it’ll make you sadder.’

His breath was minty and stung my nostrils. My arms trembled at my side. I looked over his shoulders at the pants.

‘I guess I could try them on.’

Sebastian clapped his hands together in my face. I jumped back on the stool and tried to catch my breath as Sebastian’s devil bangles jingled while he skipped to grab the pants.

23) When the Post Office Moved My House

It had been a lovely two week trip to the Canary Islands. It was what Dora had needed. The weeks leading up to it involved many arguments with her ex-husband about the miscommunication of dates he was available to look after their sun while she was gone. Prior to the agreement, her son William had been stubborn and awkward about living with his ‘scumbag father’ for two weeks. He worked the possibility he may not have to stay with him for everything it was worth and every evening ended in a row. Despite how badly his son had acted out, she looked forward to seeing him again. All mothers could only stay angry for so long.

The taxi stopped in the cul-de-sac of her address and looked out of his front windscreen.

‘Are you sure this is right love?’ he said.

Dora saw the street sign out of the window to her right and told the taxi driver they were at the correct address. She paid the driver, told him to keep the change and lugged her suitcase out onto the pavement. The taxi reversed wildly and bombed down the street. It was able to get away before Dora realised her house was no longer there. Everything else about the cul-de-sac was the same; Numbers 1-2 and 4-7 were there, but number 3 had vanished. Even the garden, including her decking, was gone.

The elderly man who lived next door came outside waving a red ticket in the air. He scratched his head as Dora examined the ticket. It was from the post-office about a missed delivery. The elderly man explained they had collected her house hours after she went on holiday; he assumed she had decided to move somewhere new. As Dora rang for a taxi, neither her nor the elderly neighbour having a car, the elderly neighbour continued to scratch his head.

The same taxi driver from before screeched around the corner and drove her to the post office. Dora could see her house in the storage space behind the main reception. She paid the driver, asking for the change this time, and handed in her ticket a woman who wore her beige trousers up above her belly button. She squinted at the ticket and nodded.

‘Ah yes, so a Mr William Battersby-Robson sent this parcel to the address of Mr Roger Robson, who then tried to send it back to Mr William Battersby-Robson who was unable to collect the parcel,’ she said.

‘The parcel is my house!’ Dora said, ‘I want it back now.’

The woman behind the desk stared vacantly at Dora for a couple of seconds, then snorted oozing phlegm into the back of her throat.

‘I’m afraid we need the identification of Mr William Battersby-Robson as he is the recipient of the parcel.’

Dora rang William immediately. It went through to his answer phone: Hi, I can’t get to the phone right now as I’m soaking up the sun in a foreign country. If this is Mum, I hope you enjoy sleeping somewhere you don’t want to for a while. To everyone else, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.

Dora realised mothers could stay angry for a lot longer than she thought possible.

22) I Like Penguins

It was all he could say these days. The warning signs came a couple of years before he was put into the asylum when he talked nonsense about penguins, like how they always wore tuxedos to look smart. His friends thought it was wonderful that he had adopted a penguin; it was a cry for help.

When September came around he started a job in a new place. He had friends, old and new, in the city but it was living alone that he couldn’t get used to. The neighbours complained about fishy smells and squawking at unholy hours of the morning. When questioned, he reasoned that he must have left the fridge open and the television on and apologised for the trouble he had caused. Yet the rumours he had been keeping a penguin in his apartment were deemed true when one of his neighbours, while walking their dog, saw him wandering around the park with a penguin in a leash. The adopted penguin was returned to the zoo, and he was taken for a mental check-up.

It was an obsession, the test found. There was something unnatural about his like for penguins. The examiners asked for details about his past; was there a traumatic story in his past about penguins. His tale about eating cold lasagne and then watching an episode of Pingu afterwards did not impress them. He was declared mentally unwell and sent to a home just for a little while for some rest.

He would have been fine. The modern world had taken its toll on a fragile mind and some time away would have restored all functions back to normal. Unfortunately, there was a miscommunication between the mental examiners and the home and he was given a strict routine of exposure to penguins rather than being denied penguin related material. This meant watching penguin documentaries, taking bath with wind up penguin toys that paddled in the water, eating penguin shaped potato waffles and going to bed with a life sized penguin toy to spoon.

After a month on this routine, the examiners came to see how he was getting on. They were horrified at the mistake which had been made. Though they tried an aggressive anti-penguin program by making him listen to tapes of sea lions snarling, the effects of the previous treatment were irreversible. Loved ones were informed, and as they cried for his well-being he replied with three words.

I like penguins.

21) The Sock Man

‘Sock it, Sock Man,’ Muscle Man said, flexing his abs as he laughed.

This happened at every meeting. Sock Man would try to contribute to the discussion of superheroes and then Muscle Man would flex one of his many muscles and tell Sock Man to shut up. He was the nerd of the group, and this was in a group which included Textbook Woman. The problem was, because Muscle Man probably had the most useful skill out of all of them, his word was gospel.

‘I just think if we spent money on better technology to track criminals rather than gym equipment-’

‘I said keep it shut,’ Muscle Man said, ‘We’re putting the money aside for a new swimming pool. Kelp Girl thinks it would be beneficial to her abilities.’

A girl with lank, green hair drooping over her eyes smiled at Sock Man as he went to complain. She looked like a fragile teenage girl who had built up a lot of courage to ask Muscle Man for the pool. Sock Man readjusted his sock mask and sat back down in his chair. The meeting went on like this with wasteful suggestions and boasting about arrests. Sock Man wished he had a better power. The best work he had done was give German’s gangrene during the war. It was difficult using a power which required to have no shoes on at all times to use effectively.

The meeting was adjourned with Muscle Man inviting everyone to his for a hot tub party. Sock Man was invited to these, but the one time he went he had been ridiculed the whole evening for not taking off his socks to get in the hot tub. He went home, watched television and fell asleep in front of the gymnastics; he liked watching sports which didn’t require shoes.

When he woke up, the wrestling was on. As he yawned and rubbed his eyes he saw the fight was between The Rock, a muscular tanned man who was the spitting image of Muscle Man, and Mankind, a chunky curly haired man who wore a brown leather mask and a tie. The Rock was pounding Mankind with heavy hooks until Mankind was knocked to the floor. The Rock tried to use his special move, The Rock bottom, which involved riling up the crowd and then running from rope to rope of the ring before performing an elbow drop. Before he could make it back in time, Mankind got up and used his special move; he had a sock on his hand which he stuffed into The Rock’s mouth, effectively choking him. The Rock tapped three times, signalling that he submitted. The ref’s bell rang and Mankind was declared the winner.

It all became clear.

When Sock Man arrived at Muscle Man’s house it was already dark inside. He rang the doorbell anyway. Sock Man heard a bottle roll down the stairs and loud swearing from inside. Muscle Man answered the door in a red robe. He held onto the doorframe with his large hand.

‘Sock Man, what the hell do you want?’

Sock Man lifted his hand up; on it was a sock with plastic eyes and a smiley face drawn in pen. It swayed in the air like a tamed snake, then darted like a viper at Muscle Man’s face. His screams were inaudible. Muscle Man tapped three times on the floor. There was no referee. There was no bell. But there was a winner.

20) Callooh Callay, No More

Let me tell you the tale of old Chuck Quickshoot. He was a cheerful, glass half full of moonshine kind of guy and spent most of his days riding the dangerous Wild West. Chuck had humble roots as a blacksmith’s son and by god he was good at it. He could smelt pistols and bullets more aerodynamic than what you could buy with a cow for on the black market. With each weapon created, a Callooh Callay could be heard across town.

On his twenty first birthday, when his Pappy was old and dying, he was given the sturdy steed Buckington. His Pappy told him to go out and see the world. With his perfectly crafted guns and his new life partner, Chuck sold the blacksmith business and went wandering around the country with a Callooh Callay.

The first year of Chuck’s adventures were relatively uneventful as he tried to find his calling. He was no good at farming, nor could he find joy in bar work. It was in fact when he was working behind the bar that he discovered his talent for shooting. A stubble chinned punk accused Chuck of giving him a single when he asked for a double, and a duel was quickly agreed upon outside. Ten paces were agreed upon and before the bald headed punk could swivel on his boots he was shot right out of them. It was then that Chuck collected his last wage and began life as a vigilante for justice with a Callooh Callay.

The police didn’t like Chuck all too much. They knew he was a good kid and meant well, but vigilante justice was bad justice. Chuck didn’t listen to their warnings and continued murdering murderers and stealing from thieves. His shooting abilities became legend to all, including the Sheriff. The law enforcer spent many a day twisting his grey moustache trying to find a solution to Chuck. He liked the kid very much; he was well mannered and a kind fellow. To the Sheriff’s sorrow, only one solution had a satisfactory conclusion. The Callooh Callay had to end.

The Sheriff took his finest pistol, a golden single barrel beauty and saddled on his horse. He found Chuck tending to Buckington outside a motel. It was there the Sheriff challenged Chuck to a duel. Chuck reluctantly accepted, for he also respected the Sheriff. Many powerful law enforcers liked to wave what was in their pants around for everyone to see, but not the Sheriff. He listened to the people and acted on their benefit. It just made Chuck sad that their benefit was his death.

They agreed on three paces and turned their backs on one another. The sun was at its highest point. The motel owner had been called out to count the paces.

One: the rattle of the star studs on their boots.

Two: the gust of a dusty breeze.

Three: one shot.

Chuck hit the floor with a Callooh Callay.

19) Rollercoaster Diaries

*Diary of a Drop Tower*

Dear Diary,

Today started well. I was feeling up for a very long time, so high I thought I could touch the sky. However, as I learnt many years ago, you can only go up for so long before you have to come crashing down again. It’s strange how people handle the fall though. Some cry actual tears, unable to handle the pressure of everything falling. Then there are those who ride the fear, screaming into the face of danger. There are even the few who do not react; they sit quietly, accepting what is happening. It makes me optimistic that today’s society can handle a crisis. I think when disaster strikes, we’ll be okay.

*Diary of a Log Flume*

Dear Diary,

Another day of getting people wet. Man I am good at my job. I don’t think there’s ever been a sexier log flume unit than I. Sadly, the autumn is coming which means the goods have to go away before it gets cold. I do not do well in the cold. I heard from flying carpet ride that the Water Rapids is feeling a little blue. I tell you what, if I could get off my track, I’d show her my-

-The rest of this entry is illegible due to soggy pages-

*Diary of a Spinning Teacup*

Dear Diary,

BLEEEEEUUURGH.

18) Arthur's Seahorse

Arthur had been a criminal, wrongly accused of stealing fish food despite owning no fish. The jury did not see this as a flaw to the evidence that had been handed to them (eye witness testimony from the shop owner, the shop owner’s wife and a dog which could respond to yes or no questions through barking once or twice). For his crime, Arthur was banished to the sea with only a raft and a week’s worth of fish food.

It took four days for Arthur to wish he was dead. The fish food tasted like rabbit pellets found in the forest and the inside of his throat felt like strips of masking tape. The sea water teased him. He put his head out over the side of the raft and stared at the blue water. Salt water couldn’t be that harmful could it?

He dipped his hand into the water, and as he did he felt something rough with many spindly thorns. He pulled his hands back and saw something yellow under the surface. A nozzle shaped nose poked out of the water. As the rest of its head came out, it had the skull shape of a dragon and the arched neck of a horse. The head alone of this creature was larger than the raft.

If Arthur wasn’t so dehydrated, he might have believed he had come across a giant seahorse. He reached out a hand which trembled through both uncertainty and malnourishment. The seahorse pushed its head into Arthur’s palm. It rubbed itself up and down, causing tiny coral scales to crumble away like dandruff. The seahorse whipped its head back, signalling for Arthur to get on its back.

As a man with nothing to lose, Arthur rolled over the side of the boat and allowed the waves to carry him. The seahorse dived underwater and then resurfaced underneath him. Arthur put his hands gently around the creature’s throat. They were off, dashing across the waves with ease. Arthur’s cackle startled the seahorse. He wasn’t sure if he was really being taken back to shore. Even if he wasn’t, this was a pretty fun way to die.

17) It's a brown thing...

It was a brown thing in the middle of the playground. A trio of seven year old boys had found it. Maxwell exclaimed how gooey it looked, while Peter stated it definitely came out of Rob. Rita and Lisa laughed at Peter’s joke and Rob ran inside to tell the teacher.

More children crowded around it. Lots of loud ‘wow’s’ and other noises of amazement filled the playground. Mark said it smelled like the toilet after Fran had used it, to which she responded it did not, to which he responded it did to. A group of ten year old girls declared it disgusting and wandered off to chat about pretend beach holidays and boys they fancied. One nine year old girl was crying, so a boy in her class held her hand grinning like a drunk teenager.

Maxwell dared Peter to poke the brown thing with a stick. The crowd held its breath as the stick prodded the brown thing. It squelched and rolled over. Underneath it was more sticky, smelly stuff, but instead of brown it was red and white. No one laughed anymore. Everyone was silent, except the girl who sobbed.

Rob came back with puffy cheeks and Mr Cartwright. He pushed his way through the crowd of people who came up to his hip and saw the brown thing. He told everyone to go back inside. Once everyone had dispersed, he examined the long brown strands of hair. They were attached to a decapitated head covered in cuts and blood. Mr Cartwright vomited. 

16) The Art of Not Finishing Your...

Tristan waited with his mouth, staring at Rachel. She looked back like he was a pervert trying to watch her pee in the ladies bathroom. His jaw could have fallen off at any moment.

‘…Sentence,’ he finally said, ‘C’mon, do you not find that cute at all.’

Rachel didn’t want to hurt his feelings so she took a giant bite of her burger and responded with a greasy smile. Tristan dabbed a piece of chicken around his plate. When Rachel gulped down her burger, Tristan looked at her in expectation of an answer. Instead she took a long sip of her root beer. She emptied the glass. Tristan stared.

‘Fine, I don’t. I guess I’m just not suckered in by all that romantic stuff.’

It was her turn to stare, to analyse. Tristan didn’t react at first, just stared right back. After a few seconds her blew air out through his nostrils and ate the chicken which had been crushed into a thin, wirey strip. Rachel ate a couple of chips and looked around for a waiter to get her another drink.

‘So are we done with any romance now?’ Tristan said to her back.

‘Ofcourse we’re not. We still have sex don’t we?’ she said without turning around.

She grabbed the attention of the waiter who took her order and scurried off. When she looked at Tristan, his hands were leaning on the table with no cutlery.

‘Is that all you think I need?’ he said.

‘What do you want? I go to work, I come home and I’m-’

‘Tired. I know. That’s one sentence I can finish.’

Rachel thrust herself back into her chair with her arms crossed.

‘So what, you’d rather I just not work, stay at home with you all day and make coochy faces at one another?’

Tristan blinked twice and twisted his nose to the side. This was how he stopped himself from crying. Rachel couldn’t believe how much he cried. It had become a ritual.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking for a while that maybe we should-’

‘Break up?’ Rachel said, ‘Because you do this every time we have an argument and guess what, we never break up. So shut up, get off my case and eat your damn chicken.’

Tristan pushed himself back from the table and stormed off to the bathroom. The waiter came back with a root beer. Just as well it didn’t have ice in it.

15) Death's Favourite T-Shirt

Death didn’t really go in for metal or rock music, despite the fact that he was held in a high regard by these muscians. He thought it would be too cliché and besides it had given him a bad image in the past. He wanted a band shirt that said ‘Hey humanity, I’m a happy go lucky guy just like you. Think of me as the guy taking you to sweet salvation, not the guy who kills people. I don’t kill people, I just move their souls along to the next life.’

Satan scratched her goatee with her long black nails and gulped from her beer, the most evil of all alcoholic beverages. This was also another problem of Death’s. He hung out with the sort of people who had bad reputations, and thus their reputation rubbed off on them. Satan belched.

‘Okay. I don’t get it,’ she said, ‘But, for arguments sake, say I did understand why you wouldn’t wanted to be associated with death and all that jazz. Why did you choose that shirt?’

Death had picked out a black shirt from the merch stand at the last The Killers gig he attended. The shirt had ‘Killers’ written on it numerous times in green, white, blue, pink and yellow.

‘Everyone loves The Killers. You know, I’m Mr. Brightside. Ba-Da-da-dadadum-ba-da…you know what never mind I can’t sing.’

Death took a sip of his pina colada as Satan squashed her palm into her face.

‘Yes, but everyone loves sex and money too. I mean come on you have ‘killers’ scrawled all over your body. How much more associated with dying could you make yourself?’

Death picked his teeth with the pink umbrella stick from his drink. He sighed.

‘I just want to be liked,’ Death said, ‘For once I just want someone to be happy to see me.’

‘I’m always happy to see you,’ Satan said rubbing Death’s bony arm. Death’s jaw clicked as it curled into a smile. Satan continued; ‘Some things just won’t ever change I’m afraid. But if you want to show the world you like The Killers, then you go ahead and like The Killers.’

Death slammed his glass down, spilling coconut cream all over his hands. It was already sticky in the gaps between his sockets.

‘Thank you Satan, you always know how to cheer me up.’

Death got up from his bar stool: ‘Time to gather some more souls.’

‘Hey Death,’ Satan called just before Death left, ‘If Brandon Flowers dies, take that one to heaven. No way I’m having him down here.’

14) Dock Leaf, Part II

*Last time on Dock Leaf, Doc the leaf got used by a young boy who had stung his leg on a nettle. Let’s rejoin the action*

Doc was on the ground, discarded and crumpled. There were numerous holes between his tendrils where the youth had grabbed him. His stem hurt where he had been cut off from the rest of the bush. His friends looked down on him in mourning. Doc was soon about to die.

As he looked up at the grey clouds anticipating his final meal, Doc wondered what he had done to deserve this fate. Maybe it was three months ago when he bragged about a butterfly landing on him, or that period of a few weeks where he grew over Hazel so he could get more sunlight. As far as leaves went, he was a bit of a bastard.

Doc felt something crawl up his blade shaped body. It was a green caterpillar. Its little feet tickled Doc, but he could find no energy to laugh. The caterpillar nibbled on Doc. In comparison to being used like a sponge by the young boy, this pain was bearable. Relativity aside, Doc was still being consumed alive.

His friends watch on in terror, swaying with the wind as the clouds above broke. Drops of rain splashed on Doc’s forehead. The caterpillar was scared of the water and slinked underneath Doc for protection. For a moment, Doc felt refreshed and renewed despite his sides throbbing with bruises. This was his resting place. For a Dock Leaf, his life was pretty exciting.

13) 500 Jobs in Jeopardy...Where is Jeopardy?

Ashley’s father looked around the room, leaning forward in his seat. His wife let her eyes flutter and then went back to sleep. Ashley shook his head as the reporter continued his story about the job crisis in England.

‘See if we could find this Jeopardy place, then there’d be no more job worries,’ Ashley’s father said. He laughed hard and slapped his knee.

‘Where do you get all of these terrible, terrible jokes,’ Ashley said.

‘You don’t think your old man is smart enough to think of them up by himself.’

Ashley shook his head. His father was about to respond but the Premiership scores were about to be revealed just before Match of the Day, so there was a panic to find the remote. It was wedged between Ashley and sofa, he quickly switched it over to a penguin documentary on BBC 2.

‘Let me tell you a secret,’ Ashley’s father said, ‘I have a black book. It’s not too big and it’s not all my work. It goes back a couple of centuries, generations of jokes made by your grandfather and his father and etcetera etcetera.’

‘So where is this book?’ Ashley said, watching the penguins slide into the Arctic waters.

‘You’ll inherit it one day,’ he said, ‘But let’s hope not too soon. You ain’t got a sense of humour.’

Ashley switched it back over to BBC 1 as Match of the Day was about to start.

‘Arsenal on first? You’ve got to be joking,’ Ashley’s father said.

‘I know right. You’d hope Arse-nal would be near the bottom. Am I right?’

Ashley’s father shook his head.