12) Duelling Squirrel Cults (Romeo and Juliet)

The Montamunks and Capulnuts had been the fiercest rivals Verona Park had ever seen. Millions of acorns had been spent on new technology such as flying squirrels, and it was reaching a critical point. Public unrest had been achieved long ago, and small injuries had been caused, but no blood had been shed. Yet.

This battle was not just a nuisance for the other squirrels in Verona Park. Two lovers, Hameo and Squirriet, were separated because of the fued between their families. Although he wished no part of the fighting, Hameo’s best friend Mercutirat was slain by the house of Capulnuts and revenge had to be taken. Yet this revenge led to banishment from Verona Park and a sentence to spend the rest of his days at local subway station.

Squirriet couldn’t bear to be apart from her love. She sought out the local Friar, who wore a black cloak over his bushy tail. They concocted a plan that would involve her pretending to die and the Friar would inform Hameo of the scheme. The problem is, Hameo got tired of the buskers covers of George Michaels songs and left to seek Squirriet on his own accord. The message didn’t reach him.

At the sacred tree where Squirriet was lying, peaceful looking and under the influence of the fake wasp venom, Hameo entered. For all the acorns in his mouth he would give to have her back, but it was not possible. Poison had taken his love away. There was no place for him in this rotten nut filled world. With the last drabs of the wasp venom he declared his love to Squirriet and drank. Squirriet woke just in time to see the venom take the last life from Hameo’s eyes. It did not take her long to find a sharp tree branch, and end her suffering.

For never was a story of more woe, than this squirrel-abridged version of Squirriet and Hameo.

11) The Trouble with Trolls

The trolls you probably imagine are the ones in Harry Potter; TROLL, IN THE DUNGEON. Daunting in size and lacking in hygiene, yes, but with a little wit they can be beaten. The trolls to be scared of are the little trolls. Not the ones with long pink hair and goofy features, but tiny, grey, hunched creatures. Imagine Gollum, but smaller, darker and more garbled language. Got an idea of what I’m talking about?

The problem with these trolls is that they’re very elusive. When you’re mother jokes about the washing up fairy cleaning your dishes, be aware that she might be making an excuse because she too doesn’t know how the wishes got cleaned. Trolls like to do things. Sometimes, they are helpful things like housework, but then they can do wild things.

I discovered the first and only troll I’ve ever met at the bottom of my garden. He had been playing in the bird bath, spooking pigeons when he must have taken a nasty fall and knocked himself out. I sat with the poor thing until it woke up. Its eyes were black and beady without a hint of consciousness. It revealed its jaggy teeth and shook my hand; it understood human greetings. It tried talking to me but our languages differed. While I spoke with a civilised tongue his speech was a mixture of blowing raspberries and puffing his cheeks. I gave him some bread and water and then left him to go on his merry way.

The next day he was back in the bird bath, using the bread I had given him to feed a blackbird. He spluttered supposed words while the bird chirped back until my dog, a beastly bulldog with a red studded collar, rushed into the garden. My bulldog only roars at things; birds, Grandma, itself in the mirror. Yet as he arrived in the garden, he sat patiently by the bird bath and then called to the troll in a controlled manner. The troll bowed before my bulldog and jumped onto his back. He peeled back my bulldog’s ear and whispered something while drenching his fur in saliva. The bulldog rocked onto its hind legs like a horse and sprinted off out of the garden, leaping over the fence. I went to look for him, but the pair were long gone.

As aggressive as my bulldog was, I did love him and did want him to come back. I sat in the garden until evening when eventually the troll came home. His body was bruised all over and in his hand was a red studded collar. His eyes were like wet marbles. He tried to explain what had happened, but his words turned to sniffs and blubbers. The troll thrust the collar into my hand and ran off.

I never saw either the troll. My dog was found in a ditch by the side of the road over a mile away. It had been hit by a car. The police questioned how the dog had managed to get so far. I didn’t tell them about the troll, and eventually the questions stopped and life went on.

Sometimes at night, just before I go to bed, I can hear the bushes rustle and what sounds like rubbish bin caught in the wind. It reminds me of the troll’s blubbers when he told me what had happened to my dog. At first I hated that creature. Now I only hope the little guy can forgive himself.

10) When Your Kimono Wears You

Lucy adored Asian culture, especially films and literature. She had seen Old Boy more times than she could remember and Murakami was by far her favourite author. Sadly her friends didn’t get it. It was a niche interest that only she understood. She often daydreamed about being a Samurai, though she worried it was a male breed of warrior. Plus her small frame and pasty white skin meant she was far from the most intimidating individual.

For her eighteenth birthday, Lucy’s mother bought them tickets to go to Tokyo. They stayed for a week, the first half they spent in the city doing the tourist stuff, but Lucy wanted to leave the city and go to a Samurai shrine. They got a thin white train away from the cluttered grey buildings and whooshed out into the countryside which seemed brighter than what was back home. From the station they took a taxi to a hill filled with cherry blossom trees. They paid their driver in yen and wandered up a small gravel path towards a towering red and green pagoda.

At the entrance of the shrine they were greeted by a maiden wearing a long pink kimono. She bowed to them and Lucy and her mother bowed back. She then pointed to their shoes, indicating to take them off should they wish to enter the pagoda. They slipped of their converse shoes and stepped onto the wooden floorboards.

Square wooden beams kept structure together as the pagoda got thinner as it got higher. On the floor was a samurai vest and katana. Hung up on the wall was a purple kimono covered in white flowers. Between the pair was a tip box. Lucy’s mother didn’t find the shrine interesting and went for a wander outside.

Lucy picked up the Samurai vest with great difficulty and tried it on. She felt herself sink into the floor. She picked up the katana, enjoying how light it felt in the palm of her hand and swung it. The momentum toppled her over and the vest constricted her chest. As she coughed out for help, the maiden from outside pulled the vest off with little effort and returned it to its place on the floor.

‘A warrior doesn’t pick her armour because of the status it bears on her, but picks it for the status it will allow her to attain,’ she said.

Although Lucy loved phrases that could be likened to proverbs, she thought the maiden was talking rubbish. The maiden saw Lucy frown. She opened up her kimono and revealed a katana. Lucy was impressed she had managed to hide it.

‘When I first moved here, thugs would often come and desecrate the shrine. Now I am known as the Frightful Maiden,’ she said, hiding her sword away again, ‘They fear because of my kimono.’

She bowed before Lucy and took tiny steps outside. Lucy looked at the Samurai vest and the kimono, then at her own clothes; an All Time Low tour t-shirt and skinny jeans. She wielded the katana and sliced the air with ease.

9) The Final Guilty Verdict

It was a momentous day at court. The biggest trial was about to come to a close: the history of criminals and imprisoned people versus the history of judges and the prison system. A loophole in important documents and rules had led one cunning lawyer to discover that the act of imprisoning people for committing crimes was illegal in itself. It was a combination of obscure tenuous links that when put together create a compelling argument. The trial had taken the world under its grip. Every other trial was suspended until the conclusion of this verdict.

The cunning lawyer, slicked hair and pinned blue suit, stood respectfully for the judge in his black gown. It was odd that sat at the defence table over from him were three judges, out of their gowns, watching one of their colleagues give the final verdict. The judges looked nervously at one another. The judge slammed his gavel and took a deep breath. He turned to the jury. A woman of Latina origin stood up.

‘How do you find the history of judge and the prison system?’ he asked.

‘We find you, I mean them, guilty, your honour,’ she said, bowing her head apologetically.

The judge on his podium pressed his fingers into his eyes. His lip quivered.

‘Then I have no choice but to sentence every judge to life sentences in prison, despite the fact that such a ruling is now illegal. Let there never be another sentencing of any criminal.’

The judge shook his head as he slammed his gavel. A police officer came with a pair of handcuffs and gave him an inquisitive look. The judge nodded and put his wrists out in front of him. He was taken down with the other judges.

People left the courthouse, but the cunning lawyer sat in disbelief. He couldn’t belief he managed to get a guilty verdict. It was a magnificent achievement. And yet, without criminals or trials, he had no job. As the roars of mob justice rallied outside the court, the lawyer was left with a sense of deflation.

8) A Chalice filled with Midnight

They had told him that the holiest drinking utensil ever to have existed was the Holy Grail. But the books had got it all wrong. Why gain the acceptance of the Gods and achieve enlightenment when you could possess the Chalice Filled with Midnight. It was a black chalice with a neck made from purple fog and encrusted with black opals. In the cup were ghosts and wisps with millenniums on their side and a pool which reflected the starriest of night skies. A drink from this cup would make the most evil of thoughts possible to enact.

The Chalice Filled with Midnight was discovered in a warehouse in Cambridge by two gentlemen who had got lost on their way to see a play. It was sat on a wooden crate. Liam looked at the chalice then back at his silver watch.

‘You know we should ask for directions,’ Liam said to Martin who was picking at his tweed vest.

‘Yes, yes alright.’

I have the answers that you seek.

‘I say, what the bloody hell was that,’ Liam said.

Come closer.

They both stared at the Chalice, assuming it was some sort of novelty toy. As they got closer they could feel the chill of death gnaw against their bones and their guts begin to boil.

‘I think I’ve got indigestion again,’ Martin said.

I can give one of you what you want. But I will only listen to the voice of true evil.

Liam and Martin looked at one another. They weren’t ones to normally be taken in by such trickery (they insisted to their wives to keep their curtains closed during Halloween) but they were already running late.

‘Fine, let’s see. Ah, I ran a red light today,’ Liam said.

The chalice groaned, urging for more.

‘Well I didn’t hold a door open for a stranger today despite the fact they were only ten paces away,’ Martin said.

The chalice rumbled.

‘On a questionnaire for my son’s healthy eating week I lied and said I got my five fruit and veg,’ Liam said.

‘Actually I think it’s now seven a day,’ Martin said.

‘Really? Bloody hell. That’s the problem with these food agencies-’

The chalice appeared to clear its throat.

‘Oh right, well when the cashier at the supermarket gave me an extra two pence change, instead of giving it back to them I kept it,’ Martin said with his chest thrust outwards. Liam looked genuinely shocked which made Martin slouch and grimace.

‘I told a tramp I didn’t have change when I did,’ Liam said, to which Martin retaliated, ‘Despite being an organ donor after death, I am refusing to give my retinas away. They will decompose in the ground with the rest of my empty body!’

The chalice sighed.

You know what. The theatre is just around the corner. Take the next left.

Liam and Martin thanked the chalice and left for the theatre. On the way, Martin gave a homeless man a two pence coin.

7) The Brave Little Teabag

Perry Graham Tips had always wanted to be coffee. It was an inexplicable dream. His parents Mr and Mrs P G Tips had birthed him and brought him up as a fine young tea bag. He was treated very well when growing up and had the finest tea leaves many had ever seen inside a tea bag. Yet he had a calling.

Like all tea bags, his life moved from factory, to shop and eventually he was adopted into a home. It was a lovely home; a Buzz Lightyear container with outspread green and purple wings. The lid was Buzz’s round helmet which was twisted off.

Perry Graham thrived in his new home, but the desire to become coffee did not fade. He was teased by the other tea bags for his dream. Yet there was one, Paulina Georgina Tips, who didn’t find his dream stupid. She wanted to become a Country Singer, but having no vocal chords meant this was an dream that could not be accomplished. Perry’s dream was a possibility. She told him of the coffee powder in the Woody container next to their home. The difficultly was getting there, given most of their days were spent locked in. It was not hopeful.

So Perry waited for the inevitable day he would be dropped into a mug of boiling water. Every time the lid opened and a fleshy hand grabbed one of his family, he felt a mixture of fear and excitement. Fear that it would be him, but excitement that there was a chance to make a break for it.

And one time there was. An unfamiliar hand entered their container, a guest maybe, and didn’t return the lid. This was Perry’s chance. He climbed to the top of the contained and peeked over the crest of Buzz Lightyear’s helmet. No one was about. Many mugs were placed on the counter; a coffee morning. And next to his home was the Woody container, cowboy hat off. Perry stretched out his corners and made a leap. He clipped the edge of the container and tumbled onto something soft and a little bit crunchy.

‘Hey wise guy, get offa me.’

The voice came from below Perry, he rolled over.

‘Now you’re on me you frube.’

No matter where Perry rolled someone complained. He eventually stopped rolling when he realised he was surrounded by little flakes of coffee.

‘Look at this tea bag. What’s he doing here. You lost kid?’

The coffee granules berated him until one sharply whistled. He jumped up and bounced across to Perry.

‘What’s up kid? Shouldn’t you be with the tea bags?’

‘I was, but I want to be coffee. I’ve always wanted to be coffee.’

The coffee granule leaned himself against Perry, a gesture that can be best likened to putting a hand on another’s shoulder.

‘I understand your desire to be like us, but you gotta understand we all have dreams. I want to be a leader of a gang of eighteenth century pick pockets. The problem is, we all have a purpose in life. I’m meant to be coffee and you’re meant to be tea.’

Perry Graham thought about this and sighed, letting the air out between the filters of his bag.

‘It’s time to go home kid,’ the coffee granule said, and fell to the ground.

The unfamiliar hand was back. It grabbed Perry Graham by his foot and lifted him up into the air. It was time to fulfil his destiny. He had no regrets because at least he had tried to become coffee. He saw the boiling mug under his head and smiled.

He was a damn good cup of tea.

6) Reptilians Ate my Homework

‘Run that by me once again Jefferson,’ Mr Mahoney said.

‘Sophie’s lizard ate my quadratic equations,’ Matt Jefferson said.

Tanned girls sat at the table next to him, neither of who was Sophie, giggled. Matt gave them a knowing glance and smirked. Mr Mahoney’s ruler came down on the girls, startling them. They quickly resumed their questions on probabilities.

‘Do you want to explain how it happened?’ Mr Mahoney said.

‘I’d rather not,’ Matt said, ‘We both might get into a lot of trouble.’

The girl’s muffled sniggers were not subtle at all as Mr Mahoney’s ruler came down again.

‘What do you mean by that Jefferson?’

‘Well it’s just a bit personal to ask about a girl’s lizard.’

One of the girl’s at the table whispered something about Sophie’s being particularly green. Matt stifled a laugh, but the other girl exploded into uncontrollable laughter and could not be stopped even by Mr Mahoney’s ruler. He yelled at her to stand outside his classroom. The other children were now becoming distracted. He called for quiet and after a couple of minutes the peace had restored.

‘Forget about Sophie’s lizard,’ Mr Mahoney said, causing Matt to smirk, ‘Where is your quadratic equation.’

Matt’s forehead crinkled as his eyes dashed downwards then back up at Mr Mahoney.

‘Sir, please be very careful as to what you’re asking here. I really don’t want either of us to get in trouble.’

‘Just show me your damn quadratic equations Jefferson!’ he yelled.

If Mr Mahoney had been able to keep an eye on the whole class and Matt, he would see the silence wasn’t because they were getting on with his work but because they held their collective breath in anticipation. Matt frowned and shrugged his shoulders. He unzipped the flies on his trousers. The class gasped.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?!’ Mr Mahoney yelled.

‘Showing you my quadratic equation. You know, the one Sophie’s lizard ate.’

Matt winked at Mr Mahoney. The class erupted. Lots of children were swearing. For some reason someone threw a shoe. Slang was a hard thing to keep up with.