Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes
The Tap Dancer’s Dilemma played again, blended with the thumping of feet above.
Gerald crashed out of his flat, almost forgetting his cane.
“I’ve had enough!” he screamed, as he stumbled up the stairs with haste.
“Shut that shit off!” he yelled, banging on the door.
So they did.
Gerald regretted this, because then all he could hear was the sound of them breathing.
~
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“There’s a lot of waxy, yellow build-up,” said Amid.
“It’s not coming off with water,” sighed Sam.
“Yeah wax is a pain,” grumbled Amid.
“Acid bath?” suggested Sam.
“If we must,” grumbled Amid. “I just didn’t want to damage this one.”
Sean let out a muffled cry through the sock as Amid and Sam lifted him into the tub.
~
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“Hello,” she called out, moving with soft steps down the hallway.
The only reply was the sound of a cupboard door closing.
“Who’s there,” she called out, the anxiety in her voice rising.
The clatter of a saucepan, the fridge door closing, the sound of a knife on a chopping board.
“Is anybody there?” she cried.
“Yes, me,” replied the apparition. “Would you like a sandwich?”
~
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“What kind of nut job signs up for this?” asked the nurse.
“The kind of nut job that asks to be awake during the procedure,” replied patient 7.
The nurse shivered as the doctor began drilling into patient 7’s skull.
“Nearly there,” said the doctor, as he slid the first four wires into the hole.
“What was that?” asked the nurse, as the computer beeped.
“That’s not meant to happen,” replied the doctor, as patient 7’s heart stopped.
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“Please,” begged Malcolm. “Please help!”
The pedestrian walked over to him.
“Please, I’ve been stuck in this hole for three days. Please help me out.”
The pedestrian reached down to Malcolm, and then plucked the warrant badge from his jacket.
“Please!” cried Malcolm, as he was dragged deeper into the hole.
~
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“Just tug it,” said Shae.
“What do you think I’m doing?” snapped Paul.
“Scissors are in the drawer,” sighed Shae.
“Ah, no, I got it,” said Paul, sliding the zip down her back.
Shae stepped out of her old skin. “Finally.”
~
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“It won’t just stick back into place,” said Delia, fumbling with the elephant’s trunk.
“Here,” replied Alice, handing over a tube of super glue.
“I thought it was made of ivory,” said Delia, turning the figurine over in her hand.
“Nothing mum owns is what it looks like,” sighed Alice.
“You know,” grumbled Delia, “this would be a lot easier without all the blood on my hands.”
~
Original photo available on Unsplash. Doodle and tale by Peter Edwards with his Posca Pens.
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“It’s a long feckin’ tunnel,” said Gemma.
“That’s why we have torches,” replied James.
“My dad used to tell me stories about this tunnel.”
“Such as?”
“He used to say people and pets would walk in one end and never come out of the other.”
“What a load of crap,” laughed James. “We’re nearly half way.”
“Yeah,” agreed Gemma.
The pair walked in silence for eight minutes and thirty-two seconds.
“It’s a long feckin’ tunnel,” said Gemma.
~
Original photo available on Unsplash. Doodle and tale by Peter Edwards with his Posca Pens.
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“Well sir,” said Malcolm, “it looks like ivy.”
“I can see that,” sighed Denver. “But how is it growing out of her skin?”
“Temperature puts the time of death at eight o’clock last night,” announced the coroner.
“Anything else odd,” asked Denver.
“Soil under her finger nails,” replied the coroner. “It has a blue tint to it, not a local soil that I know of.”
“Get her to the morgue,” said Denver. “Tell me what you find in an autopsy.”
None of them noticed her head had started to flower.
~
Original photo available on Unsplash. Doodle and tale by Peter Edwards with his Posca Pens.
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She ran onto the escalator, looking down behind her. It stopped at the bottom of the stairs, watching her. Its short body, awkward arms and legs. It watched her as she rode upwards, to the street, to freedom.
It sniffed the air, closing its clear white eyes. She was convinced they could smell her blood. They had escalated into a frenzy when she had cut her leg running up the tracks.
Nearly there. She turned and ran up the last steps of the escalator.
“Sorry,” said the ticket attendant from above. “They need feeding.”
~
Doodle and tale by Peter Edwards with his Posca Pens.
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Little Fears 