One Hundred

 

Did I ever tell you about the time we had an infestation of tiny nuns in the kitchen?

They were mostly harmless, of course, and didn't make a peep, but we worried about their safety. There were just so many, we were scared we might drop something, or step on them as they wandered leisurely across the floor. Quite apart from the guilt that would cause, we were also concerned that, if there was a God, there would certainly be some sort of retribution.

And we reasoned that if the divine punishment for harming a nun was going to be bad, it would be doubly so for harming a teeny nun.

So we got a specialist in, who relocated them to a nice miniature church in his auntie's garden. They were quite happy. We counted them as they boarded the mini mini buses: ninety nine in all. We waved them goodbye, with tiny handkerchiefs. 

Then a few days ago, I heard a rustling. I turned my head and spied, out of the corner of my eye, the hundredth nun, on the tiny shelf by the paprika and my fancy tea. She sat quietly, counting her rosary beads and when she turned her head to look, she smiled at me.

Ninety Nine

 

Our Edgar left everything to make something of himself. 

Ninety Eight

 

Not a man, but a fox in disguise. 

Ninety Seven

 

In the middle of the debate This House Believes in Extraterrestrials: Discuss, Professor Forstor rose to his feet in a rage, his face flushed beetroot red.

"This is absolutely preposterous!  The very notion that little green men exist, why, it's poppycock!

Everyone knows they are merely angels taken sick!" 

Ninety Six

Ninety Five

In the corridor of floor sixteen sits an old man in striped pyjamas. He's been there ever since I moved in a year ago and I regard him, with a smile every time I walk past him to the flat. He just stares, into space, with a face that looks like it has been composed out of facial features from at least ten different sources.

Then one day, as I round the stairs (it's good cardio), something is different. He puts his hand out and does not look at me but says, "Now." 

I stop. The elevator doors across the hall open and the most momentous sound bursts out, cheering and wooping. There's a party in the elevator, a party with streamers and balloons, whistles and bright colours. There is (I think, although I can't see) a bear in a hat and girls from a carnival. 

The old man cheers, stretches out his arms and two clowns rush out to pick him up and carry him into the elevator. He smiles and waves at me as he goes - a big smile - and the elevator party receives him with whoops and cheers and singing.

The doors close. The colours and music are gone. I stand alone in the corridor, contemplating the chair he has left behind. 

Ninety Four

Ninety Three

We think Grandad has dementia.

He still destroys us at scrabble.

Ninety Two

 

This was Markie, in his younger, leaner days. Before he found a nice lady who fed him cream and tuna. 

Ninety One

 

The councilmen gathered in secret and discussed, in hushed tones, the raven clad individual who had taken to flying through the city at night on his infernal machines.

What should they do? How should they fix this?

"Well," said one, "He should definitely be paying some sort of vehicle tax." 

Ninety: For Emily

Never offer him a coffee. Brian doesn't even like coffee.

In fact, Brian has never liked coffee. Not since he was eight, when he mistook a steaming cup on the side for cocoa and was so horrified by the bitter black liquid it contained that he spent the majority of rest of the day with his tongue hanging out, drooling everywhere because it tasted so bad.

But sometimes you can see him in the queues at cafés with a mischievous look on his face, taking a heartbreakingly long time perusing the options before announcing to the beleaguered barista,

"I think I'll just have a tea, please."

This 100 + 0 was derived from a real life anecdote by a real life person

Eighty Nine

One time, I caught God peeking through the clouds with a pair of binoculars. I approached him cautiously.

"What are you doing?" I said, and as I did so noticed he was peering at people in church, dedicating their entire morning to him.

He looked sheepish and tucked the binoculars behind his back.

"I try not to look too often," he said, "It makes my head swell! Can't resist every now and then though."

"You know," I said, "Most people just google themselves."

Eighty Eight

 

Arthur and Muffins were disturbed by the noises the bell flowers were making. They'd only asked if they wanted some tea. 

Eighty Seven

I used to be sad all the time. Not that kind of valid sad due to exterior events, but the sort where you are earth shatteringly, mind movingly sad. The kind of sad that would disillusion the most optimistic balloon sculptor who tried to cheer you up. The kind of sad where the gulf between your house and the rest of the world is a dark, constantly shifting canyon (like the tectonic plates are wired up to your emotions). The kind of sad that makes puppies cower in fear of it (in fact, this happened to me a few times).

But it isn't insurmountable. It's just important to remember that you should never think you are anything less than remarkable.

Eighty Six

Eighty Five

Eighty Four

Eighty Three

 

It is better to be outside consumed by hayfever than inside consumed by restlessness.

Eighty Two

 

Terrifying though the Bush Dai-Dai was, Ösfur was more scared of its bemusing taunts than anything.

Eighty One

Eighty

 

The sounds of the city lulled Renard to sleep. In his dreams, he was bolder, faster and better than any other creature.

Seventy Nine

What was it, thought Mack as he stared up at the weary, imposing portrait on the wall, that his father used to say? He stared at it for a few moments more, hoping to soak up the wisdom that his father seemed to exude and then remembered that his father never said a word. He communicated in grunts and disapproving glances.

"Good enough wisdom for me," said Mack.

Seventy Eight

Seventy Seven

Seventy Six

When the world discovered God, he had a few questions to ask them.

"How did you find me?" Asked God, like a child in a game of hide and seek, "Why did you believe I actually existed?"

"Well," said the earthly representatives, "The evidence was overwhelming. Some of the naturally occurring stuff on earth is too perfect not to have any kind of designer."

They opened their bags and threw out an assortment of objects including bananas and loofahs. God teased the loofah between nondescriptly gendered fingers and made a contemplative sort of noise, kind of like a, 'hummmmmm'.

"What do you use these for, then?" asked God.

"As a sort of sponge, of course. That's what you made it for, isn't it?" replied the earthly representatives.

"That's bloody good that is," said God, genuinely astounded, "I actually thought you should use hedgehogs, but this is much better."

Seventy Five

You never saw a guitarist like Martyn.

In fact, you never saw Martyn, largely because he was invisible for most of his life.

Seventy Four

Seventy Three: The Great Gatsbungedup

"They say he is an Oggsford man..."

"Good God man, have you no decency! Blow your nose for God's sakes."

"... Maybe it was Camebidge..."

"Look, there's snot everywhere. Take my hanky. I beseech you."

Seventy Two

Seventy One

Me sugar free sweetie pie,
Me diabetic darling;
I'll have aspartame in the afternoon,
And Splenda in me Twinings
Give me low cal sweeteners
And arr-tee-fish-hul enhancers,

Though according to the internet,
They won't half give you cancer.

Seventy

You have never felt fear quite like weeing in the great outdoors and hearing the calls of an approaching dog walker. It sets your heart racing to hear those, "Come here!"s and indiscriminate, "yups" and, "ops." And suddenly, you're pulling faces and waving your hands frantically willing yourself to WEE FASTER.

The dog walker itself is not the problem. The dog walker will not see you, because presumably you had enough sense to widdle in a concealed spot away from the general public (unless you're into that). The problem is the dog, that will indiscriminately sniff you out and stare for an age while its owner is encroaching and calling, "Charlie! Charlie, what are you doing?" And all the while your bladder keeps finding more liquid to squeeze out.

You have never felt fear quite like it.

Unless you are or ever were a teenage boy and then I imagine you've experienced a fear exceedingly similar.

Sixty Nine

We swayed to the lilting lifts of the fiddle, chugging guitars and the drone of the accordion. I think that I was the youngest in the darkened room beneath the musiciana' stage. In an evening they convinced me, without words, that it does not take planes nor trains nor any form of transportation to take a person somewhere else. I was simultaneously in a stinking pub in deep evening and a sweeping field in early afternoon. I might have been anywhere. The bar became a castle and the floor a river where fish swam between my tapping feet. I think they'd been there all along.

Sixty Eight

I'd rather be weather beaten
than smooth as ironed clean sheet,
I'd rather my blisters
came from walking too far
than from wearing high heels on my feet

and I'd rather grow old and potbellied
than have to eat watercress soup.
Yes, I'd rather live and be ugly
than stay at home and be a beaut.

Sixty Seven

It's always rainy in this town. I can't remember a time the sky wasn't clouded with grey. I scaled the mount to its zenith, water running on rivulets down my back. I reach my goal and...

"Are you fucking fixing the aerial or what?"

Apologies

I am terribly sorry chaps and chapesses for the neglect to this particular corner of the internet, due to lack of internet access and all sorts of bits and pieces. We now return to our regular schedule.

Sixty Six: OMG DIVINE INTERVENTION lol

The dust from the explosion floated nebulously in the midnight blue of space; a compacted cloud of elements drifting in slow motion since The Event (whereby a curious disorder in the universe had caused a spontaneous cosmic combustion). From Earth, the people watched, gazing into the sky at this sudden light show.

In space, the dust drifted and the clouds parted. The light brightened and from somewhere in the universe a voice spoke, reaching earth and echoing through the ages.

It said, "GET OFF THE INTERNET AND GO AND DO SOMETHING."

The world rippled with excitement as millions ecstatically updated their twitter accounts.

Sixty Four

The Space Turtle could not quite stomach the architectural design of the building he had been designated.

Sixty Three

Sixty Two

Sixty One

Bear adventuring.

Sixty

In the future, we will be able to control everything we do. We can stop ourselves from worrying, we will be able to have the relationships we always wanted. We will be able to attain our desired weight and height with the flick of a switch and shift, amoebalike, into any job of our choosing. We will be able to be artists, musicians, scientists and builders without the mental agony of worrying to switch jobs. We won't have homes - we won't need them. We'll just float on the ether and imagine our perfect worlds.

I think, though, that I'd rather be here now with my anxiety and uncertainty. I think I'd rather embrace the black fug of tomorrow and make my inevitable mistakes.

I mean, if there's one thing I want from the future, it's probably only rocketships.

Fifty Nine: Fisherman's Lament Pt. 3

(Unfortunately I just drew picture number 59 out in photoshop and apparently deleted it without saving. Perhaps there will be two stories tomorrow, or maybe I'll just make this one exceedingly good. Either way I do apologise.

The moral of the story is to make sure you get enough sleep, kids.) 


(This is a placeholder for a picture from a computer that's currently dead. I don't like that I've not updated it, but, well, you'll just have to wait to see the ending!)

Fifty Eight: Fisherman's Lament Pt. 2

Fifty Seven

Farmer Eustace tugged the rim of his straw hat as he knelt on the cold, barren ground. He tutted dimly, shaking his head from side to side as he looked up and down the empty field. There should be sprouts by now: green tufts rising triumphantly from the soil into the open air. But there was nothing.

With haggard hands he scrabbled at the soil, poking his fingers into the mulch to discern the seeds below. He grabbed something compact and rounded and pulled it out, teasing it between his fingers.

It was as he suspected.

Cat biscuits.

Fifty Six

He was a man wrapped in an enigma, wrapped inside a mystery, shrouded in doubt and covered in a honeyed glaze before being encased in a fortress of solitude atop a lofty peak.

He still managed to make it out to the weekly poker game though, which is more than could be said to Steve.

Fifty Five

There’s a house and it’s a squalid mess: can you picture this scene? An assortment of bits and pieces strewn over what may or not be a floor. I’m not sure, it’s too carpeted with dead batteries and burnt out pens to tell. Later, it would transpire that this was the Schrodinger’s cat of floors: neither here nor there until somebody got rid of all the rubbish.

Anyway, needless to say, this is a proper messy house. It’s a proper messy house and in amongst all the proper mess is an improper little madam, surrounded on all sides by towering cardboard, newspapers and junk mail. It’s like she’s been there for a hundred years and all the rubbish has built up around her. She sits and tappa tappa types on her keyboard.

(Incidentally, tappa tappa typing on your keyboard for years at a time is an excellent way to erase your fingerprints).

And maybe it’s a careless nudge or a wild animal, but either way the tower of newspapers topples over. She jumps; sliding back on a stray Duracell and knocking over the desk, setting off a Heath Robinson contraption of motion. A stray pen flies into a precariously balanced toy car, which rolls down a pile of books and into a bottle of exceptionally old Evian. Which tips, spilling into a cold cup of tea that overflows down the sideboard to the running toaster on the floor. Which sparks, sets alight and thankfully only burns the closed manmade curtains to a crisp, the lethargic (but quick thinking) girl having summarily smothered the blaze in a damp towel she had to hand.

Through the smouldering smoke and her coughing she stops, bewildered. She sees, for the first time in a long time, the light outside.

Fifty Four: Fisherman's Lament

Fifty Three

Fifty Two

Fifty One: Pt. 3

Fifty: Pt 2

Forty Nine: Pt 1

Forty Eight

"It doesn't matter if it's good or bad. It only matters that you carry on doing it."

"That's not what mum says. Mum says give up and go home."

Forty Seven

Forty Six: I should do another drawing soon

I'm pulling the chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and mulling over our plans for world domination. They're good; precise. The bank heist was pulled off without a hitch (they haven't even realised it's happened yet). The nukes are in the back room. The laser guided missile system is in the process of being set up. Everything's going swimmingly.

But I'm going to have to leave. I'm going to have to depart before we can pull off our grand scheme together. I can't be your sidekick, your compadre, any more.

Because that time you patted me on the head, when I baked the celebratory Victoria sponge after we stole the piranhas from the aquarium and said, "You'll make someone a good wife some day."

I can't forget that.

Forty Five

I don’t intend

To spend the next three years

Comatose

Subdued by doses of,

“I’m not good enough/

Wait ‘til the time is right,”

That keep me

Up at night

And I’m going to admit it:

That I’m

Aimless

Floating waywardly against

Or with a current.

I’m not currently sure

Of my direction

And this was fine

At least

For a little while

While I whiled away

The time spent locked deep

Inside myself

In the darkest realms I’ve ever delved to

(Excluding the bottom of the biscuit tin)

But now this has rolled over and off of me

Harmlessly (at least mostly) and

I find myself stranded

Without an OS map to guide me

And my insides turn like spinning coins

With the anxiety of it all:

The fear after the fall and not before

And what now to do?

Because I’ve sat and stewed here long enough:

Thoroughly tenderised and absolutely petrified

At least I can move

At least I have the privilege

To spend an age on Facebook

And wail about getting nothing done.

Forty Four

I'm on the bus, and the night sings

    I have that
Swinging from the rafters feeling
Reeling like I'm not here at all and
I've not even imbibed any alcohol,

    But the world just swirls

And the girls and boys at the back of the bus
Sing a sweeping pop punk chorus,
Revelling in post gig gloriousness
And plans of scoffing late night kebabs.

    All this washes over me

in an icy sea of neon lights and
The right side of my brain flares up again;
Then the left,
As though it cannot stomach silence,
Now, no longer bereft of thought
It proceeds to reel off potential suitors
Then list the reasons they are unsuitable
And scoff.

    And me? I'm in bliss:
Couldn't care less about romantic conquests,
Or lack of them, bathed in inky depths
Of an evening well spent

And besides I'm still busy searching
Lurking uncomfortably in my spirit,
Looking for some kind of purpose
For me to live my life by.

    But maybe

    there's no more than this:
Just buses, night and giddy kids
At the back if the bus
Having conversations at a rate that suggests
they think they might expire soon
So better cram it all in now
Before the doom, destruction, you know, that end thing


And the night sings.

Forty Three (the expanding list/story)

Things What I Have Learnt:

1) Live uninsulated. That means without that stuff in the roof, or jumpers. And you got to take that bubble wrap off your mum makes you wear.

2) Keep a diary. At least this way there's some kind of way to keep track of all the bodies

3) Put milk in first, not like what the Queen does.

4) Always always wipe mud off your shoes. My mum proper hates this and once she proper bit me ear off (I mean actually really did)

5) Two ears are better than one so don't let your mum bite one off

Forty Two

Grind the salt and pepper shaker,
Kernels, crystals meet your maker:
That twisting, turning metal dancer,
Whose crushing makes a meal enhancer,
Now darling will you pass the mustard?

Forty One

Reiner, leader of the guard, drifted in the early evening sun. Aimless, distracted. He imagined vividly that he was a tropical bird, floating magnificently on the current of the wind, tilting and shifting with its flow.

He stopped, caught himself and wondered how on earth such a prolific daydreamer had got to this position.

Forty

Thirty Nine

The clock at the big house at the side of the road was used to having his daily packet of Skips, brought to him by the kind elderly groundskeeper. The house was now empty of any human inhabitants (thankfully for the clock, it was also a grade two listed building) and only the groundskeeper visited to tend the gardens.

And distribute the crisps.

"Yum yum," said the clock every day as he chomped down on a veritable cornucopia of prawny loveliness.

But one day, the elderly groundskeeper passed away. And for months if not years the garden grew around the clock like green flames, entangling every crevice of the building. He was dishevelled and devoid of Skips.

Until one day, a gang of adventurous boys scaled the ruinous heights of the old house to the clock and stared, dumbfounded into his face.

"I'm proper hungry," said the clock.

The boys rummaged tentatively in their pockets,

"Here," said one of them, "Do you fancy some Monster Munch?"

"Oh yes!" said the clock, "What flavour is it?"

"Pickled onion."

Thirty Eight

"Batten down the hatches!"
"What man? What are you talking about? We don't have any hatches. I'm pretty sure we don't have any batten, whatever that is either."
"In that case, battenburg the windows!"

Interlude two

I'm off on a drawing excursion to Rome (how lovely for me!) The stories will start again on Saturday when I have finished eating extensive amounts of gelato.

Have a lovely week!

Bethan x

Thirty Seven

Thirty Six: True Story

When I took the connecting train from Ely to Cambridge today, something must have possessed me.

That is the answer. Either some evil spirit flew into my head, some wizard cast an ancient spell or, to be more fanciful, I once again became a victim to irrational thought and fidgetiness.

Because as I boarded the train, I panicked. The lady speaker on the platform said something about Norwich. Norwich? Was I on the wrong train? Oh god. I didn't have a ticket. Oh god. No, I told myself, it's okay. You get off at the next stop and head back in the Cambridge direction.

So I waited. And in that waiting time, I deduced some things. The man in front of me was reading a guide book about London theatres. Funny reading materials on a train to Norwich that. I thought about the train I had caught to Ely (one intended for Norwich) and the direction it came it. And it dawned.

I was on the right train.

So what happened next, what exactly flicked the manual override switch in my brain I'm not sure of. I just know I gathered my things, got up and got off at the next stop.

And spent an hour stranded in Waterbeach.

The stop before Cambridge.

Thirty Five

I’m metamorphosing. Metamorphosising. Transforming, with the WHO-CH-CH-CH noise like they make in the cartoons. You know the one. I’m not harder, better or stronger but I’m certainly hairier, leggier and more deadly. Damn. This was never in my New Year’s resolution list. This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted a, “life changing evening.” And the bass is thump thumping so hard that I can feel my eyeballs vibrate in their sockets. And the floor’s lit up and everybody’s jumping mindlessly; sweaty bodies moving oddly on a dance floor.

I’m just still, looking at my hand. Looking at my hand and the third arm that’s appeared, with eyesight that’s like staring through diamonds.

Thirty Four: For Mharaid

Thirty Three

"God cursed me," he said, across the table, lamenting another lost possession, head in hands. "He cursed me with a bad memory and a wandering mind. He cursed me with poor eyesight and glasses. So that's like, great, thanks, that's another thing I can lose. Awesome."

I looked down, into my juice box.

 "Look on the bright side. At least you'll never lose your perfect eyesight."

Thirty Two

 

When Nialvefel had finished his work and crafted the stars, the sun and all things that give light, he set about on his next task. The one that no one told him to do. He set about crafting a tiny creature just for himself.

And the other Gods, though they laughed and scoffed at his efforts (how he meticulously shaped its ears and curved its tail to an exact angle). Well, he could see how jealous they were, when he sat it upon his lap and stroked its silken, furry head.

Thirty One

Off to the rooftops again for the Mack Daddy.

Mack tells people he's a gossip columnist. Which is in some ways true.

It's just that he happens to report to a higher power than Heat magazine. And the gossip he gets has the power to crush entire business empires rather than fragile ladies' self esteems.

Thirty

I am terribly sorry this one is late. I had it written last night but er, fell asleep. Sorry chaps!

The curious Grumbleton Fumbler
Is a marvelously unusual beast,

He chunters and trundles,
Meanders and tumbles,
From the corners of West to the East.
The curious Grumbleton Fumbler,
Never cares about being much thinner,
He peruses green groves,
With a dilligent nose,
Searching for mushroomy dinner.

Twenty Nine: White Cat Weeps

The white cat whistled in the wind,
A remnant of what once was
And viewed her home: solemnly, intangible
Through the clouded window by the silver birch.

The birds, unmoved by her non presence,
Tittered and flitted through her
As she gazed into the living room.

With as much fondness as a cat can muster,
She stared and thought of how
This was her chair or that was her bowl,
Or that was the woman who opened the door and called
Some kind of sound that was at once strange and familiar

Almost as though it had once belonged to her.

Twenty eight

 

The stuffed animals were plotting. Soon, they would descend from their lofty position suspended from the ceiling and steal the little rotter's undeserved orange juice.

Twenty Seven

The modern mummy tapes his eyes
And face with masking tape,
He sleeps in a casket made of gaffa
And at night he's kept awake

With restless thoughts of Kings and Queens
Who died and were embalmed;
Of weighted hearts and heart eaters,
Of afterlives and calm.

The modern mummy goes to bed,
And sleeps 'til half past three,
As though he's scared to wake the dead,
Until he wakes and makes some tea.

Twenty six

Exceedingly tired
She fell asleep at her desk
Head in a tea towel

Twenty five!

 

"Until you start getting up at the crack of dawn to pray to your giant bird god, I don't think you're one to talk to me about dedication."

Twenty Four: Steve should never have gone to Paris

The scientists faced the universal kilogram, bowled over by the weight of its reverential mass. With clipboards and white coats they scrutinised its features. They viewed it almost like an ancient, once majestic beast losing its power. What had happened to the master kilogram, they asked each other in hushed voices. Why was it losing weight?

Silence, scribbling. Silence.

And then, from the back, a voice piped up like a mouse raising its head from shelter.

“If the master kilogram continues to get lighter and if the world continues the way it’s going…”

The rest of the scientists turned to face the owner of the voice, ears pricked to its reasonable tones. The owner shuffled, uncomfortably.

“… Erm, I mean, if you think about it, people will be more obese than ever before but actually weigh less. Funny, innit?”

Silence.

Twenty three

The space jellyfish came to John in the night. He was used to it by now and did not even bother to lift his head out of the fridge.

GIVE ME TEA AND THE OFFICIAL SCRABBLE LIST OF TWO LETTER WORDS

it demanded.

John unscrewed the milk and sniffed it experimentally, "Sorry mate, you know I can't. Mum's orders. I don't even know where it is."

The jelly fish did not respond and continued to hover patiently.

John closed the fridge and turned to look at the floating gelatinous mass, "I think she might, you know, sleep with it nestled to her or something? Maybe she's buried it?"

THAT'S OKAY

said the jelly fish

JUST THE TEA WILL BE FINE THANKS.

Twenty two: Some day I'll get mine

DO YOU WANT TO BE A BADASS

The advertisement dangled alluringly in front of my face. I'd stopped walking; my face glued to the shop window by some kind of magnetic force (or the oil of my skin, I wasn't too sure). It twinkled in the shining corner shop frontage and my eyes twinkled too in the dim and dirty reflection.

DO YOU WANT TO BE A BADASS

Of course I did! Me, in untied shoelaces and full length school tie. Bent glasses, bowl haircut: the kind of kid that goes out at the weekends for a milkshake with his nan (which I enjoyed, by the way) instead of destroying things, wreaking havoc and stealing Mars Bars as all future revolutionaries should.

DO YOU WANT TO BE A BADASS

IF YES TAKE THE NEXT LEFT

There was no questioning it. People didn't question posters promising great things any more than they questioned the universal benevolence of the Green Lantern Corps.

I turned left that day, into the side street by the corner shop.

I did not encounter a soul enriching experience, or attain, "badassery". I lost my lunch money; my dignity and returned home resembling a swollen panda.

I have never listened to a poster since.

Twenty one: Mr. Tippington links his arm with no man. Cat. Anybody.

Twenty: Someone teach this girl about text placement

Nineteen

Nikolai Mooncat went to space

In a beautiful pea green ship,

He took some ‘nanas, one pair of pyjamas,

And plenty of breadsticks and dip.

Nikolai gazed out the porthole cabin

And said to a small space fish,

    “Oh, dearest fishy! Oh fishy my dear!

     I don’t have a clue where I am,

     Not a clue where I am,

     No really, I am very lost.

     I don’t think ordnance survey maps exist for space.

     Help?”

Eighteen

Dying, the old king
Regrets saying, "You try,
running a country!"

Seventeen

Sixteen: A Moon Stag Invades Your Garden