He dreamt of chickens
Woke every morning
Filled with fright
KFC brought him
Batter them all
Batter them all
He dreamt of chickens
Woke every morning
Filled with fright
KFC brought him
Batter them all
Batter them all
He didn’t appreciate my writing. My speeches were too long. Too dramatic. Too time consuming.
Peck pecked at strangers words while rubbing his own pen. That’s what makes a great teacher, right?
I listened to his play on Radio 4. The characters said nothing. I’d rather listen to a gobby pissed blonde tart on a street corner than that mumbling monotone.
And as he showed me the door I may have articulated that point far too well.
A story written for a creative writing lesson (kids, don’t take lessons, they ruin your fun)
As her head hit the basket two things flashed in her mind. One, she had been beheaded for the wrong reason, two they could have used a cleaner basket.
The revolution hadn’t quite ventured to the more rural parts of France. Some towns had barely crawled out of the dark ages. Blois had been a prominent hold in the past, a city of note for the future, but for now, forgotten. The Chateaux de Blois dominated over the peasants and their simple lives. Due to the lack of hygiene and drainage it was more revolting than revolut-ing. They had their routines however, and every Sunday at one o’clock the Count would ride out of the Chateaux gates and into the city, with fifteen guards. On horseback nowadays as the memories of having both his silk shoes sucked off by mud still haunted him. This didn’t bode well for his waistline, the buttons of his tailcoat had been threatening to break for freedom for the past month. One more cake and the lowest button would take someone’s eye out. The peasants of the city were ordered to line the paths with their precious linen and aprons, covering over the offending pot holes, mud and poo. They were also ordered to cheer, the best they could do was a mumbled sigh. The count would grace them in full regalia. Painted white face, bouffant wig, and a silk cape skillfully draped over his left shoulder.
Alberte, the drunk, had been up since 4am digging a hole. It was a nice hole. Not too wide and not too deep, almost perfect as holes go. No one knew he covered it over with his soiled bedsheet until the Count’s horse took a nosedive into it, followed swiftly by the Count. All the guards horses and all the guard men, spooked from the commotion, cantered off in different directions and the peasants flocked to the hole, surrounded the Count and gasped and coo-d. Marie was so close she could touch him. And she did, repeatedly. His wig powder flying in the air and onto her face, making her sneeze. The Count was cowering and yelping, dirty fingers grabbing and fondling every part of him. Marie found herself reaching for something shiny and gold. A pocket watch. It was covered in diamonds and jewels she had never seen before. She thought it witchcraft and gingerly put the watch back into the Counts pocket as the guards started jabbing and poking everyone out the way. Marie was shoved into the mud, her backside landing on something hard. There was a wary silence as the Count frantically raised himself and spluttered obscenities at the ground, his men, the peasants, the hole and his horse. No one dared move until the Count and guards had all remounted and trotted back to the Chateaux.
Marie stayed sat in the mud while everyone dispersed. Alberte had started giggling manically and tore away his now shredded bedcover, pointing at his beautiful hole while glaring at Marie and howling
‘Révolution! Révolution! Révolution! Liberté, Egalité, Fraterité!’
Shuffling backwards Marie started pulling herself up when suddenly Alberte screamed
‘The money, the money, what is this! We have a bourgeoisie hiding among us! She lays money like a hen!’
There was a pouch between her legs, blue silk and lace, with coins tumbling into the mud.
‘She’s a witch!’ Shouted Albete
A crowd started forming once again and Marie was in the same position the Count was moments earlier, although much richer. In the kerfuffle the Count’s purse had fallen from his belt.
‘She has the powder of the rich on her!’ shouted one, blowing on her face, the Count’s face powder floating in the air
‘Ohhh, look, she has a wart’ shouted another as they poked and pulled Marie
Suddenly the ring leader, Alberte started dancing around the crowd screaming
‘Burn her! Burn her! Witch Witch Witch!’
‘But she is bourgeois! She must be beheaded, it’s all the rage in Paris. My uncle told me’ said Jacq, one of the more enlightened of the cityfolk.
‘Off with her head, off with her head’ they started to chant, lathering themselves up in a mudded frenzy.
The crowd lifted Marie to her feet, off her feet and above their heads before she could even burble about the pocket watch.
The Chateaux had the only guillotine in the city, typically reserved for tried prisoners and the occasional mistress. The foaming peasants marched Marie to the gates, roaring and cheering over Marie’s innocent hollars. The count, happily lying in his swan neck bath after disrobing from his sodden clothes, heard the commotion outside and leaped up to look out the window, loofah grasped in his right hand, his jewels in the other.
‘They want to borrow the guillotine’ his guard shouted. ‘They have a bag of coins and the accused seems to be screaming about a pocket watch’
‘They said they’ve got the money to pay for it’
‘They’re all mad, all mad’ muttered the Count, peering out the window ‘That’s… that’s my purse! Roll the guillotine out to them and get my money!’
As the Count sank himself back into his iron bath he heard the guards shout ‘sir, they don’t know how to use it’
‘Sir, they missed!’
‘Ohhhh there goes her arm!’
The Count sank back into his bath, safe in the knowledge his head would never fall out with his neck. He just needed to work out more devious ways to get his peasant folk to lop off their own.
Sally was dying for a kebab, quite literally. Her feet had doubled in size from the cholesterol build up in her veins and there seemed to be a constant thin yellow glaze of sweat across her brow. It was a Sunday night and she and Steve had usually phoned for some cheap take away by now, they had a kitchen drawer dedicated to well thumbed menus of cheap culinary delights. But on Friday she had been forced to use her phone credit calling the dole office to beg for emergency funding and disability benefit. ‘Shit’ she thought and turned to Steve. Steve had passed out on the sofa twenty minutes ago from a concoction of weed and whiskey, dropping fag ash over the cushion and snorting like a pig. She always marvelled how he would clutch a bottle of cheap whiskey like a beloved child but could burn down the house around him when lit cigarettes dribbled out of his mouth. She kicked him hard on the sole of his worn out trainer and the vibrations caused his arse to release the remnants of a dead animal’s soul into the air. Gagging, she squeezed herself out of her chair with all the grace of the Michelin tyre man skidding on oil. She grunted and pushed herself up with her pasty mottled bare hands. The engagement ring Steve bought for her in 2004 had to get cut neatly in two by the hospital last year, she’d lost circulation in her finger from the swelling and her nail had turned black and peeled off. Steve said he’d fix it but came back later in the day pissed with a six pack hanging from his thumb and a guaranteed tip on the outsider in the 4 o’clock race. The horse fell at the first hurdle.
Sally groped her way to the kitchen, her flip flops forcing sweaty mulching sounds as she went. She reached for the bread bin on the kitchen side and took out the money they had saved for rent, it would just have to be late again. She knew the bailiffs from the pub anyway so they never gave her much grief about the arrears. She grabbed her coat from the floor, squeezed into it and slammed the door behind her. The kebab shop was only five minutes round the corner but it had been a few weeks since she’d gone out so the sun began to make her eyes water. Next door’s malnourished terrier started yelping through the fence but before she could bark back Janet, her neighbour, threw open her upstairs window and screamed some incomprehensible Scottish slang at it. Janet glowered at Sally, Sally kissed her middle finger and raised it up in the air. ‘Fucking foreigners’ Sally mumbled as her flip flops slip-slapped down the road. She huffed to the corner and was smacked by the smell of the kebab shop, it was all she needed to make the extra three or so meters to the door. The odor always made her feel warm and content, probably because the paper wrappers from the last take away kebab hadn’t made it out of her front room yet and it reminded her of home. Her flip flop tripped on the step at the entrance and her big toe smeared across a greasy tile. As she balanced herself on the door frame Mani shouted
‘Same as usual Sal’s?’
‘Nah, not today Man, Steve don’t deserve nothing, he’s pissed up on the sofa again, dunno why I bother mate. Gimme a donna with all the trimmings’
Then as she noticed the browning limp lettuce in a tub behind the counter
‘Skip the green shit though, why bother with all that health bullshit now huh?’
‘Sure thing babs, sure thing’
Her mountainous ass wobbled onto a stained plastic chair, causing it to groan and splinter. She picked at her feet, scraping her nail over the grease on her big toe, then absentmindedly rubbing at the sweat on her face and wiping it all over her coat. She watched the kebab meat turn slowly behind the counter, the fat dripping and congealing. Mani started slicing, he always cut her thick pieces. She’d lost her looks over the years but he still remembered the fumble they had down a back alley in ‘96 and held a torch for her. Steve had swapped her engagement ring with Mani for a kebab and a can of coke last year and Mani promised himself when the time was right he would fix it and get down on one knee and propose to her properly. Meanwhile he just watched her from the corner of his eye and stuffed her large warm pita with random meats and chilli sauce.
‘Here ya are babs, my special, just how you like it’
‘You treat me good you do Mani, why can’t all men be like you huh?’
Sally rolled herself up with a grunt, snatched at the plastic bag protecting her treasure and shoved past another customer who had just stepped through the door.
Her stomach roared and she marched almost horizontally in the rush to get back to her chair. She turned the corner and leaned on the wall, ‘must be the pollution’ she mumbled as her lungs thundered and wheezed. The warmth of her kebab leaning on her thigh pushed her to make the last few centimeters home. Next doors terrier started leaping against the fence again and Sally saw Janet peering through the net curtains. She didn’t have time for finger flicking, her legs were chafing so hard she could have started a fire. As she got to her door she realised she’d left her keys in the ashtray next to the telly. She hammered loudly on the dirty mottled glass, hollering Steve’s name through the letterbox, her hair sticking to her sweaty red puffed face. She slammed at the door a few more times with the palm of her hand and then slowly slid down onto the doorstep. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and usually Steve wouldn’t surface until at least 8pm. The plastic bag didn’t stand a chance as she tore through it, ripping open the soggy paper wrapped around the kebab, grabbing the meat with her fat fingers and covering her chin with dripping juices and sauce. The terrier stared at her through the fence, salivating and pining. Sally didn’t have a care in the world.
It’s a super highway of
LOVE MY THIGH GAP!
BUY BUY BUY
And desensitization keeps us calm
Except for the red of santa
And the wars
And the love
Everything is too fast
Just stop. And look. And listen
It’s not at the bottom of your Costa cup
She contracted herpes in 1984, just before the threat of AIDs hit the English shores and everyone still believed in free love like it was the 60’s. It flared up every time she thought of him, a big red sore on the top left hand side of her lip that oozed and bled whenever she touched it. They had divorced in 1987 when she found him balls deep in her best friend, Mandy. Mandy had curly hair and he loved it, he often made his wife wear a wig when they were having sex. She can’t ever remember making love, it was always raw and thrusting and she often got thrush for a few days after. The cold sore was just a lasting reminder of that bastard. Mandy died a few months ago, they’d made up a few years back after her ex husband eventually cheated on Mandy too for a younger curlier model. At least they had something in common and would often share stories well into the night about the bastard who left a mark on both their lips. One night, after three bottles of shared wine, they kissed and grabbed at each others tits in some sort of failed attempt to feel loved. They both remembered what happened in the morning but never talked about it and just got on with their day to day lives wondering what each other were thinking and whether or not they could be lesbian. She decided she couldn’t. She never liked the look of her own cunt, how could she go down on someone else’s. Also she’d found out that herpes could be transmitted that way and she didn’t want anyone else to be cursed with her ex-husband’s sins. That bastard was still alive though, they still lived in the same town they were married in, she couldn’t afford to move out and he had a good job in town and bought a house three streets away. She saw him often but he ignored her by looking down at his shoes, or suddenly turning heel and walking in the other direction. He was the one who did wrong so how come he still made her feel like a piece of shit that had been trodden into the carpet? She’d once tried to turn round quicker than him in an attempt to get the upper hand, but she almost walked into a lamp post and she heard him snort a laugh before walking away. One day she will make him pay, make him realise what he had lost, as soon as she worked out how to get the money that she owed the council for her studio flat in the basement of a decrepted Victorian four story house. Her top lip started stinging again so she walked to the broken bathroom cupboard for some vaseline.
I had just spent the past ten minutes stuck in a supermarket queue behind a monstrously fat woman whose face was covered in coloured glitter. I only had one item, as is always the way when you’re in a rush and everyone else has the family shopping to contend with. I started to wonder if she had painted the glitter on her eyelids in an attempt to glorify her piggy little peepers, and that her constant blinking had dislodged it and caused the glitter to stick onto her sweaty face. But the glitter blotches were too random. Then I thought maybe a kid had developed an epileptic fit in the craft aisle and had shaken a whole tube over her while she pointed and laughed. But there was nothing on her clothes, apart from a few specks on her collar that had fallen off her triple chin. Finally her items had been placed through the till, three large bars of chocolate, a cream cake and a family sized meat feast pizza, a meal for one. She then made a quick grasp for a Snickers bar that were conveniently placed adjacent to the conveyor belt and threw it at the cashier. As she pulled a battered purse out of her handbag a small toy unicorn fell out and bounced along the floor and landed by my boot. Everyone stared at it, it was a better distraction than the lift music playing on the tinny speakers above. The unicorn horn was covered in multicoloured glitter and there was a tear in the left back leg. The cashier flatly said ‘you’ve dropped something love, that’s £13.94, do you have a points card?’ as the glitter faced woman struggled to reach the floor trying pick the toy up. Her stomachs seemed to gravitate her closer to the floor than necessary when suddenly, with a deep roar, she toppled over, one hand reaching for the toy unicorn and the other for the side of the moving conveyor belt. She mistakenly grabbed a packet of pork chops instead of holding onto the side and thundered to the ground, her fat almost bouncing her back up again. I recoiled in horror, like any cruel human would, and we all watched as she threw the chops across the floor and pulled the unicorn violently into her face, rubbing the glittered horn all over her until she had started to reach some sort of orgasmic trance. It was then I noticed a trail of brown urine beginning to race across the floor. ‘Fuck this’ I exclaimed and left my item on the conveyor belt and side stepped the piss on the way to the exit.