First in History: Fashion show

She had worked very hard to create a new line of clothing and Shera was going to make the tribe respect her vision. With a hand full of models and large fire to gather everyone around, the show began. A wide range of furs, leafs, animal skins and bark dresses walked up and down for everyone to see. The collection: gathers glamour. After the show Shera stood forward and bowed, but many in the audience were left quiet confused.

‘What things on feet?’ asked one of the men pointing to pair of high heels.

‘High feet, make you look taller,’ she replied.

‘Can you run in them?’

‘No.’

There were grumbles from the group.

Another question was asked.

‘How we stay warm at night?’ asked a woman. ‘Not cover up all body.’

‘You look good in it though, that reason you wear it,’ replied Shera.

‘I want stay warm and no freeze.’

The chief of the tribe then stood up.

‘This waste of time and animal skin,’ he said.

‘This art,’ said Shera.

‘Draw on walls or chip stone, no waste animal skin.’

‘Why no skin made to fit big people,’ asked a fat cave woman.

‘My art!’ shouted Shera. ‘Not yours. Fat woman no beautiful.’

The tribe all walked away, angry that they would have to gather more resources to make it through the winter.

Another joke you may of heard

 

A Muslim and a Jew are sat in a coffee shop as the old joke goes. They sit chatting about their lives and their plans for the next week. What on the telly and what the latest gossip. Their conversation was interrupted by a man with dynamite strapped to his chest. The noise is so loud and the light blinds their eyes that the pair can barely make the last words of the attacker: ORANGE!

In the aftermath, the pair had survived but many were not as lucky. They might be in pain, but at least they had each other.  Sharing the same ward they watched the news and tried to puzzle together what had happened. Why them, what had they done? Then reports come out, something about a response from Blues. Then the Yellows seek spoke out against it, but the Black try to calm everyone down before the Red demand blood.

‘It’s just pointless all this fighting,’ said the Jew. ‘People killing each other over their favourite colour.’

‘I know,’ replied the Muslim, ‘ It’s the collateral damage as well. Just leave everyone else out of it. No should be dying for a belief, let alone someone elses.’

‘Yeah, especially when Pink the best.’

The Muslim went quite.

‘What?’ asked the Jew.

‘Well I like Silver so what you just said…’

‘Wait you like silver?!’

A friendship comes to an end. Hell of a punch line.

We all grow up

An office life is hard to live as it is, but it’s more so when you were once famous. Even worse when it was as a children’s entertainer. No matter how much you work and try to change people’s opinion of you, they always fall back on the stuff you did when you were younger. Every new visitor and member of staff has the same dozen questions.  ‘Weren’t you on the telly?’ ‘Where’s all the gang all now.’ ‘Why are you working her, I thought you’d be loaded.’ It never stops. This was my fate. These days I go by the name Mr Trustweed, but you may know me as ‘Tinky Winky’. While being purple is more accepted than it used to be thanks to Dr Barney T. Dinosaur I would still get stares. My red handbag was swapped for a briefcase and a hat was to cover up my triangle antenna since I was not permitted to express my political views within the office. I had moved away from Tubbyland to an apartment within the city. I see no more rabbits as the ones I brought with me were mauled by dogs within the first few weeks. My diet had ruined my heart and liver, so I am on strict diet of Riveta and low sugar meals. Tubby toast and Tubby custard have nothing but artificial colours and sweeteners. It was a miserable existence. In meetings he would stand in front of his peers and project power points from his tummy. When he looked out the window he saw the sun still laughing, but now it was at him not with him. One night with a bottle in one hand and the phone in the other he considered ringing the others. He still had the numbers on his phone, but never made it to the last digit. Maybe it was better to let the others move on.

Dropped in it

 

Woofles was an awkward dog on many levels. One in particular was his toilet habits. While they had tackled the wild urination it was the second expulsion that was an issue. He was a shy pooper you see and he had his favourite spots. These spots were not in the back garden, but were outside along public footpaths and wild untracked fields. His owners were faced with either wandering miles to find a place for Woofles to foul without picking it up or going along the public footpath and praying no one was around to see him drop a load. One rainy day the fields flooded and Woofles needed to answer nature’s call. His owner took to the path and in haste did not check to see if anyone was around. Five minutes as he returned home there was a knock on the door. A man in a rain coat stood shaking a plastic bag of dog poo in his face.

‘This is yours!’ he screamed as the rant and scolding went on.

Woofles’ owner slammed the door and thought nothing of it. A week later a letter from the council came through for a stool sample from Woofles for a DNA test. His owners would be fined £500 for failure to clean up after their dog if they didn’t comply. If Woofles’ owners were too lazy to pick up their own dog shit, they sure as hell didn’t have the effort to pay a £500 fine. They had no option, but to send a false sample. Where they got it from, I’ll let you decide.

Riverbank of tears

 

In these parts people got real depressed. There wasn’t much work and there were even fewer rewards. The only thing of note in this world was the riverbank of tears. Legend had it that it was once a lake that was born from the tears of the earth; that the land had always been cursed. You see when life gets a bit too much for people they would think about ending it all. Now we didn’t have no chemicals to drink and the tree branches couldn’t hold a man to hang. We only had the lake to go drown yourself in. Now this lake was not that deep so to make sure you stayed at the bottom, you had to make yourself sink. So these poor souls would have to go round and collect stones and pebbles to place in their pockets and shoes. Sometimes they tried sand and dirt when it was too dark to find them. Now when you’ve had so much time to think and work your mind can change. You think about family and friends. You think about possible futures and dwell on kinder memories. By the time you get to the edge of the lake, most people just emptied their pockets. Sure occasionally people went the full distance, but over time the mound of emptied pockets built a layer and shrunk the lake. Eventually it built up into the Riverbank of tears. So you see, even when you’re on your last legs, you can create something amazing through your sorrow. You just have to be patient.

Glassman’s number 1 fan

 

Glassman was strapped to a chair and his arms were bound by rope. He awoke in a room that was surrounded by newspaper clippings, posters, action figures, memorabilia and cardboard cut outs. Some items were aged relics of the 90’s while others were fresh. They all had one thing in common: they were all about him. Glassman toys and t-shirts, trading cards and mugs, even Glassman items he had never seen before.

‘Oh God I’m in hell aren’t I?’ he muttered.

A door opened up and into the room entered an overweight greasy fan boy with a pony tail whom wore a Glassman t-shirt and jean cut offs.

‘You’re awake at lashted’ slurred the geek.

‘Get me out of this chair you fucking weirdo,’ shouted Glassman.

‘I am Ernest and I am you’re number one fan.’

‘I don’t care you little shit, if you were my number one fan you’d have bought me a drink or just left me the hell alone. Now get me out of this chair.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. You shee Glassh-man you will be living with me forever!’

Glassman have a grim look at the super nerd.

‘So your mum’s okay with you living in her basement and keeping me down here?’ he asked.

‘Shut up… and I don’t live with her, she livesh with me,’ said Ernest.

‘Look I have the ability to manipulate glass, one fragment of a computer screen or a window and I will fuck your shit up.’

He looked around the room and noticed that there were no light bulbs. The room was light by glow sticks and candles from the Glassman alter.

‘I know that Glassh-man, thatsh why there ish no glassh in thish placesh.’

‘Okay all I heard at the end of that sentence was this on-going hiss so…’

‘Shilence! We are going to shtart our new friendship by reading my shcreen play: Glassh-man the movie. I wrote it after reading all the unoffishal biographies about your life. You will read for Glassh-man obvioushly and I will be reading ash the narrator, the villain and your shidekick: Shuper Shexy doombringer lad.’

‘Super sexy doombringer lad? That’s so fucking stupid.’

‘It’s no shtupid!’

‘Fine, but can I get a whisky or something to help me.’

And so the pair sat through and read it aloud. Glassman read it mono toned and droll, while Ernest put all his energy into every scene. After an hour there was a small break for Mountain Dew and Dortios before they continued.

‘We that sheemed to crack him up,’ said Ernest.

‘Too right super sexy doombringer lad… seriously I would drop the lad Ernest it just a bit of a mouthful. Like in an emergency situation you want to be called for in like under a minute or there’s no point. Too many syllables,’ said Glassman.

‘ Shtop breaking character.’

‘I’m playing myself, how is that breaking character?’

‘ Jusht read the shcript.’

‘Geeze someone can’t handle constructive criticism. It’s your line anyway.’

The script was pulled back.

‘Now we can go save Daishy Jade.’

The script was placed in front of Glassman, but he didn’t continue reading.

‘That’s it… not playing anymore,’ he said.

‘Come on it’sh going to be aweshome,’ said Ernest. ‘ Everyone loved Daishy aka Rare flower, she was beautiful.’

‘She was real person, not just a character you can throw in to pad out this crappy script.’

‘Why not, just becaushe you didn’t shave her in real life doeshn’t mean we can’t have a good shtory.’

‘Fuck you. I’m glad Daisy never lived to see this plot holed, cliché, piece of shit.’

Glassman was slapped across the face.

‘ Sho ash I wash shaying: Glassh-man and Shuper Shexy Doombringer lad meet up with the Rare flower. Oh Glasshman you’ve come to shave me.’

Glassman ignored the slurred words of his capture. He could only imagine the moment when he tried to save her. He wasn’t fast enough to spare her the agonising death of radiation poisoning. He sealed the leak that saved the city, but at the price of her life. If he had acted sooner she would have lived. He gave mercy and was punished for it.

His arms quaked and he broke free of his bonds. An arm reached out for Ernest mid-sentence and pulled him to the floor. Blow after blow was struck until his fist ran red. Glassman then wiped his hands off on the shirt of his number 1 fan and left his prison. He was right the first time, he was in hell.

Meat Puppets: Part Twelve

 

The sterile zone was always on an imperfect solution. Ideal short term, but for a long term survival it was never going to last. We had eight bodies to cremate today. Three we beheaded before they came back, but the other five knew what we had planned next. The second stage of the sickness, they’ll still be talking and acting like nothing happened. Still we cut them down in a hail of bullets before setting them aflame. The furnaces… nothing good ever came from a furnace in the stories I knew. Just destruction and death, the final solution (no pun intended… I’m not in a joking kind of mood).

Before this, the closest thing I could remember in my life time was the ‘foot and mouth’ crisis. The news reports with dead pigs, half blackness by flame and the thick smoke that slithered into the air into a cloud of death and waste. I wept for the little piglets as a child, but I didn’t weep when it started to happen to people. It became all too common, piles of smoking corpses down the road. I walked in world of fire, sickness and rotting; the world has become a living hell. We do it correctly now, decapitating them first, but we did have a phase of burning Meat Puppets or ‘Cooked Meat’.

They screamed for relief and reached out for you. Not to harm or feast, but to beg for quick death. They would hold onto to you as their eyes dripped out their eye sockets and their skin stuck and peeled off you. You’d get burnt, but not infected thankfully. The bacteria cannot survive the heat and it doesn’t know how to put the flames out. The strings are charred and the puppet master loses control of the dead. If Meat Puppets figure out stop drop and roll, we’re screwed (Yeah I know a joke, but I’m allowed something to beat this pathos right? Right?)

We fire bombed the cities, oranges skies and black earth without thinking of human consequences. Meat Puppets and humans burnt alive and were thrown on the pile indiscriminately for the greater good. Shame it was all for nothing… we still have Meat Puppets.

There are no grave markers up anymore or even records kept of who died. No services or prayers held because it’s bad for morale. It doesn’t help that we banned religion as well: one less thing to argue about. Still hope doesn’t come under a microscope or from a mathematical equation.

My reports that suggest that Meat Puppets could one day be reasoned with are bringing no comfort to my superior officers. They want to know how to kill them easier and how to trap them, not if there’s a chance of a cure or peace. That was my signal to make my plea to go on my three month investigation. They were sceptical of my intentions, but I am as much of a risk to the zone the longer I hang out here. People want to know what I’m doing and they’ve stopped asking me. All it takes is one letter or misplaced note and everyone’s going to demand a cure again.

Three months they give me: rations, a roll out, tent, torch, batteries, map, ammo and a radio. All this for the sake of completing one mission: come back with something solid or don’t come back at all.

I’ll be honest; I’m not looking for more death in this world. I’m going to go look for hope. Hope that my little group will develop and grow into a peaceful land. I want Danny to settle them somewhere safe, let Goldie play her tambourine and the Hooker to just… I don’t know, stare at more baby pictures? The point is at least they would have freedom I want in this world. They would have life, not existence.

 

A good old bicycle ride

 

When Aaron was first asked for a lift, he was instilled with the sense of joy. The weather was usually bright and the air was far warmer than it had been all year. There could not have been better condition that he could ask for to go for a bike riding. The lift in question was for Mr Sponge the local talking cat. Aaron was about to head out when he caught the end of a certain viral advert. He took a look at an old wicker basket and a roll of cello tape before a wonderful idea comes to mind. On his bike the wind blew through his hair he gave out a loud cry:

‘Sing little cat, sing!’

‘No,’ was the cat’s reply whom was sat in the basket.

Aaron stopped peddling.

‘What do you mean no?’

‘I’m not singing that fucking song Aaron.’

‘But I’m giving you a lift.’

‘Look I got into the basket because it was safer than hanging onto the seat and you driving with one arm.’

Mr Sponge frowned as the bike peddled on.

‘ What about Queen?’

‘ No.’

‘ Bat out hell?’

‘ Leave it Aaron.’

‘ Please isn’t there anything you want to sing?’

‘I song I can sing,’ he said with a grumble.

‘Okay sing it then,’ said Aaron with a bit of glee.

The pair went through town, the local park as past the police station with Mr Sponge singing a song he named ‘Here comes the kiddie fiddler riding his bike.’ Aaron regretted this favour a lot.

British TV documentaries eventual path

 

Channel Quad for years has brought to your home great and insightful documentaries, that underneath the controversial and taboo, humanize those within them. They have captured the hearts and imaginations of a nation, even rising people into stardom and advocacy for their personal plights. Now they’ve ran out of ideas and have left us asking ‘what kind of people are they going to exploit to gain ratings?’

The new Channel Quds documentary follows the life and struggle of Benjamin who in 2008 tragically became stuck in his coat when his zipper locked into place.

‘It was a pain at first and I just thought I’d pull it over my head, but it wouldn’t budge.’

We will look at the daily struggle for a man stuck wearing a coat all day from daily routines of showering, to commuting to work and finding love.

‘People always say, ‘well at least you stay warm in the winter and dry when it rains’ people just don’t understand my suffering.’

To the ground breaking surgery to free him from his coat.

‘Due to the nature of the coat, we had to fly a master Taylor from Milan and await for a heart surgeon who wasn’t busy saving people with actual life threatening problems to help Benjamin.’

Will he be free from his prison? Find out on ‘Unzipped from reality’. Part of the new series ‘tragic, pointless and trapped’.  And follow the next episode ‘the woman who should have just bought a shoe size larger.’

‘Why didn’t I just get a size 7? Red not even in season now!’

Glassman: a glass half stained kind of guy

 

Glassman was at his bar, finishing his duty fixing all the broken glasses on the floor.

‘Great, shame they couldn’t come back clean,’ he muttered.

The bar door opened and a terrible odour filled the air. Glassman didn’t need to look up to know who had entered.

‘Jake, investing in either toothpaste or some breath mints once in a while,’ said Glassman.

‘Hey how about a whiskey buddy?’ said Jake.

‘Go home and don’t come back until you shower.’

‘You can’t do this to me man, come on just one drink.’

Glassman changed his pint glass into a dagger.

‘Come on man, I’ll suck you dick,’ said Jake.

‘OUT!!!’

Jake walked away from the bar and slammed the door. The dagger turned back into a pint and Glassman continued washing the glasses. The door opened again and Glassman stacked three pints up and made them into a crossbow.

‘ Jake piss off,’ he said swinging his body to the door.

Jake had left, but his funk had remained. In the door way was woman with long blonde hair, slender legs and a cosmopolitan dress sense.

‘Still enjoying the rat race Glassman,’ she said is smooth voice.

‘Starlett, never thought you’d be out and about at 11am,’ said Glassman.

‘Well the sun is a star darling and I just felt like seeing an old friend.’

She took a seat near the bar and pointed to a spirit on the wall.

‘Cherry coke mixer if you would,’ she smiled.

Glassman made up the drink.

‘So what brings you to this bar, when there are hundreds you could have walked into?’ asked Glassman.

‘Me and Biggie got into an argument again,’ she said as she placed a straw in her mouth.

‘I left the team to avoid this playground crap. Whatever issue you two are having I don’t care.’

A smile grew on Starlett’s face.

‘Glassman, you shatter all too quickly. I’m not running for a friend or a body guard. I just want to hide in the last place anyone would ever think to find me.’

‘I’ll take that as a complement,’ said Glassman as he continued washing glasses.

‘You’ve been on the news. Saving the town and doing a bit more than tidying up after monster fights.’

‘I get time off from work and if I’m passing through and there’s a giant spider. You know how that song and dance goes.’

‘Come back to the team. The government sponsorship is a good gig.’

‘I prefer the freelance work, like how it should be.’

Starlett shook her glass and Glassman refilled it.

‘There are so many perks to it though. See the world, meet new people…’

‘Kill them?’ retorted Glassman. ‘Just wondering if those Palestinian students needed to be fired on by the Human Thorn? We fought mobsters, evil co-operations, monsters and evil super powered morons. Now you’re just fighting someone based of whatever ideology pays more.’

‘He got punished.’

‘Yeah, yeah we all saw the video. You received the head yet?’

Starlett sucked down her drink.

‘What about the fame?’ asked Starlett.

Glassman kept cleaning and Starlett changed her tone.

‘It wasn’t your fault. No one ever blamed you.’

Glassman finished the last of the glasses and hide them behind the bar. Starlett placed a roll of money on the counter and a single card.

‘We did some good once, before the politics. I could go back to how it was… but I can’t go back alone.’

She left the bar and Glassman picked up the money. Underneath he found a trading card: #43 GLASSMAN; a picture of a fresh faced hero full of pride. It was quickly turned into a beer mat.