The Tuna Salad Train Hijack

It was only halfway through the journey that I realised my tuna salad was talking to me. "I'm fed up. I'm really fed up." He said. And with those words he got up and left the table. I rolled my eyes. I had become used to his childish antics over the last few hours.
Almost immediately after purchase, the churlish combination of cucumber, carrot and tuna had established itself as an irritating little dish of fishy concoction. As I stepped from the store it was brought to my attention by a large man in a blue hat that something was wrong.
"Dropped your tuna salad mate." He said, handing me my tuna salad. The devilish thing had apparently gnawed a hole in my bag and made a swift, yet unsuccessful escape.
This time however, as the train shot past Runcorn station and I reached down to retrieve it from its wanderings, I was surprised to see it had made a run for the rear of the carriage. Rising to my feet I sighed as I gave slow chase - the rear door led only to the drivers compartment which was locked, and besides, the salad only had small legs.
However, upon reaching the door, the salad surprised again as it whipped out a bag of marbles and a blow torch. I looked on with helpless wonder as a hundred tiny balls scattered across the floor sending me careering through someone’s Guardian. By the time I had recovered and gained decent ground to the doorway, the salad had blowtorched its way through and erected a small portcullis across the entry hole. The sounds from the interior of the compartment have haunted me ever since. The driver, I discovered at a later date, was gruesomely overcome with a segment of sweet corn to the eye before being hurled callously from the window to the waters below as we crossed Runcorn bridge.
There was a harsh screeching as the salad engaged the brakes. As the train slowed I moved closer to the door. From inside I heard scraping noises, a little tinkling of glass and then a strange “Hup! Yo!” sound.
I stepped briskly to the side window and watched in amazement. My tuna salad was standing outside across the rails staring right at me. With a sly smile and a wave, he turned on his heels and skipped off merrily across the grass.

My Sea Urchin

I don't usually carry sea urchins into college. I find it usually exacerbates the whole 'moving through crowded corridors' situation. Now lets make this clear from the start; this was not one of those rounded, bony sea urchins that pretends to be a melon, but rather the more sinister looking - perhaps pink- sharp and spiky sea urchin that threatens instant death should one foolishly make contact with its protrusions. Nevertheless, on the morning of December 12th 2005, I entered my college, bag slung over right shoulder, bright yellow folder under left arm, and sea urchin resting cosily on right palm.

It was certainly difficult at first to make contact with anyone I knew. Anyone I remotely knew, say someone in one of my classes for example, only stared at me momentarily in a combined expression of awe and hatred. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the bravery of my quest that inspired them so, yet the fact I was threatening their very existence that sparked up feelings of loathing. When I did finally encounter a friend of mine, it turned out to be a bit of an anti-climax to say the least.

Gary Pepper isn’t the brightest star in the sky and certainly proved it when, after ten minutes of standard everyday conversation he was yet to mention my sea urchin. I did my best - thrusting the sea urchin up and down as I described my game of water polo the night before. I increased the pace of my hand gestures as we discussed Gary’s karate lesson but to no avail. I even went as far as to pretend my sea urchin was a ball as we talked about David Beckham’s goal at the weekend. Yet as standard everyday conversation began to run out and Gary’s eyes wandered across the room in search of something else to talk about, there was still no mention of my sea urchin.

Now I was beginning to get frustrated. I’d never anticipated this distinctly boring reaction. Hordes of students swarmed past me, bustling, jostling, talking, shouting. My mind was swirling with anger and irritation. Suddenly I hurled my sea urchin to the floor and screamed, "Aaaah!" Everybody stopped moving. "For God's sake!" I shouted, "What is wrong with you all? Why don't you say anything about my sea urchin? I gestured frantically at the floor. From the blanket of wide eye onlookers emerged Gary Pepper chewing nonchalantly on a tuna bagel. “Um...Tom mate... that’s not a sea urchin... its a guitar.”

Green Fire

The sky was a mess of faded colours that blended so seamlessly it became a flowing blanket of shades and textures which formed a beautiful backdrop for the light fluffy clouds floating gently from left to right across the twinkling ocean. Katie's cheek soaked up the soft warmth that rippled across the dunes towards her from the setting sun. For a moment, her dog Barney stopped bounding about and everything trickled into a tranquil, melodic silence. Barney's ears flapped in the cool easterly breeze as he paused to sniff the summer air.

If dogs could talk, and I assure you they cannot, Barney would of said, with clear and aristocratic tones, “Something does not smell right madam.” He always called Katie madam. He was quite a respectful dog really. At that moment he was consumed in a torrent of red hot green fire. “Liquidised instantaneously” the coroner’s report would state a few days later. Katie stared open mouthed, eyes wide, arms outstretched. From a distance one would assume she was beginning a series of star jumps or performing the YMCA in slow motion, so slow in fact that she was no longer moving. A passing gnome grinned and rolled his eyes. He’d seen it all before.

The flame wavered a little from left to right then appeared to be slurped back into the ground like that last piece of flailing pasta that hangs embarrassingly from your lips. As if her gob had been smacked, Katie stood gob-smacked, with her gob open and leaning to the side, as if smacked.

"My...my dog!" She managed to splutter before she too was consumed by green fire.

Nobby the Norwegian Daffodil

Nobby the Norwegian Daffodil was feeling rather peckish and he had no money.

It was for these reasons that he was approaching Mr Bread’s Bakery from the rear in an awkward crouched position.

Imagine a daffodil in an awkward crouched position.

His right leaf wrapped slowly around the handle to the back door and he opened it slowly.

He crept into the storeroom and began munching soft white hovis until suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder.

Nobby swung round, leaves raised in shock. It was Bread (the baker). “What’s going on here!?” He shouted.

Nobby shrieked like a baby daffodil. He dived past Bread and legged it, closely pursued by a grinning bear and two mad ducks.

The next day he found himself on an island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean skipping playfully across golden shores and drinking liquidised beagles. How his luck had changed…

The Tale of Jelly Blob and Spatula Man

Jelly Blob was a small blob made of jelly. He was very popular with other jellies but his favourite and most special friend in all the world was Spatula Man.

Spatula Man, as one might assume, was a man who resembled a spatula. He didn’t get on with other men, or spatulas, so it was only natural his best friend should be a jelly.

One day, when the weather was fine, J.Blob and S.Man decided to go to the beach and pretend to be trees. Just the thought of imagining his arms were the branches of a leafy shrub made J.Blob giggle.

After an hour of pretending to be trees the two chums were getting rather tired. S.Man’s arms ached from the two pigeons that, assuming he was a tree, had settled there to rest.

But just as they were about to head home, J.Blob noticed a small blue mound in the distance. Filled with curiosity, they approached the mound, probing the ground before them with long, pointy sticks.

As they got closer they noticed the mound was furry and smelt quite badly. As anyone would upon finding themselves in the same situation, the pair began to poke and prod with interest.

“RARGH!” Roared the big mouldy cheese. Pretty darn frightening it was.

Hamster

It's a bizarre feeling to say the least when you open your front door and find yourself confronted by a grinning hamster the size of a small man wielding a spatula in it's right paw and a screw driver in the other. I suppose it could’ve been a vaguely acceptable situation if it hadn’t been wearing a Viking helmet. As it stood however, Dave felt extremely uncomfortable.
The hamster had huge oval eyes like deep oily pools that seemed to swirl with its every movement. Dave couldn’t help feel hypnotised by them. “It could almost be cute if it wasn’t for that ridiculous and mildly threatening Viking helmet.” He thought.
“Hello.” said the Hamster. It was Welsh. “Are you Mr Pink?”
Dave blushed a bright rose colour at the mention of his embarrassing surname. Still he couldn’t help being polite and replied, “Yep, yep that’s me.” He tried to take a quick glance into the street behind the hamster to look for witnesses - he really didn’t know what that screwdriver was for.
“Excellent, excellent...Do you mind if I come in?” asked the hamster.
“Don’t let him!” screamed Dave’s mind.
"Don't let him!" David screamed and then realised he was thinking aloud.
The Hamster was physically taken aback and moved physically backward to show this.
Dave didn't quite know what to do so he just pretended it didn't happen.
“Please, come on in” he said, which was odd, because he was talking to a hamster.
They walked into the living room and each took a seat, Dave sitting awkwardly facing the television directly beside the hamster who also sat awkwardly facing the television.
"So..." Said Dave, turning his neck 90 degrees.
Half an hour later the conversation was in full swing, each cradled a mug of warm tea in their palms sharing stories and cracking jokes. The hamster was an interesting animal it seemed. Threes spent in Africa treating sick children and teaching doctors to swim and a year in Morocco breeding monkeys were just a few of its fascinating excursions.
"So” questioned Dave, “If you mind me asking...What brought you to my house?"
The Hamster place his empty tea cup carefully on the table and began to stand, "Oh I'm just here to check the gas meter."

Kent and the Bear

The great big grizzly bear hurled his banana to the floor in a fit of rage.
"What the hell is going on Kent!" He screeched. "I've had enough of you! Your quirky beard! Your sumptuously wavy quiff! Your carefully combed chest hair! It's just getting a bit too much!"

"So it's a hair thing really..." Murmured Kent, his eyes locked on the floor.

“Course it’s a hair thing.” The bar stared glumly out the window. “Daft.”

“Hey you can hardly talk! Your a grizzly bear.”

“I am fully aware of my species thank you Kent. Look I don’t need this right now, can you leave please?”

Kent stared into the big bear's eyes for a moment, searching for the juice of sympathy to saturate his taunted heart. A frosty glare stared back at him. Kent walked over to the coat stand, picked up his jacket and rolled casually out of the window.

Such A Pane

As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields, I felt sure something was different. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, it was all there; the hedge, the gate, the car and the moon sitting there high above me, reluctant to fade from the pink morning sky. It was very clear today. Almost too clear… I reached forward with a quivering hand. Good lord! Someone had stolen my window pane!

This was not good, not good at all! Why would someone do such a thing? My wife, Kate was still curled up in bed purring gently and I decided not to wake her lest she worry about the window pane thief. I tip toed carefully from the room and began a silent SAS style reconnaissance of the house, looking specifically for missing window panes but also for my slippers. My feet were quite chilly as you would imagine with all the cold air getting in.

Eventually I found myself in the kitchen and all thoughts of window panes slowly drifted away in the steam of a boiling kettle. Finding an empty milk bottle sitting mockingly in the fridge led me to the front porch in search my beloved semi-skimmed.

“Mornin’ Tom!” exclaimed my neighbour Mark. He was one of those people who was always bright and excited, even when it’s 7 a.m. and there’s clearly nothing to be bright or excited about.

“You’ll never guess what I discovered this morning!” he exclaimed, again. “One of my window panes has been stolen!”

My dopey eyes suddenly widened and before I could shout SNAP! and laugh at the sheer co-incidence of it all, we were joined another wide eyed neighbour.

“John!” exclaimed Mark.

“Mark!” exclaimed John.

I sighed.

“I couldn’t help over hear! One of my window panes is missing too!” John exclaimed with the most bizarre facial expressions. In fact, for a moment, everything seemed to go in slow motion and I found myself fixated as his eyebrows danced across his forehead, bending and arching. I shook my head vigorously.

“This isn’t right, this isn‘t right at all.”

John and Mark agreed enthusiastically.

It wasn’t long before we were joined by other members of the street and after a few minutes it became apparent that every house in the street was missing a single window pane. I wandered back inside and sat down in the kitchen.

I had a problem; I was missing a window pane. Many of you wise folk will make a suggestion here such as “Buy a new one.” or some other such nonsense but such a boring option was not for me. I am an adventurer! The Rice Krispies crackled as the semi-skimmed swamped the bowl.

Days later after the terrifying incident of the missing window pane had been all but forgotten. I was busy going about my daily chores when Kate reminded me to water the beans. I didn’t know we had any beans and an argument arose as I was accused of “forgetting to water the poor things”. They’re just beans. But just to please I set off on an expedition into the mangled brambles and dark, foreboding scrubland of our back garden.

With four hideous wounds to the lower thigh and three thorns nestled deeply in my calf muscle, I began the final approach to the region Kate called “The Vegetable Patch”. It was as I reached out to pick up a shrivelled limp bean from the soil below that my foot crunched heavily on something glass.

“Oh you clumsy oaf!” I spun round with such elegance a ballerina would ask me to dance. There was no one there. I looked down. I was being confronted by…a garden gnome. I gasped.

Pieces of window pane lay shattered in his loving arms. If gnomes could cry then I’m sure this one would. Then again I never knew gnomes could talk.

“You sir!” He pointed, “Are an ungainly sponge!” I found it hard not to giggle at this stern faced gnome. His big red hat was titled fashionably to the left and his baggy pants were a deep shade of royal blue.

The bits of glass slipped through his hands and he began to cry. Now things were really getting unbelievable.

I apologised profusely and took him inside for some tea. We talked for hours. We talked about golf, we talked about the football, we even had a natter about Japanese chess but the conversation inevitably wandered onto the subject of fishing.

“I don’t like fishing!” He shouted. I was shocked. “It’s all I ever do! I just want a change. A new hobby! A new challenge!” It was at this point he produced a small book entitled, “Glass Sculpture For Beginners.” I grinned.

From that day on the gnome and me became firm friends and everyday as I opened the curtains in every room in the house I stared out through nothingness. After all, a gnome in my back garden was doing glass sculpture and he needed materials!

Parable Of A Leaping Tiger

An old man named Hegbert once made a wise comment that would pass down the generations and be spread throughout the land. Hegbert said, “A heap of yellow tigers are neither helpful nor financially viable”. Obviously the words of great wisdom have been changed somewhat through the years and what he actually said has been lost. Completely. Unless maybe someone carved it into a piece of bread and hid it in a hidden forest on an island that doesn’t technically exist in the middle of an ocean that has never been explored. But I'd say that's quite unlikely, wouldn't you?

A small piece of marmite slowly oozed its way out of Laura's sandwich and under pressure from a hefty tomato and a crumpled cucumber slice, it slipped off and tumbled through the air. A fraction of a second later there was a soft "splat" sound as it splattered spectacularly across the map she was staring at.

"Oh gawd!" She exclaimed angrily and quickly began attempts to absorb the thick substance from the battered old parchment. With the majority of the mixture cleaned up she left her sandwich and focused herself on the marmite streaked map.

A lot of boring things happened then for quite a long time which I won’t go into because there not very interesting.

3 years later however, things began to spice up a little and on the island of Munchable Hornets, Laura was searching for the original words of wisdom. It was a wonderful place. Everywhere she looked there was a new animal. The Himmblopotamoose was a favourite. Always sprinting around, always headless. The Man Spoon cracked her up to. It was basically a little spoon with arms, legs and glasses. Brilliant. Anyway, we could spend centuries discussing the various creatures that dwell on the Island of Munchable Hornets, so on with the story.

After a long hard trek, Laura found herself outside the Grand Temple of Match Ing Sticks. It was in fact made of match sticks that matched exactly. Took a long time to build methinks.

She entered the dark, frightening, daunting, booby trapped temple, picked up the piece of bread and left.

Out in the bright sunlight she began to read out the engraving in the bread. At that moment, a large gust of wind blew the bread into the mouth of a passing Yeti who swallowed it whole. “Yum!” He said.

This story had absolutely nothing to do with a leaping tiger.

Rather Wide Holes

When you fall through a hole in the floor a number of things rush through you're mind;

1. Lord! The floor beneath me seems to have given way under the pressure emitted from my body!

2. Oh oh!

3. Can you smell lemons?

4. Who are you talking to?

5. Your not talking, your thinking.

6. O.

It is around this time that most people suddenly stop falling, usually because they've hit the bottom of what they fell into or rarely because they have the ability to defy the laws of gravity. The latter, if lucky enough, will float to the surface of the hole in through which they fell, make their escape and pretend the incident never occurred. The unfortunate individual who doesnt have the pleasantries of gravity defying abilities will have landed, probably in an undignified position, at the bottom of the spontaneous crevasse through which they fell.

Now the average person will probably not have had such an experience or have heard of such an incident and so will not know what in Earth I am talking about. Notice I said “in Earth”? Let me explain...

Sometime last century, in the centre of the Earth, a very important meeting was taking place. Mr Dolalee and his colleagues Gilbert and Henry were discussing the fate of the Muffin People and there seemed to be only one option; they must escape. After all, they were trapped in the centre of the Earth which is not a particularly nice place to be trapped.

The Muffin People have often wondered why they are imprisoned in the centre of the Earth and in fact, nobody knows why. Some, however, have speculated it is because they once attempted to kidnap the British Prime Minister using a thick piece of rope.

Mr Dolalee stroked his long, spindly beard and sighed. Gilbert rammed a finger in his left ear, extracted and examined the contents, then shoved it back in. Henry was unconscious. It had been three years since the Muffin People had elected them as their leaders and asked them to find a solution to their predicament. For those three years, the three of them had sat at a conference table, trying to think of a way out.

And then, like a flash of lightning spontaneously sparks, the dull tungsten light blew a fuse and the room was plunged into darkness. In the sudden confusion associated with such an event it is well known that people react in different ways. Some stay calm, some panic and a few don’t actually notice. It is a similar case with Muffin People and this was represented by the three leaders.

Mr Dolalee began repeating, “Stay calm, don’t panic!” in an increasingly panicked voice. Henry of course didn’t notice. Gilbert went wild. As soon as his eyes detected the room was dark he launched himself off his chair screaming. His arms thrashed about and he began to flounder on the floor like a hooked fish. Three hours later the situation was quite similar except Gilbert’s scream had dulled to a soft squeal and Mr Dolalee had established a firm rhythm. Henry remained unconscious.

“I’ve fixed it!” Called the engineer through the door just as the light flickered on and restored visibility to the room.

Gilbert brushed himself down and returned to his seat and Mr Dolalee finally shut up. It was then in a moment of spontaneity and sleepy observation that Henry awoke from his deep slumber and announced his idea to the room.

The first thing his blurry eyes had focused on was Gilbert’s cup of tea, knocked over by a flailing arm. The hot tea had burnt through a massive chunk of the table leaving a ghastly hole. The image weaved its way through the absurd mechanics of Henry’s mind, finally striking a lever which turned some cogs, pressed a button and rolled up a small Persian rug.

“Were going to burn through the Earth.” He whispered.

Gilbert’s eyes went wide, Mr Dolalee eyes went wider.

Three weeks later, the Muffin People had produced a large vat of piping hot tea and the escape began.

Quite unexpectedly (to the people of Earth) 300 million rather wide holes began appearing over the globe. Eyewitnesses claimed to have seen a strange brown liquid gurgling through a crack in the floor before it suddenly exploded open. What happened next was quite possibly amazing and quite possibly ridiculous. As the tide of red hot tea ebbed away, small, muffin-shaped creatures began to leap from the holes with shouts of joy and relief. It was shortly before their feet touched the ground and shortly before they’d finished their second shout of “Hoorah!” when the creatures randomly dissolved and completely disappeared from view. Sometimes you just can’t win.

A Short Story Of Enriched Soil

The soil moaned, as soil does. It felt so un-enriched!

It needed Richmond’s Enriching Goo!

The soil went to the shops.

As it approached the counter, people stared. “Eeeeeeeeeeee!” Said a small child. “Eueueuuw!” Said another. I think they generally were making the same point. They didn’t like the soil. And neither did anyone else. No-one, at all.

However, unaffected by the harsh comments (it had no ears with which to hear) the soil continued its journey to isle 3 and then to the “pay here” counter where it purchased some of Richmond’s Enriching Goo.

It applied some to it’s crumbly texture and left the store.

On the journey home it was embraced by tiny creatures and postmen. Fertiliser fell from the sky and weeds were plucked from it’s spindly limbs. It felt great and all was well.

Fall Of A Sleepy Goat

The dilemma one faces when stuck under a large cow is to say the least, rather large. Some would say in fact that the size of the cow itself is directly proportional to the size of the dilemma one faces when under it. This however doesn’t matter at all because Frank was trapped under a goat, which is an entirely different animal.

Frank couldn’t believe his luck in fact, it was the best thing that had happened to him all day. Don’t get me wrong, being nestled in the centre of a grass-goat sandwich isn’t a particularly pleasant experience, but Frank had good reason to enjoy it while he could.

In a single day he had the three worst experiences of his life. Firstly, he was rudely awoken at 8 am by a large metal ball flying through his wall, secondly the fridge was empty and thirdly he had been chased four miles by a rampant carrot costume (which contained a man).

Frank enjoyed the damp warmth that the goat provided and slept there all night. The goat was asleep and knew nothing of the snoring man who lay beneath it.

The sun rose over the snow covered mountain tops at 5:30 am, just as a caterpillar in little boots scampered over Frank’s nose. He stirred and yawned. He rolled out from under the goat and went home.