My Tiny Glass Prison

Olivia gazed into the snow globe and spent a few minutes watching the tiny flakes slowly float to the bottom of their glass prison. It was easy to become lost in this seemingly perfect world, the princess sat upon her saddle, led by a handsome prince with a smug smile. The only imperfections in this fantasyland were the broken rose bushes on the left hand side, just at the horse’s feet. Alice had dropped the globe a few years back, it bounced and made its landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, hitting the corner of the panelling before finally laying to rest. Ever since, two roses and some bits of leaves floated around the globe, acting as heavy and clumsy dance partners for the elegant white flakes. It always unnerved Olivia that each year, more flakes had become discoloured, making the snow look as if they were Autumn leaves. She saw it as her own little sand timer, aging and and becoming less beautiful as the years went by, just as was Olivia. This snow globe would eventually become a desert; filled with sandy flakes, the smug smile fading and the princess’s face becoming scratched with time.

Alice always stayed the same; she was porcelain perfection with ruby red lips and candyfloss cheeks, her blonde flowing ringlets just skimming the bottom of her back. Alice was pretty quiet, she never seemed to have much to say and Olivia often wondered if she just relied on her looks to get her places rather than develop a personality. It wasn’t that she was boring; she just never really made much of an effort with people and had always been part of a very privileged household. People always said Olivia wasn’t talking sense and this was why she was on her own. The thing is, she hadn’t always been, and Alice had been there until she was taken away that summer. She was probably sitting in another room right at this very moment, smiling sweetly and not saying anything. It had been difficult for Olivia trying to convince friends and family that Alice wasn’t very pleasant; she caused trouble and would keep Olivia awake at night with her constant whispering. These nighttime episodes were the only time she spoke and when her sinister side would appear, Olivia spent many a night, staring at her snow globe wishing the noise would stop and that Alice would leave her alone but even the perfect glass world couldn’t save her.

As the whispering got louder the globe fell, rolling out of the bedroom down two flights of stairs. Olivia ran desperately after it, wincing with each bounce of the stairs. Alice as always stayed perfectly still, her ruby lips showed no emotion, her eyes glassy and blank. That summer Olivia was taken away to a larger house, one with many rooms and many people but it was cold and lifeless and the whispers at night had turned to screams. Lying on her bed, Olivia gazed once again within the globe, eyeing the tiny imperfections. This fairytale place had once been perfect but was now tarnished forever, this globe now acting as a mirror to Olivia’s new life.

As the years passed, Olivia grew old and tired and had few visitors. Alice visited her in dreams with her blank stare and cold, shiny skin. She can still be found to this day, sat quietly, her blonde spirals barely touched, the lipstick still rigidly in place and the pink cheeks unmoved. Alice sits as the seasons pass in a shop window, staring at the passers by. She tries to whisper but they don’t hear her, only stopping to look briefly at her beautiful, timeless face. It is difficult to get the attention of others when she is, after all, only a doll.

Brain Dead

The garlic crusher sat at its computer, staring vacantly out of the window at the concrete wall view. The smell of sickly perfume came in waves, as did the cackling of the secretaries from the office next door. Two women fight with the photocopier like two monkeys, opening and closing the compartments a dozen times in the hope their ridiculous methods of fixing the machine will work. The data entry requests dry up and it begins to realise, it misses the view from its previous office, the big white sign that read ‘Bereavement Suite’.

I'm Never Drinking Again

Michael gazed dreamily outside his dining room window, his mind a blank hole peppered with chicken and booze. The garden stretched for what seemed like miles and miles, broken up by a fir archway. As another brain cell stopped and sparked, Michaels gaze focused on a mass of white. Squinting, he looked to the side slightly, spotting the beautiful blossom tree. “Ah” he thought “The blossom from next door as blown onto the top of the holly bush, how very picturesque”. He slowly lifted his weary legs and floated to the back door, grabbing his Polaroid off the table by the door. As he strolled through the crisp and wet September grass, he once again focused his gaze on the holly, ready to admire this sight of blossom icing its top. As Michael got closer, however, the tranquil sight began to change. Is blossom furry? He wondered, speeding up slightly as he got nearer. Finally his hung-over eyes cleared and he examined the holly. Upon the top of the bush lay dozens of soft white feathers and in the centre a dead dove. Michael became aware of something attached to his belt; he looked down and saw the pellet gun and looked up and saw the pellet. In the dove’s side.

“Hmm” Michael pondered, “I must have drunk more than I thought”.

Bob

You are such a clown Bob with your unruly hair and your creepy ways. I don't really find the squirting flowers particularly funny, nor the squeaky nose or the big feet. Surely there must be another way for you to entertain, to try and raise a smile. It must be tough when people are terrified of you when all you desire is to spread joy. But tell me, what is joyous about this older man, these sad shoes, the faded nose and the limp curls. The painted on smile, the crossed out eyes and the dead bulbs. You are a joke, Bob, but nobody is laughing.

Terry The Onion

Terry the onion moults. He moults flakes of dry brown skin that drift to the floor like mouldy confetti. His legs are like roots and his arms weak twigs. Since falling from a rickety bicycle basket into a child’s push chair, then being discovered by a hysterical mother who threw him into the pig farm that was her back garden, Terry has been on a search for a frying pan. As his skin slowly fades into patches of black and his layers begin to crepe, Terry knows he would rather be cooked than rot alive.

The pigs do their best to thwart his journey, pushing and shoving, clumsily forcing their snouts onto the poor onion. Despite the knocks and the scratches, Terry knows each push and shove moves him nearer to his goal.

One pig in particular, however, Terry cannot abide. Obnoxious, fat and with a hairy snout, Porker (as he is imaginatively named) enjoys goading Terry. He stomps, he snorts, he drools, he trumps and always-in Terry’s direction. Pigs don’t take very kindly to onions as, when cooked, they suffocate hot dogs on buns with their grease. Porker doesn’t like being made to cry in front of the other pigs either because of the onions toxic fumes. And so it goes, a battle between pork and onion. The pigs that share Porkers pen are too busy scratching their bums and bellies to pay much attention to Terry. Porker wants out of the pen instead of into the frying pan and doesn’t like to see this onion making better escape attempts.

One morning Terry awoke in the mud, a pig clumsily nudged him nearer to the edge of the pen and he started his daily slow journey of wading his root legs in and out of the thick, wet ground. Each heavy movement caused more flakes to fall and as he looked down at his round stomach he noticed a slightly concaved black patch. Cautiously running his twigs over this unwelcome sign of aging, Terry prodded slightly and to his horror the twig pierced all the way through. In panic, Terry knew he needed a frying pan, and it would have to be today.

Familiar sounds began to ring out, violent snorts and grumps followed by steady sighs. Porker was awaking from his slumber and Terry didn’t have much time. He lifted his weak roots as fast as he could; risking damage each time he took a new step forward. The edge of the pen was in sight, as were the beginnings of a hill, which would roll him directly towards the house at the top of the garden. Just. One. More. Step. Terry began to edge forward and immersed himself into a full roly-poly. Upon his descent he heard the snort and the clumsy galloping. Porker was on his way. As Terry rolled he bashed against stones and sticks, his twig arms slowly chipped away and his roots disjointed. Even at this speed, he could make out the kitchen window and the familiar sight of a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill. The sound of galloping was edging closer, the pigpen gate flew past as porker huffed and wheezed as he chased aggressively after Terry. The end was in sight and Terry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the layers of skin fast ripping away and the heavy breathing of Porker getting nearer and nearer. A bounce off a rock and flying into a back door was followed by a blackout.

Terry slowly opened his eyes, trying to make out the blurry shapes in the room. He felt warm and calm; was this the frying pan?! He could sense a strong fire emitting heat from the corner of the room and the sensation of being hugged. Maybe this was onion heaven Terry wondered, the thought bringing on a small but contented smile. As his eyes began to focus a sight directly in front of him made him jump. Was he hallucinating? There appeared to be another onion staring straight back at him…and what was that holding him? As his vision became clear and a true horror began to dawn, his stomach dropped.

Directly in front of Terry there was a large ornate mirror, framed by pearls and diamonds. In the reflection was Terry, a smaller, bruised and naked onion in the mouth of Porker. Porker was quiet, still and smelt a lot better than normal. Then came the next realisation, Porker had been roasted and Terry was merely the raw accompaniment, flavouring for this lavish meal. There was no frying pan, no sign of any heaven, not even a hot dog. After everything he had gone through, Terry was destined to slowly fade and rot away after all.

The Tiny Elephant

The Tiny Elephant

There was once a tiny elephant called George. His tiny stature was not due to any ailment, disease or accident at birth. George was the victim of a special curse. You see, as a baby, this elephant would throw sticks with his trunk at passing Weebles. Weebles (or Weebi) are the size of a healthy melon, covered in fur like that of a mammoth and have two pink eyeballs.

What is special about the Weebi are their eyes.

If poked or prodded with any kind of instrument, they explode in a mass of magenta goo. At 1 year of age, George was searching for sticks for his daily splat session. He stumbled across a silver tube, stars sparkling off the surface as the sun reflected off the glitter that covered it. Wrapping his trunk around this shiny object, he stopped suddenly when it made a noise - 'zoink!’. George was not deterred however and headed for the Weebi parade. Slowly but surely a bulbous Weeble bounced passed. George stayed silent and still until the right moment when ZOINK! - Magenta flew through the air and the Weeble rolled off in a benny.

George looked down at the silver glitter tube curiously. It was beginning to turn green, flashing pink and white like a firework. The lights got brighter and it began to shake until the tube shattered. George closed his eyes and on opening looked ahead of him, confused by a rather strange looking tree. After a few seconds, he realised this was not a tree but was in fact a plant. George was now the size of an eyeball. A human eyeball.On upsetting the Weebles for 1 whole year, they grew tired of George’s discrimination against their bulging magenta eyes. A decision was made to contact their home planet where a court date was held. The glitter tube was sent down to earth ready for George to use and in turn, shrink him for his crimes.

George now spends his days collecting coconuts for the Weebi. Once he has gathered enough to make beautiful covers for their sensitive eyes, he can return to normal size. The only problem is, when you are the size of a human eyeball, collecting coconuts can take a long, long, long time…