Home > Gee Willikers (fiction, 2006- )
Some short stories.
A reply to "Breaking Glass" by David Bowie
What the hell!? I wish I could have some idea as to why you've been doing the things you've been doing. Firstly, the broken glass in my room. I came home quite late after a lovely night out with Donna, I opened the door quietly, took my shoes off when I walked past your room so as not to wake you, and when I walked across my room to switch on the bedside lamp, I stood on broken glass. My foot was dripping blood all over and I've got a hole in my best socks. I used up about half a loo roll until it stopped bleeding. Mark told me this morning that he heard you breaking glass in there. C'mon, man, this is the third time this term. I don't understand. As if that wasn't enough, well, I don't think I need to point out what else was on my carpet. Why did you draw something so awful on it? That's not the sort of thing I wanted to come home to, I can tell you. I thought we were friends... but recently, it seems like you don't wanna talk to me any more. It's really confusing. I'm seriously thinking about moving out. I don't wanna have to tell the landlord what you've done, but if this continues, you'll give me no choice.
PS. Can I have my copy of "Blonde on Blonde" back, please? You've had it since Freshers' week, and I need to tape it for Donna.
(10 September 2009)
She didn't know it, but the abuse continued. Whilst drunk men put dollar bills in her garter, her father watched, drinking champagne in the corner.
(14 May 2008)
Aye, most people in the village thought it was a little bit odd in this day an' age for those four ald fellas to be livin' together at Baxter's Farm. There'd be the odd joke down the White Horse about them being woofters an' 'avin' dirty orgies an' stuff, but honestly, we didn't really give much thought to 'em most of the time. Mike, the farrier, says they're decent sorts; come in every six weeks, punctual like, to get they horses shod. An' the bloke who used to be the vet 'ere - Terry Fisher was his name, good bloke was Terry, God rest his soul - said they kept the stable spick an' span; not one bit of hay out of place apparently. Anyway, I remember it like it was yesterday. Carol had said the weather looked a bit off while we were eatin' breakfast, "it's black over Bill's mum's," she said. I went out to help Jack fit a new carburetor, an' I sees 'em. Came as a right shock, I can tell you, when they rode into the village on they horses, with their hoods up, like. The Four blinkin' Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Never expected that. Not in a month of Sundays.
(14 November 2007)
Most calendars don't have a 629th August. This is the story of how one land came to have one, slap bang in the middle of September.
There once was a king called Hector. He requested that all his subjects address him as King Hector. He had a big robe, a big crown, a big orb, a big sceptre, and a big throne. He held big parties in his big castle, he drank big glasses of champagne, ate big bacon sandwiches, and did big poos in his big bathroom. Life was pretty good for King Hector. Apart from one little thing: he hated Christmas.
A few years ago, Lord David of Coverdale had asked the king why he hated Christmas, and was swiftly taken off to Ghraib Abbey where he was found guilty of treason and sentenced to stand in a really big bucket and drink lemonade until he drowned in his own piss. Ever since then, nobody has dared to ask King Hector why he hated Christmas.
Quite soon after Lord David's demise, the King's hatred intensified. One sunny August morning, he was sat in a deck chair in the royal gardens sipping a cappuccino and watching his springer spaniel shag a poodle, when he had an idea. He rooted around in his regal pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, and sent a text message to his lawyer: CUM 2 RYL GDNS NOW!
The lawyer, Lord Ronald James of Dio, hurried to the royal garden.
"Aaah, good to see you, Lord Ronald," said King Hector.
"I am your loyal lawyer," said Lord Ronald, a bit out of breath.
"Listen here, old bean. I've been giving it some thought, and, well, Christmas... let's abolish it." said King Hector.
"Well, erm, yes, of course, Your Majesty," said Lord Ronald.
"Good. I'm glad we've got that sorted," said the king, sparking up a Gitane. "Oh, and you've got some toothpaste in your beard."
So that the people didn't revolt when they found out that King Hector had banned Christmas, the law actually stated that the day's date could be decided upon by King Hector when he awoke every morning. He went to bed on 31st August, dreamt (as he was often did) of a busty wench covered in jam, then woke the next morning declaring it to be 32nd August.
The next morning, he decided it was 33rd August. And on and on and on: 45th August, 72nd August, 110th August...
All the children in the land kept quiet about the extended August as it meant wonderful extra-long school holidays; but they did wonder where Hallowe'en had gone to. And by 147th August, they realised that Christmas wasn't going to happen at all.
The old ladies were happy, though: it meant they weren't get older. Business men were happy, too: they could put off their tax returns. Utility companies, though, were outraged that they could never send out their end-of-the-month bills.
All the while, the King stayed happy, knowing that for as long as he felt this way, Christmas would never arrive. He was even a bit clever on what would've been April Fool's Day (but was actually the 213th August) by changing the date back to 92nd August.
O! what a malarkey it all was!
When the King sat down for a pleasant feast of roast giraffe and honey-glazed pauper's liver on the 629th August, he coughed. Then he coughed again. And again. After ten minutes, his cough was so bad he stubbed out his cigarette. Another ten minutes later, he was dead.
The Queen cried, and wiped gravy off her late husband's chops. When the people heard of their monach's demise, they mostly giggled behind their hands (apart from the readers of the Daily Mail who all wept and demanded the blacks be sent home as punishment for something or other).
From that day, the calendar returned to normal. Tomorrow would be the 20th of September, and Christmas was just three short months away. But every year the people remembered the day their king died. They'd go to bed on 18th September and wake up the next morning; the morning of 629th August.
(09 August 2007)
You say you want a revolution, well, y'know, we all wanna change the world, but your bedroom isn't going to clean itself, young man.
(10 June 2007)
It was twenty years ago today, that Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. Most of his army buddies thought he was a pussy, though; messing around with trumpets and stuff while they were out there getting shot at.
(10 June 2007)
In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea. And he told us of his life in the land of submarines. It was okay at first, he said, but after a while it all became a bit claustrophobic.
(10 June 2007)
Narcissus was a pretty handsome chap by anyone's standards. One day, he sat by a pond and looked at his own reflection. Being a vain sort of fellow, he looked smoulderingly at himself, and did a little tiger growling noise. He made a sad face, and he was gorgeous. He made a deep-in-thought face, and he was gorgeous. He made a coy face, and he was still gorgeous. He was about to make a surprised face, when he felt a boot in the side of his head, which knocked him into the pond. Dazed, he tried to stand up. "Fucking queer!" snarled the voice of the fist that knocked him back into the pond.
(13 March 2007)
Uri was the sort of man that you'd probably not like. More or less all of his actions were self-serving. He parked in disabled spots. He pushed his way onto trains before other passengers got off. And, of course, he got really hot women and treated them all like shit.
Uri stood at a pedestrian crossing. The light was red, but he was impatient. He looked at the traffic, left and right, judging where a nice gap would be for him to nip across, then made a dash for it. Other pedestrians saw the taxi was going too fast to miss him. Uri didn't notice until it was inches from him. The taxi driver slammed on his brakes, just as Uri dodged out of the way. He gave a brief look back at the cab, and went about his day.
(12 March 2007)
Who's that girl?
Gary recognised her from somewhere. Stood on the platform, he tried to casually glance at her to try and work it out. Her hair is a different colour. She caught his gaze and he looked away, above and beyond her at the big clock hung from the station roof. "Was she at my school?" he thought. "Did we ever work in the same office?" When the train arrived, he sat near enough to her to keep the thoughts going. Brief flashes of a past version of the girl flitted through his mind. Dyed red hair. He knew she didn't used to be so voluptuous. Grungy clothes. He knew her. He knew he knew her. He went through the alphabet thinking of names. "Fuck fuck fuck," he muttered to himself. He was annoyed now. He stood and walked to another carriage. He wanted to forget he'd ever tried to remember.
(12 March 2007)
Like most evenings, Harry was watching the local evening news. Tonight though, he'd had enough. He changed into black trousers, a black coat, and black shoes. He drove to the TV station and waited. He followed the newsreader home. And he waited. He waited until morning, and watched the newsreader leave. A short while later he saw the newsreader's wife leave with the children. Then he went around the back and broke a window. He looked around, climbed the stairs, and went into the newsreader's bedroom, opened the newsreader's wardrobe, and removed all of the newsreader's jackets, then ran awkwardly with them in his arms to his car. He fumbled for his keys, and threw all of the newsreader's jackets in the trunk. Harry drove to a secluded spot on the edge of town, put the jackets in a pile and set fire to them. Never again would that fucking newsreader's herringbone jackets strobe on his screen.
(12 March 2007)
The worst part of my job is having to go and try and sell the ice cream. The customers are settled, they've watched the adverts, they're ready for the trailers, then the lights go on again, and I have to walk in there, dressed in my stupid fucking royal blue waistcoat and yellow tie, and ask them if they would like to buy a damn ice cream. Everyone looks at me, I get all self-conscious, and God forbid anyone gets up to buy something. I can feel all those eyes filled with contempt and the sweat on my back. Then it's over. Until the next showing.
(11 March 2007)
The builder's crack
I take my humour seriously. Those stuck-up girls or the feminist ones who reacted strongly to my comments; they don't realise that I work hard at finding the right tone. Saucy, yet friendly. All those comedians on "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" get recognition for their quick wit, but not your average builder, oh no. Your average builder is viewed as a pest. Shouting "I'd like to put my monologue in your vagina!" is, apparently, sexist. Bloody liberals.
(10 March 2007)
His dog ran off to chase around with another dog. He smiled at the other dog's owner.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi, how's it going?" he said.
"Good, good," she said, then nodded towards the dogs. "George loves to run around like that."
"Yeah, Cosmo does, too."
"George and Cosmo! Ha! My name's Elaine!"
"Get out! Mine's Jerry!"
They both laughed.
Cosmo lost interest in George and ran off to sniff a French bulldog.
"Well, see ya."
"Yep. See ya."
(10 March 2007)
Kenny attached a speaker to the underneath of his car's kerbside wheel arch. On the passenger seat lay a microphone and a nearly-empty plastic bottle of washing up liquid. Every now and then he's give the bottle a squeeze. He liked to annoy cyclists.
(9 March 2007)
Zac looked out of the window at the cloud below. One cloud on its own, casting a huge shadow over the fields. I'd like to be on a bicycle, he thought, and ride around the edge of that shadow. One arm under the shadow, one arm under the sun. I'd follow the edge of the shadow round and round and round and round as it passed over fields, forests, and the rich suburbs with their piercing turquoise pools. And maybe, I'd ride through someone's garden, and there'd be a girl by the pool. And maybe, just maybe, she'd ask why one of my arms was redder than the other. And I'd tell her why. And maybe, just maybe, she'd fall in love with me.
(9 March 2007)
Derek Jeter's carpet
I wonder what Derek Jeter's carpet is like. I wonder exactly how plush it is. I wonder how deep it is, how comfortable it is to walk on. I imagine he has a secret factory somewhere in the Pacific that has developed a bonsai human. Then, the scientists developed a bonsai of the bonsai human. Then, they breed the little humans like rabbits. Then, they put them in velvet body suits with fake-fur gloves. Then, they make all these bonsai velvet-y people stand in Derek's lounge so he has something fluffy and massage-y to walk on when he's tired after a game. That's what I think Derek Jeter's carpet is like.
(2 March 2007. Thanks to Laura for the inspiration)
I'm so excited
Catherine and Laura sat in a cafe. They'd been going out for three months or so. Catherine had something to tell Laura. Laura had something to tell Catherine. They looked at each other. Catherine looked down at Laura's hands, red around her cup of tea. Catherine spoke.
Laura's face didn't express much emotion while she was being dumped. A slight grind of the jaw, but that was it.
"I'm So Excited" by the Pointer Sisters came out of the cafe's speakers.
Laura decided not to tell Catherine she'd been to see the doctor.
(30 November 2006)
Despite efforts to resuscitate the punchline, the joke was pronounced dead at the scene
"I don't get it."
"Uranus! Your. Anus!"
"Oh yeah. You want anything from the bar?"
(23 November 2006)
Raymond watched his penis bobbing around like a buoy in the sea. He took some water into his mouth and squirted it out to make his penis bob about some more. Bath water tastes funny. Like it's had the life sucked out of it. He drank a bit. Then he drank a bit more. He probably drank a couple of pints of bath water before his belly started to hurt.
He needed a piss, so he sat up and watched the yellow stream swirling between his thighs, like jelly before it sets. Then he hopped out of the bath before he got pissy thighs.
(23 November 2006)
Several months after getting his first job, he moved out of his parents' home and bought a flat of his own. He furnished the flat simply; with stuff from Ikea, mainly. He went to a hardware store and bought a peephole to put in his front door. His parents house didn't have one, and he liked the idea of looking at visitors as if they were in a rap video. His dad came over to help him install it. That first night with his new peephole he spent a couple of hours with his forehead and nose resting against the door, one eye looking through the peephole. Nine times that evening, the light in the stairwell would come on and a neighbour would leave or arrive home.
He began to spend more and more of his time peeking out of his peephole. He'd get up early and drink his coffee at the peephole, watching people going to work. In the evenings he'd rush home and stand at the peephole until bedtime. The peephole was his favourite window. It was his favourite pastime. It reminded him of fishing.
Over the next few months he bought more peepholes. They became his peephole collection. When he had enough of them—several hundred or so—he called a builder and had him remove the window in his lounge, and cement together all of his peepholes in its place.
A fly walking up his framed Scarface poster looked over at the new window and nodded his approval.
(19 November 2006)
A note from the future
God finally revealed Himself. It was quite similar to how you imagine it would be, clouds parting, etc. Everyone in the world saw Him. Apparently it looked best in east Asia and Australia because it was dark and they could see all the paraphs of firework-y bits of light when the clouds were parting. He didn't say anything. He just looked down at everyone. We all knew that the look on His face was saying, "Ta-dah!"
That was a month or so ago. To be honest, TV's been completely obsessed since then. It's getting quite tedious.
(19 November 2006)
Milk and cookies
I have three chocolate chip cookies on a small plate. I pour milk carefully into a clean glass, trying not make any splashes. I place the plate and glass side by side on the table and sit down. I take a bite from one of the cookies. Chew it in my mouth until it's mushy, then slurp it down with a slug of milk.
The milk I am drinking is from a big metal thing, full of milk coming from tubes attached to several cows' udders. The milk I am drinking is not from a single cow.
Some milk is cheaper, too. Milk from Aldi is a heck of a lot cheaper than milk from Sainsbury's. That can't all be down to different profit margins. Some cows must just produce better milk than other cows. Poor Aldi cows.
I put the uneaten cookies back in the packet, then pour the milk down the drain. And empty the rest of the carton of milk down the drain.
(11 November 2006)