Andy and Kate

"Help! Help!" The two screaming children ran out from between the trees. Crying, disheveled, terror etched in their faces.
"We killed her!"

"She tried to eat us! So we killed her!"

The woman looked on in horror. "Oh heavens, what a horrible thing to happen," she thought as they approached, "I have to speak with children."

But she saw that this was inevitable. She could not escape. There was no one else around to help. And she had given up running years ago for spiritual reasons.

"This is how I die." she thought. There was a certain comfort in knowing this. Dying at the hands of tiny self professed murderers somehow seemed a suitable end. 

She reflected on her choices. But she soon tore herself away from her introspection and said, "Breathe, kids. Calm down and tell me what happened."

And so the children told her their story. A story of horror and evil, betrayal and death. Or at least it was so to them. To everyone else the story was one of tedious children.

The children suffered from selective attention, overactive imaginations, and were masters of the dramatic arts.  

Their mother was very tired.

The children were called Andy and Kate.

These were not their full names.
Their real names were Handle and Kettle.
Their mother had many regrets.

The evening before, they had overheard her saying, "We need someone to take the kids while we go to the market tomorrow." 

What the children understood from this was very different.

"Oh no!" said Kate. "We have no food! It must be a famine!"

"We are going to starve and die!" screamed Andy

"They are giving us away. But to whom?" Kate asked.

"Hopefully someone with food." said Andy.
Then the children hatched a plan.

The next morning Andy snuck a loaf of bread into his backpack. He planned to leave bread along their route so they could find their way back home.

He thought he was being sneaky. 

He was not.

His mother had noticed this and was about to ask him what he was doing but decided against it. They could get out of the house much faster if she did not ask questions.

Andy left the whole loaf in the middle of the sidewalk. "That should work," he thought, satisfied with his handiwork. "We will be able to see this big bread from a mile away."

He quickly recognised the folly of his ways as he soon lost track of the bread.
"We have walked more than 2 miles." he thought.

They had not.
Their babysitter's house was 3 doors down.

Aunty Jean was a lovely but eccentric woman. She had covered the entire house in a textured, white exterior. The children felt drawn to this house. They decided that sometime in the future they should lick it. It reminded them of frosting.
They were idiots.
The texture was called 'popcorn'.

"She lives in a cake?" whispered Kate. "She must be mad. I love it."

Aunty Jean had answered the door and squealed cute-aggressively, "Oh my goodness, look at you two darlings. I could just gobble you up. Just munch on your chubby cheeks. Om nom nom!"

"Oh no!" said Kate, "She IS mad. And she wants to eat us!"
"And so specifically." said Andy, with a good grasp on the english language as well as his own cheeks.

Aunty Jean, like any good aunty, waited until their mother left before breaking out with the snacks and candy.

"Have another samosa or another piece of cake," she repeated regularly to the children as though it was her duty, which, being an Aunty, it was. 

"Let's put some meat on those bones, you're so skinny." She stated in complete disregard of her earlier cheeks related statement.

"Oh no," Kate whispered to Andy. "She wants to eat us, and is trying to fatten us up!"

"Haaila!" exclaimed Andy, who proceeded to fake faint spectacularly.

Soon after he sighed wistfully, "Why am I just bones? I wouldn't want to eat me!"

Later he would remember this moment as the start of his body image journey.

At lunchtime Aunty Jean said, "Shall I make you something? Let me just go put on the oven."

"Oh no," they exclaimed together. "She's going to make us into something right now?"

Yet again the children hatched a plan.

Their plan was murder.

They ran into the kitchen and pushed Aunty Jean into the oven.

It wasn't an oven.
It was a toaster.
It was not on.

"Die Jean!" They exclaimed, like their father did after a heavy meal.

And then more confusingly, "I hope your house melts."

They ran out into the day. They would have run out into the night. But it was not night.

The children were immediately lost due to the lack of bread. Many know this experience but for different reasons.

"This forest is too big. We will never get out." said Kate.

They were still in the garden, having circled the same basil and tomato plants 3 times.

"I am so hungry" said Andy, "I haven't eaten in days"

He had last eaten 10 minutes before.

Finally they stumbled into the street where they encountered the unwillingly kind woman.

"...So that is how our parents abandoned us because of the famine with an evil witch who tried to feed us her house to fatten us up so she could eat us so we killed her and ran away but got lost because we couldn't see the bread and have been roaming in the forest and haven't eaten in days." they finished explaining to the woman.

The woman took a few moments to gather herself. "Someone fed these children mushrooms," she thought to herself. But mushrooms or murder, she needed to investigate.

"Is this the bread you were looking for?" she asked pointing 6 feet away.
"No, that's a different bread," said Andy.

It wasn't.

The woman was confused. She was left with the choice of moving towards bread or murder.

While she pondered this over Aunty Jean came out of her house. A house, the woman noted, which if squinted at really hard, had a vague hint of edibility.

"Children please don't leave the garden. Don't worry you can go home very soon."

"We can? Oh ok." They immediately went inside in a very well behaved fashion.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked Aunty Jean. "The children said they had murdered you."

"Oh it's fine." responded Jean. "They fail to murder me every week."

"My favorite so far was electrocution by a potato battery. And training my chihuahua to attack in the night. But all it led to was ruined groceries and a very nervous Rufus."

They both laughed.

It was not comforting.

Aunty Jean wondered at what point the children would succeed in murdering her.

She would be proud. 

But also dead.

The woman wondered what kind of parents' would name their kids Handel and Kettle. 

She was glad she had been named a far more respectable 'Bain-Marie'.

As she walked away from Aunty Jean's house she licked it.

The police wondered what happened to the neighbour, Uncle Harold, who had gone missing 2 weeks earlier.

Obviously, There Was

Jack’s heart was pumping in anticipation.

There was an ache in his limbs and wind in his hair.

The scent of fresh greenery surrounded him.

He had never climbed so high before.

He had also never climbed a giant beanstalk before.

He was pleased with himself.

His mother had said he would regret his decision.

“There's no such thing as “magic” beans.” She said using air-quotes pointedly.

Obviously, there was.

He hadn’t set out with the intention of selling his cow for magic beans. But on his way to the market he came across a street magician who pulled a rabbit out of a hat. This was not so impressive. But then the rabbit pulled the magician out of the hat and everyone lost their minds. Jack had to take a few moments retracing his steps to find his. He found it in the last place he left it.

“That was amazing” said Jack.

“Your cow is amazing” said the magician.

His cow was, in fact, amazing. Her markings were an abstract pattern that caused people to subconsciously project their inner purpose. Like a bovine Rorschach of sorts.

Jack did not know this. He thought it was perfectly natural to look at a cow and find meaning.

Coincidentally he had named the cow Rawrshark after a visit to an aquarium.

“I want magic.” said Jack.

“I want your cow.” said the rabbit.

“I have magic beans.” said the magician.

“I have… a cow.” said Jack.

Jack took the magic beans and walked into the market.

The rabbit took the cow and walked into the hat.

Later, after a visit to another aquarium, the magician renamed the cow Porpoise.

Jack wasn't stupid. He knew about the different kinds of magic: Earth, fire, water, wind, spirit, moon, teatime and bean. 
Most magic was terribly complicated, highly dangerous and unpredictable (the most volatile being teatime). Most magic was not to be meddled with idly. It was also not to be meddled with idli. But bean magic was widely known to be safe and reliable.

Magic beans = giant beanstalk = wicked giant = hordes of gold.

This was the way it had always bean.

Bean magic, like mundane beans, was known for its ………. consistency.

Jack knew this and therefore felt his trade was in his favour. It involved a bit of work yes. But he would soon be very wealthy, he just had to kill the wicked giant. Jack was excited about the gold, and anxious about the giant. He motivated himself to keep climbing by thinking of all the things he would buy with his gold. A car, another car, a third car, maybe a watch, and a year of home delivered milk, now that Rawrshark was gone.

He had passed several birds, and even went through a small cloud.

The cloud said to its friend, “I just felt a sudden warmth pass through me. Almost as if… as if there's a person close by.”

Its friend replied, “You believe in such paranormal nonsense. There's no such thing as people.”

Obviously, there was.

As he climbed he got greedier and greedier. Now he was imagining a mansion with many servants, endless food and drink, the best steak in the world, attractive women that loved him, and all the milk money could buy. But most of all he was most pleased that he was right, and his mother was not.

At the home of Mr. and Mrs. Giant, (affectionately known by their nephews and nieces as Giaunt and Giuncle) the garden was a little different than it had been a few years earlier.The Giants had become increasingly frustrated over the decades as tiny people came from their garden and tried to murder them and steal pieces of Mrs Giant’s jewellery. (Most of it was costume jewellery, but she had some gold for fancy occasions.)

“Why was this happening? What had they done to deserve this? And where were these little attempted murderers coming from?” they kept asking themselves.

Finally, they called in experts.

The first expert said, “There’s no such thing as tiny people.”

Obviously, there was.

The second expert informed them they had a human infestation. The humans travelled interdimensionally using beanstalks for some unfathomable reason. So Mr. and Mrs. Giant had pulled up all their beans, never to plant interdimensional beanstalks in their garden again. They would just have to buy theirs in the supermarket.

Jack reached the top of the beanstalk.

There was no giant.

There was no gold.

There was only what you would expect on a giant beanstalk.

Giant beans.

“Dammit!” Jack said. “I hate beans.”

He returned home sad that he had no gold.

But even sadder that his mother was right.

And even though he hated beans he started a very successful company called Jack’s Giant Baked Beans.

Like he always knew he would.

It was the very reason he hated beans.

It was his purpose.

He had seen it in his cow.

Sinus

He walked into the plane with dread filling his heart.

he knew he was in for a world of pain.

This would not be easy.

This would test him and his abilities.

He did not fear death.
He feared the pressure in his blocked sinuses.

He was concerned enough that he had taught himself how to massage his own face.

He was not sure he was very good at it.
Then again, he had a terrible teacher.

In the plane he sat quietly, and massaged.

He felt like it was helpful, until it wasn’t. It wasn't helpful quite quickly.

But then it was slightly helpful again.

So he continued, encouraged.

And as the plane rose and the pressure increased, he found himself fighting to keep up and keep his sinuses free.

He massaged more and more vigorously

His fingers found the pressure points and he pressed down intensely.

But he was calcium deficient.

CRACK

He broke the front of his skull, his face.

Like the top of a crème brûlée.

He was confused and didn't know how to feel. On one hand he broke his face, on the other hand, crème brûlée.

He was in excruciating pain.

His face slipped slowly downwards and hung loosely by his skin.

Blood poured everywhere. Ironically out his nose.

But he was relieved. He was happy. His sinuses were finally draining.

Florence NightingPudding

She glided through the night. Her footsteps soft, gentle, but purposeful. Her dress billowed calmly behind her. The scent of apples wafted from her person. Oleander adorned her hair. As she walked, she seemed to glow in the soft light of her lamp lighting her path.

And everywhere she went she brought with her a peace that was unfamiliar but welcome in an environment of destruction.

She was surrounded by war.

Surrounded by blood.

Surrounded by death.

But she remained pristine. Somehow she remained untouched by the fight. Not just her clothes but her spirit too remained unscarred.

And she tended to the injured.

She walked among the hurt and the dying stopping often to extend a healing hand. She tended to wounds, spoke kind words of care, and calmed restless and disturbed minds.

Many took comfort in her passing, just knowing that she was among them was enough.

And every so often she offered an unusual kindness to the dying.

She offered pudding.

She sat down next to the man.

His wounds were severe.

She saw his labored breathing, and his winces of pain.

She took his hand and spoke her kind words and he relaxed.

“Would you like some pudding?” she asked.

“That would be nice.” He managed to whisper.

She reached into her hefty bag and brought out a pudding, and a spoon.

And with extreme care, she slowly helped him eat.

“Chocolate? It is good.” He said.

“Thank you.” she replied.

And when they were finished, he said “Thank you”.

“You’re welcome.” She replied. “Now rest.”

She stayed with him a little longer. Holding his hand as he struggled to breathe. Comforting him.

Slowly he slipped away.

And she watched as his breathing stopped. A tear running down her face.

It never got easier.

She returned that night to her tent and washed away the trials of the day.

But she still had work to do.

She began to make pudding. It was now one of her rituals that helped bring her peace.

She toiled away in the light of her lamp, a bowl of apples in the corner lending her their refreshing scent.

And when finally she was finished she went to her bed and removed a wooden box from under it.

Carefully, like it was the most precious thing in the world, she gingerly placed in its velvet cushion a small crystal bottle.

Her now almost empty bottle of cyanide.

That night as she dreamed she sighed in her sleep, “I need more apples.”

Back with a Bhang

Cee put on her oldest white top.

“This will do nicely” she thought to herself.

She was going over to her friends to play Holi.

It was just next door.

She didn’t have to worry about carrying a change.

She’d just come home and bathe and head back for lunch.

The festivities ensued.

The air, and subsequently, people, was filled with water, colour and other questionable things.

Music was played, screams were screamed and overall fun was had.

Bhang was made and consumed in small quantities.

Cee had never tried bhang. She knew it to be something alcohol like.
It wasn’t. She would realise this later.

She consumed the allotted amount and waited a short while.

She decided that it was not potent enough for one of her usual levels of consumption.

She had some more.

Nope.

She had some more again.

Nope.

Giving up, she continued with the festivities. Colour, screaming, water, and stuff up noses.

Then it was time for cleaning up before lunch.

The horde moved towards the bathrooms.

She went towards her own bathroom… at home.

“I’m so glad we’re neighbours” she thought to herself.

At home in the safety of her bathroom she undressed. She stepped into the shower and turned on the water.

That’s when the universe exploded.

Stars and diamonds and rubies and unicorns and fairies and cake.

Her body was a lump of cement and she sat on the floor.

But her head, it was magic.

Her mind travelled on far and wondrous journeys across galaxies and universes flitting like a butterfly here and there and returning for some semblance of sanity before flitting off across more oceans of starlight.

She had a purpose, she could see far into the distance, but she was wandering, and would return only in the fullness of time.

“This is what Gandalf felt like” her brain remarked offhandedly.

When her mind came together like cookie dough, she managed to clean herself up, stumble out of the shower and lie on the bed in her towel to pass into the next world.

An hour later the universe reassembled itself and all was well in the world.

“Wow, bhang is something. I must be more careful in the future” she thought to herself.

She went back over for lunch as she was ravenous.

She walked into the house as she usually did and said “Where’s the food! Did you guys start without me?”

Then she noticed no one was around. Her neighbour looked at her oddly.

“Cee, Holi was yesterday. We wondered where you had gone to.”

The implications of his statement struck her and as she realised she lost a whole day all she could do was stare at him with tears in her eyes and say:

“But…..??..... What about LUNCH????”

Souls!

He walked down the road.

Dreaming, staring at the trees, singing to himself a tune that came from nowhere.

Strangers passing by were confused.

But he didn’t notice. On he went oblivious.

He seemed happy, but he was pondering serious things.

Like truth, meaning and what that craving would be best satisfied by.

Step, step, high notes, step, step, low notes, step, step, stare, stare, step, step, deep pondering, step, step, jazz hands

Needless to say, he was a strange man.

“SOULS!” She screamed, jumping out at him seemingly from nowhere!

“SOULS!” She screamed again, a terrifying bone chilling scream, a mad look in her eye as she stared at him knowingly.

He recoiled in shock.

One, because she was screaming.

Two, because she was pointing at him ominously.

Three, because she was screaming about Souls, and really, hardly anyone does that nowadays.

He was shaken. No one had even screamed at him like that before.

No one had ever blatantly questioned the purity of his soul.

They had, however, questioned his cooking, and his hygiene, but not his soul.

He thought about his sins. All the horrible things he had done. And he was filled with shame and dread.

He hurried away, but her voice echoed in his mind long after that.
He went to confession, yet again, trying to relieve himself of the guilt.

It did not change much.
What is forgiven is already forgiven.

But as he left the church a strange question entered his mind, “Souls? Why plural?”
And he was plunged into further confusion.

She wandered the streets, diligently performing the task that was set to her.

She chose those that needed it, and she screamed at them in her terrifying voice, “SOULS!”

They all hurried away.

But her voice remained with them and they all re-evaluated their lives.

But she was never satisfied.

She continues to this day, searching for weary people, in obvious pain, and trying to sell them insoles.