Dot Cotton appeared on the TV, halfway through an episode of Eastenders.

“There’s only one Dot Cotton!” sang Jimmy. “One Dot Cooootton-”

“Shut up Jimmy,” said Debbie.

“There’s only one Dot Cotton!”

“I’m trying to watch this, Jimmy!”

“ONE DOT COTTON! THERE’S ONLY ONE DOT COTTON!”

“Jimmy!”

“ONE DOT COOOOTTON-”

The scene with Dot Cotton ended as the TV was filled with a bunch of Mitchells. Jimmy stopped singing.

“She’s such a legend,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah, she’s alright,” said Debbie. “Now shut up!”

“Alright? ALRIGHT? Debbie, she’s an absolute icon. Ever since she appeared in episode 40 on 4th July 1985, Dorothy Cotton – officially Dot Branning after her wedding to Jim Branning, Rest In Peace – she’s been a staple of British culture.”

“Yeah, I know, sshh-”

“Seriously. The ups and downs that woman’s had over the years. The terrible, oppressive, cheating ex-husband of hers, a diagnosis of kidney cancer, finding an abandoned baby at church, the moral quandary of her best friend Ethel asking Dot to assist her with euthanasia, the loss of countless loved ones…”

“Yeah, tough-”

“And that’s not even mentioning being constantly let down by her violent, insidious, villainous son Nick! All she does is love and love and love that horrible little sod and he’s forever threatening, intimidating and letting her down.”

“Yep. I’m really trying to wat-”

“Plus, she’s an absolute stunner.”

“Yeah. Wait. What?”

“She’s absolutely bloody gorgeous.”

“Well, yeah, I guess for 82-”

“Nah, Debbie, for any age. Love me some Dot Cotton!”

Dot Cotton re-entered the scene.

“THERE’S ONLY ONE DOT COTTON!” sang Jimmy. “ONE DOT COOOOTTON-”

Debbie turned the channel over to a re-run of the previous night’s Coronation Street. 78-year-old Ken Barlow was talking to a friend.

“PHOAR,” said Jimmy. “THERE’S ONLY ONE KEN BARLOW. ONE KEN BAAAARLOW!”

Debbie tip-toed out of the house, deciding to give Jimmy “a little space”.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Will: “Anything, just as long as you include one Dot Cotton…”

This piece was written as a part of a fundraising project for Rethink Mental Illness, where I’m inviting people to set me any writing brief in exchange for donations.

Read all of the details here and if you’d like to get involved, email ca.burkitt@gmail.com or Tweet @CarlBurkitt!

When Edith’s husband died so too did her safety net. At the ripe old age of 85, she was left alone in Slough staring into the face of her unlived dreams.

After a glass of sherry and an evening of soul-searching Edith, armed only with her favourite book of wildlife photography and a tear in her eye, moved to New Zealand.

The flight was gruelling. The train was a disaster. The taxi was stuffy. But once she reached her fantasy home, nothing mattered.

It was everything she’d ever wanted.

She was blown away by the silence of her surroundings. She couldn’t believe her eyes as the mountains rolled, the trees swayed and the sun grinned like they were showing off for a brochure. And when the wildlife made itself known to her, Edith was positively giddy.

The Long-tailed Bats had her smiling from ear to ear. The Kiwis caught her cooing with delight. The Geckos saw her skipping with glee.

But when she saw the peculiar Kakapo with its owl-like face and podgy parrot body, she was completely taken by it.

I mean literally. She was literally taken by a Kakapo.

Within roughly five minutes of landing in her new life, the local giant Kakapo plodded along and grabbed her. Being the world’s only flightless parrot, the Kakapo was forced to engulf Edith in its massive wings and drag her up the nearest cliff. After 45 minutes of this torture, the bird reached the 100 foot peak and chucked her off the edge.

Splat.

Done.

Dead.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Erin Bolens: “Could I have a little New Zealand related something? I’m particularly taken by the Kakapo (owl parrot).”

This piece was written as a part of a fundraising project for Rethink Mental Illness, where I’m inviting people to set me any writing brief in exchange for donations.

Read all of the details here and if you’d like to get involved, email ca.burkitt@gmail.com or Tweet @CarlBurkitt!

Donald Trump was knackered. But he couldn’t fall asleep.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since about late January, to be honest, but this night was a particularly difficult night.

Rather the writhe around in bed, he decided to get up and go for a wander around the White House. He loved the White House. His favourite bit was probably how white it was. Even at night. ‘No matter how much it tries,’ he thought. ‘The black night just can’t take over the beautifully white old White House.’

Donald was always surprised how quiet the White House was at night. He missed all the noise. ‘It’s just not as fun with no one to shout over,’ he thought. But he still managed to find his own fun during his blurry late-night adventures.

More often than not he’d head to the corridor filled with portraits of every former President of the United States of America. He loved sticking two fingers up at Abraham Lincoln and kissing Richard Nixon. Some nights he’d build a little wall of pillows in front of Obama’s painting and giggle as he nibbled on a burrito.

On this night, though, he just stuck to the classic move of poking his penis out of his dressing gown and screamed the Star-Spangled Banner. As he reached the final line, he heard a cough from behind him. Donald turned – his swinging ballbag shrivelling from the movement – and froze as he saw what looked like himself staring back at him.

Donald instinctively spat at the intruder, convinced it was a previously unnoticed mirror. He rubbed his exhausted eyes as the globule of phlegm didn’t hit glass, but instead connected with the forehead of a very real, albeit waxy-looking, Trump.

“Who are you?!” barked Donald.

The waxy-looking Trump nodded in the direction of Donald’s own portrait on the wall, revealing nothing but a silhouette of a man in a glassless frame.

“What the…?” tried Donald, as the painting of himself grabbed his shoulders. “Get off me! You’re not real!”

The painting dragged Donald towards the frame as he continued to scream. “Let go of me, you fraud! You alien! You may look like me, but you’re no President dammit! Get off me!”

Ignoring every word, the painting picked Donald up and slotted him in to the gaping hole of the portrait.

“You can’t do this!” yelled Donald. “The people voted!”

The painting slid the glass back on to the frame, silencing Donald Trump, before turning its back and walking out of the White House.

Donald Trump looked at his new, painted surroundings, rubbed his eyes for a final time and fell asleep.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Seb Baird: “I’d like a story about Donald Trump wandering around the White House at night where he encounters a surprising character.”

This piece was written as a part of a fundraising project for Rethink Mental Illness, where I’m inviting people to set me any writing brief in exchange for donations.

Read all of the details here and if you’d like to get involved, email ca.burkitt@gmail.com or Tweet @CarlBurkitt!