The baby screamed for so long
its head exploded.
Her parents laughed as fellow diners
pulled teeth and bits of tongue out of their bowls of pasta.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Consideration
Reply
Author Archives: carltellstales
Backstage regret
As he sat backstage,
staring at the bloodied stumps
that were once his fully functioning fingers,
Ian, Basingstoke’s second best pianist,
began to seriously regret the bet he made with his housemate.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Like shooting fish in a barrel
But it’s just not fair, whined Michael Fish,
staring into his cup of tea.
We all get hate mail, Fishy, said Sir Trevor McDonald dismissively
as he slurped his raspberry and cherry Slush Puppy.
Moira Stuart nodded and ordered her
second Twister ice lolly.
But they’re blaming me for this heat wave, Michael moaned.
It makes no sense! One said:
‘this is your biggest cock up since the Great Storm of ’87.’
Another called me a ‘boring, bald bastard’.
What should I do?
I dunno, scoffed Sir Trevor. I guess you could always grow a pair?
Moira Stuart high-fived the Knight of the realm
as Michael’s chin began to quiver.
NEWS JUST IN! exclaimed Sir Trevor.
Semi-retired meteorologist has no back bone…
And now for the weather.
Moira Stuart cackled as Michael openly wept;
his tears finally putting an end to the
ongoing drought.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Five stages
5:00pm
“It’s OK” said Max, sipping on some wine.
“They only did it three times, we’ll be fine.”
5:15pm
“What a bitch, sleeping with that bastard Rick!”
“I’d love to slap them both,” growled Max. “They make me sick.”
5.30pm
“Oh God, I would do anything.” Max cried.
“How can I win her back? What haven’t I tried?”
5.45pm
“I had dreams of kids and her as my wife.
“This is a nightmare,” sighed Max. “What’s the point of life?”
6:00pm
“Oh well,” said Max, now blushing slightly red.
“Can’t blame her really; Rick was ace when I had him in bed.”
© Carl Burkitt 2013
I’d wish you a wonderful somethingday
for Alicia
If I knew you loved The King’s Speech,
I’d wish you a wonderful Firthday.
If I knew you loved Western Australia,
I’d wish you a wonderful Perthday.
If I knew you loved the planet,
I’d wish you a wonderful Earthday.
If I knew you loved a wide set penis,
I’d wish you a wonderful Girthday.
But all I know is you like shit jokes,
so here’s to a punderful Birthday!
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Just one more thing
Before I reach one hundred years
I wish to do just one more thing:
Not write a book or learn to sing,
not taste one thousand different beers,
not fix those rusty garden shears,
or even punch that plonker, Sting.
Before I reach one hundred years
I wish to do just one more thing:
Nothing daft like conquering fears
or working out the length of string.
I wish to tell you everything;
then drink up all your pain and tears
Before I reach one hundred years.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Dear Arnold
Dear Arnold,
I hope this letter finds you swimmingly and that you got home without trouble on Friday.
Peter informs me that you organised my taxi before you left, which got me safely to my front door, so for that I would like to say thank you.
Wasn’t the music good? I haven’t seen a harpist with fingers as deft and agile for years. She brought back memories of the Royal Albert Hall. Do you remember that night? The debut of your baby blue dickie bow. 26 years ago and I can still taste the cherry sorbet we had on the walk through the park, discussing the music we’d have our first dance to.
Look, I feel I need to explain what happened.
I arrived at Peter’s place around 5.30pm with the intention of helping to set up for the party, as Amanda was away for the weekend, as you know. But in true Peter style he hired the full works. Outside caterer. Staff. Cleaners. Musicians. The lot. Again as you know. So there wasn’t much use for me.
As the weather was good, Peter suggested we sit out on the veranda sipping champagne. We chatted about the past, the future and righted wrongs. The caterers had the most succulent Belgian chocolate covered cherries, so we nibbled our way through those as we emptied one and a half bottles of champagne and, the devil that he is, a couple of glasses of 40-year-old brandy from Peter’s cabinet for good measure.
When 7.30pm rolled around and guests began to arrive, I was in, what can only be described as, an unfit state. Once again, as you know.
As I had been there for a while I think I decided to play hostess. I welcomed guests and took coats and no doubt made an arse of myself; prancing around like a kept woman in a manor house, desperate for any kind of outside attention.
There wasn’t a single face I didn’t recognise and it was great to be part of the crowd again. Derrick, Sandra, Harold, Mindy, Marjorie. And of course, your brother Charles. From what I can gather, people shared my joy, and my drink was forever replenished. Margret, Betty and Eileen were in as good form as ever – although time is doing Eileen no favours – and refused to let me sit down; introducing me to their new Simons and Pauls and Marks.
The evening simply engulfed me. The food, the wine, the company, the wine, the chatter. It felt like the summers of old.
We soon made our way to the garden and the plinking and plonking of angelic strings soon washed me through the sea of black and white tuxes. The tide soon turned and I saw in the middle distance, by the blossom trees, a foggy mist surrounding a smiling, baby blue tie, calling me like a siren.
I answered the call and for that I’m sorry. And will be eternally sorry. Charles and I did not plan for you to see what you saw. We did not plan to do what you saw. But the unplanned thing that you sadly saw, did take place. Be it due to the evening, the drink, or just a lonely being searching for some vague sense of familiarity, I don’t know. But it happened.
If it helps, my knees are still sore and I feel positively revolting.
I’m too old and too tired to hold a grudge, Arnold, and I just pray that that’s the case for you too. I’m not expecting forgiveness, I’m not expecting friendship. I just didn’t want to leave it.
Yours,
Delilah
x
P.S. Peter told me that Sally seems nice. I do hope we get to meet.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Never meet your heroes
“Nope, the depo’s too small,” said Postman Pat.
“There’s simply no way you could swing my cat.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said with a smile.
“She won’t hit a thing, I’ll miss by a mile.”
With a nod from Pat, I picked up his pet,
determined to win the £10.00 bet.
With just one swing holding the tail of Jess
I quickly made a disgusting, foul mess.
As she hit the wall her brain exploded
and her spine snapped in half when her stomach imploded.
Clumps of soggy fur flew all over the floor,
and most of her innards splashed up the door.
Pat cried in despair as the room was plastered
in the blood and the guts of the black and white bastard.
I must admit, I felt pretty bad.
I never meant to make my one of my heroes sad.
But to my surprise
it wasn’t Jess’s death that upset him the most.
No. He couldn’t stop weeping
because there was poo on his post.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Always noticed
Like those around her,
she lost a limb;
the limb of time.
Our one-armed juggler,
our one-legged sprinter,
our one-eyed lighthouse keeper
her task is monstrous
and often thankless.
Like those missing something,
something vital,
she excels.
Our one fingered pianist,
our one-footed ballerina,
our one-fisted boxer
her efforts are breathtaking
and always noticed.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Seasons apart
There was a young, happy couple that appeared to have it all,
the girl was cute and bubbly, the boy was strong and tall.
Women often frowned at the girl’s sheer joy,
furious they missed out on such a perfect boy.
Whilst men would kick and curse and swear
that they couldn’t see the girl in her underwear.
Now on the surface this couple was ace,
but during the summer a struggle they did face.
You see, the girl, all sweet and pretty and fun,
was a bronzed, little angel who loved bathing in the sun.
But the boy, for rhyming purposes let’s call him Mark,
preferred winter months, hidden in the dark.
Mark was cursed with pale, pathetic, weak skin
and a single ray of light would boil his chin.
He just didn’t care about the benefits of vitamin D,
and would pray they could relax and simply watch TV.
But his sun-thirsty girlfriend, let’s call her Daisy,
loved being outside and thought Mark was just lazy.
On any bright day Mark would wake up and moan,
awaiting Daisy’s texts that would surely be on his phone.
Things like: “Hey there lazy, the sun’s finally shining,
get your shorts on, it’s time for picnic dining.”
More often than not he’d think of a lie;
a way to avoid it, without making her cry.
Things like: “Sorry darlin’, I’m on my way to see mum.”
She need not know he was at home on his bum.
This cat and mouse chase went on for months and days,
until a sun-kissed morn when Daisy wanted some rays.
It was 32 degrees and she was determined to go out,
so she stormed up to Mark’s and confronted the lout.
“Right then, Mark,” she delivered with a scream,
we’re going to the park, grab your sun cream.
Mark yelled and moaned, not once, twice, but thrice,
until Daisy kicked his shin and convinced him it’d be nice.
The young, happy couple lay for hours in the park,
Daisy was proud she’d persuaded stubborn Mark.
But as she opened her eyes to check on her fellow,
she was instantly sick and no longer mellow.
Instead of her boyfriend, who she wanted to cuddle,
lay a melted corpse; a kind of burnt, fleshy puddle.
Daisy wept and longed for her man,
until a bronzed, muscly bloke,
complimented her tan.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Carl tells tales 