Anna loved nothing more than a good old sun tan.
Even if the weather was bad she’d have a gorgeous
orange complexion by using all the snazzy sprays on the market.
On her last holiday, she lathered herself in vegetable oil and headed straight to the beach.
Unfortunately she passed out through heat exhaustion and remained unconscious for four days.
She’s now back in England with
third degree burns
and looks like a Pepperami.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Last night, by myself, I watched the film ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’
Because my girlfriend’s celebrating our four year anniversary with her six best friends in Croatia.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
For four years now you’ve wanted my legs;
their length and stride impressing you.
Sure, I can skip over tall skyscrapers
and could be used as a bridge
for all kinds of capers,
but I fear the beauty of your pins, your pegs,
your magic pocket legs,
are something you haven’t thoroughly thought through:
Remember the time we hung out in the fridge,
daring each other
to run through the butter?
Well I went first, breathing in through my nose,
but my huge feet squashed the tub,
smearing Lurpak all over my toes.
Then you giggled a giggle, did a sweet pirouette,
and glided across like a
butterfly mid- flutter.
How about the time, after years of hard work,
when we were chosen by NASA to explore
the vastness of space?
We had picnics in our rocket and
floated all day, but when it came to
bedtime my legs were in the way.
Rather than moan and kick me out of bed,
you created more space by curling up your legs
and sleeping inside your pillowcase.
What about the day we walked in the forest
and I accidentally crushed the Smurf village
and its people?
The noise was dreadful as things set on fire;
lots of men died
and poor old Smurfette just cried and cried.
But your tiny frame meant you were at their level,
so you helped calm them down and rebuild their town,
including a gorgeous church steeple.
And don’t forget that day when you
challenged me to a race;
requiring us both to be a jockey on small a black cat.
My awkwardly large legs got instantly tangled,
leaving me and the poor pussy
uncomfortably mangled.
Yet like a little Barbie doll, you sat astride your beast,
and darted the 100 metre distance in 10 seconds flat.
So whilst it’s true that my legs are both massive and long,
do you really wish yours were like these?
Because my clumsy limbs,
all gangly and thin,
leave me as agile as rigid oak trees.
I’d say it’s far more attractive to be lovely and small,
like plug sockets or wooden pegs,
because if you weren’t so small,
and were in fact quite tall,
you wouldn’t have your magic pocket legs.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Henry’s parents stood in his bedroom doorway, looking at what was left of their son.
The teen’s body was slumped directly in front of the blaring television, his eyes perfect squares.
His trousers hugged his ankles as his played-with penis, sliced cleanly from its home, lay on the floor beside him.
The wind continued to blow in the wrong direction as Henry’s face remained locked in an odd position.
Henry’s father stepped into the room, crouched beside his son and whispered: “I told you so.”
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Eric, the cherry blossom tree, looked proudly at his luscious branches. “Bloomin’ heck, summer’s comin’!” he said, chuckling.
“Mm,” said Jean, his wife.
“Do you get it?” asked Eric. “‘cos I’m, like, startin’ to bloom and that.”
“Yeah, I get it,” said Jean.
“Oh, right. You didn’t laugh so I guessed you didn’t twig…” chuckled Eric.
“Mm,” said Jean.
“Do you get it?” asked Eric. “‘cos we have twigs and that.”
“Yeah, I get it,” said Jean.
“Oh, right. You didn’t laugh but I guess you were just being a sap,” chuckled Eric.
Jean didn’t reply.
“Do you get it?” asked Eric. “‘cos we have sap inside of us and that.”
Jean stood silently.
“Do you get it? Huh? What’s the matter? Why you quiet? Soiled yourself or somethin’?” laughed Eric. “Do you get it? Soiled yourself-”
“For Christ’s sake, shut the hell up!” snapped Jean. “I didn’t laugh because you’ve been making the same sodding ‘jokes’ for the last 25 summers. I would just love for some peace and quiet in the sun. Is that too much to ask?!”
As Jean fumed and swore at Eric, a tennis ball flew into her, lodging itself in a cluster of branches.
“Oh my goodness, are you OK?” tried Eric.
“Yes, yes! Just leave me alone!” said Jean.
Eric stood in silence thinking of ways to cheer up his wife, but nothing came to mind. As he wracked his brains, he heard an awful racket coming from the ground and felt the sharp scratch of paws on his body. He looked down to see an angry dog staring back at him.
“Give me my ball back!” woofed the dog.
“I don’t have it,” said Eric.
“Give me my ball back!” woofed the dog as he began to bite Eric.
“I don’t have it,” pleaded Eric.
“Give me my ball back! Give me my ball back! Give me my ball back! Give me my ball back! Give me my ball back! Give me my ball back!” continued the dog as he started urinating all over Eric.
Jean looked on as her husband began weeping.
“Oi!” yelled Jean, dropping the ball to the floor. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate.”
The dog nodded, collected his ball and ran off as Eric howled with laughter.
“Hahahaha! Barkin’ up the wrong tree! Haha! Oh, thank you darlin’!” he said.
“That’s OK, Eric,” smiled Jean.
Eric chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t leaf me to fend for myself.”
“Shut up, Eric,” sighed Jean.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Samuel just adored his extensive stamp collection.
Days, weeks and months of love went into collecting them.
More often than not he’d just sit and look
At the old ones, new ones and Christmas novelty ones that lay in his book.
His favourite had drawings of Piglet and Winnie the Pooh,
No, wait! He also loved the Roald Dahl range and one with Dr Who!
Aargh, there were just too many from which to choose,
All he knew was there was not one he wished to lose.
One night Samuel’s mother saw him kissing the stamps on every page,
She thought it cute he’d found love at such a young age.
The next night, she caught him rubbing his willy on a Harry Potter stamp.
She grabbed the book, set it on fire and sent him off to boot camp.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
The world’s tallest man finally set up a date with the world’s shortest woman,
after two long years of talking online.
People laughed at this unlikely love story, but if she talked as sweetly as she typed
he knew they would be fine.
The world’s tallest man sat in the restaurant and slowly got drunk. They arranged to meet at six,
but it was now nine.
Furiously, he bent a teaspoon, just like that, settled his bill and screamed:
“She was supposed to be mine!”
As he kicked the door to leave, it sent the person behind it flying across the road,
crash landing on a double yellow line.
He approached the squashed, bloodied body and began to fear the worst:
“Oh Christ, is that you, Caroline?”
The world’s shortest woman, struggling to make out his far away face, uttered these final words,
before dying of a broken spine:
“I was here at six…
but I couldn’t reach the door handle.
I guess this was an unlikely love story,
my sweet Irvine.”
© Carl Burkitt 2013
As he dipped his Kat Kat finger deep into his gaping cup of milk, he shuddered at the memory of Michelle.
As he nibbled the end of the chocolatey shaft, he winced at the memory of Gabriella.
As he slid the whole thing down his throat, he smirked at the memory of Chantelle.
As he took the milk into his mouth and swallowed every drop, he nodded at the memory of Alexandra.
And as he stared at his empty cup, he bowed his head at the memory of his wife
and wondered how he could win her back.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
The week was a tough one for poor, stressed Ella.
The things she went through were like a downbeat novella.
First came the rain as she lost her umbrella,
Then big tummy pains caused by bad salmonella.
Her house was a state, like a run down favela,
She felt achy and old like Nelson Mandela.
Her workload was more frustrating than a broken patella,
She just wanted putting down, like rabid Old Yeller.
But before giving up and drinking a whole crate of Stella,
She received a call from her handsome, warm fella.
He said: “Listen to me, poor, stressed Ella,
You’re as beautiful as freshly bloomed prunella.
Things may look tough, my sweet Cinderella,
But you’ll get through this, and shine like Capella.”
© Carl Burkitt 2013
It was a nice day so Jonathan and Martha decided to do a spot of gardening.
As they walked towards the lawn a roof tile fell between them, smashing to the ground. They both craned their neck to see their 17-year-old daughter walking tentatively on the top of their house.
“Jesus Christ, Clare!” Jonathan yelled. “What are you doing?!”
“Getting my frisbee, Pa.” Clare replied.
“Get down!” Martha yelled.
“Sorry, Ma, I’ve been looking for this for months. I just spotted it up here as I was trampolining.”
“Clare, honey.” Jonathan said, calmly. “Please get down here.”
“Bet my fucking stupid brother threw it up here,” Clare mumbled, picking up the frisbee. “What a douche. He’s never liked me.”
“Clare!” Martha yelped. “Watch your language!”
“Not now, Martha.” Jonathan tried.
“And play nicely, your brother will be here soon.” Martha said.
“He’ll be what?!” Clare yelled, losing her footing as she turned to her mother. The tiles she was on sprayed out from under her, sending her sliding down the roof. She tried to grab the guttering as she flew off the side, but missed. Clare screamed for help, but nothing came. Her ribs bounced off the corner of the conservatory before she landed face first into the patio. Clare’s knees clobbered the ground as two sharp tiles followed her and smashed into her spine.
Jonathan and Martha remained rooted to where they were standing. After a few seconds, Clare began to stir. She slowly sat herself up, leant against the conservatory and examined her body. Her frisbee was still in her hand. Her skin was spotless. No scratches. No bruises. No blood. Her face was in one piece. Her ribs, knees and spine were pain-free. She felt fine.
Clare looked up at her parents. She began to panic as neither of them showed much concern. Clare bounced to her feet. “Why am I OK?” she asked nervously.
“Clare, honey.” Jonathan said, walking towards his daughter.
“Don’t ‘Clare, honey’ me. What’s going in? Why don’t you care I just fell from the roof?” Clare stared at her father. “Answer me!” she screamed.
Jonathan placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Clare yelled. She shoved Jonathan’s chest, sending him crashing through the back wall of the house, through the kitchen work surface and into the fridge. Martha ran through the hole in the wall to find her husband, lying on the floor with his brain falling out of his head.
“You’ve killed him!” Martha cried.
Clare’s chest began to pound as tears filled her eyes. She walked towards her mother. “What’s going on, Ma?”
Martha cradled Jonathan’s corpse. “You’re like your brother,” she whimpered.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re like Clark!” Martha yelled, her voice breaking. “You have powers like Clark!”
Clare froze. “But, but I thought I was your biological child?”
“We found you in the same place we found Clark, years later, and adopted you. We didn’t want to tell you until you were mature enough to handle your powers.” Martha kissed Jonathan’s lips, her tears splashing his blood-soaked face. “Clare, we’re sorry.”
Clare crouched to her knees and looked deep into her mother’s eyes. She gently kissed Martha’s head and whispered: “You should’ve told me.”
Martha leant in to hug her daughter as Clare plunged her fingers deep inside her mother’s chest, bursting her heart. She lay Martha’s body on top of Jonathan’s, wiping an S on her chest with her blood-stained hand.
The front door creaked open. “Honey, I’m home!” Clark laughed.
Clare looked at the frisbee that was still in her hand and braced herself for the fight of her life.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Carl tells tales 