Six years ago a gorgeous girl called Sam
Met a fun young chap by the name of Dan:

He went to Nottingham Trent and was cool and gritty
And had hilarious tales from the fabled Rock City;

He had decent hair and pretty sweet threads
And a badass nickname, the name of Pedz.

He loved football and Halo, he was a hell of a man
The lad from 104: as fit as a boy band.

Now the two fell in love relatively quickly
It’s a pairing that was just meant to be.

But half way through Dan’s 29th year
Everything seemed to step up a gear:

The couple relocated and bought a new home
They got new jobs and Dan proposed!

And as Pedz now enters his third whole decade
It’s safe to say a few other things have changed:

His bones are getting creaky – he’s more likely to get a stitch
So he’s waved goodbye to the old football pitch;

He’s swapped a beer for a whisky and is happy to leave the bar
For a nice comfy sofa and a big fat cigar.

But even when his hair disappears (without the use of clippers)
And he spends all his money on old man slippers,

Happily by his side will be a devoted, happy partner
Now until forever, his loving Mrs Garner.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Sam O’Melia: “It’s my boyfriend’s 30th birthday and I would love a poem. We have just relocated, got new jobs, bought a house and got engaged, all in six months! Something about that?”

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!

On the 8th January 1977
a lucky man called Steve thought
he’d died and gone to heaven,
as he heard the words “I do”
from his young love called Helen.

Yet as she shone in her dress
who would have guessed
that she’d grow to love all things tacky,
and set him countless chores
like a kind of DIY lackey.

Lucky for Steve, he loved DIY!
Yet he wasn’t always great at it,
the clumsy old guy…
Like when he tried to paint the landing
and poured the whole tin on himself.
If you gave that man a drill,
he’d be a danger to his health!

Together they’ve seen it all,
from dawn to nightfall:
There’s been laughter and smiles
and a host of hairstyles.
They’ve got a gorgeous family
in Amy and Nicki
and, leaving the best ’til last,
the handsome chap Archie.

Helen and Steve’s happy journey
is nowhere near its end,
and like a car getting smoother
going up its gears,
so will this couple’s love
just like the first 40 years.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Amy Burkitt: “Looking for a present for Mum and Dad’s 40th Anniversary. Dad loves DIY, Mum likes anything tacky. They love our dog Archie. Maybe more than me and my sister Nicki!”

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!

The man read a book a week and was rarely moved.
But this particular book left him in tears.

It was a book unlike any he’d ever read,
for four very simple reasons:

1) It contained words
2) It was overwhelmingly sexually explicit
3) It was an autobiography
4) It was written by his mother

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Dave Slack: No brief was set. Dave donated £10 and left the comment “I read a book a week, so don’t need a story.”

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!

Terence lost his sunglasses. He was fuming.

Not only because he lost his favourite pair of tinted specs, but because he knew how everyone would react. They were so predictable.

“Haha,” they’d say. “Even if you do find them, how will you reach your head to put them on!?” He’d heard the same tired “joke” ever since he got those sunglasses.

“I’m not the first T-Rex to own sunglasses, you know!” he’d yell. “Do you really think I’ve not worked out how to put them on?!”

Sure, it was a struggle – his tiny arms making it almost impossible – but his Dad had spent a whole summer a couple years back teaching Terence to flick them up off the floor with his claws and thrust his face into the flying shades.

However that didn’t matter right now, because he couldn’t find the sodding things. And my word it was a bright day.

Bored of unsuccessfully fumbling around on the ground, he decided to suck up his pride and ask the locals if they’d seen them.

After about 10 minutes of wandering about the uncharacteristically quiet island, squinting as he went, Terence stumbled into something.

“Christ!” came a voice. “Watch where you’re going, mate.”

“Sorry,” said Terence, only just making out the Triceratops. “I can’t see a thing, it’s so brig…wait, what’s a Christ?”

“I don’t know, get off my foot!”

“Sorry. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a pair of sunglasses? They’re my favourite pair and I can’t find them anywhere.”

“No, I can’t help you. Now move – I’ve got to go.” And off the Triceratops jogged.

Blimey, thought Terence, what’s he in a rush for?

“And how would you put them on anyway?!” laughed the Triceratops from afar.

“Piss off!” yelled Terence.

Another 20 minutes of desperate shuffling in the sun went by without a single sighting of his sunglasses or another soul.

“Move it biggun!” came a squeak from below.

“Yeah, move it biggun!” came another squeak.

Terence froze as what felt like a million lizards scampering all over his feet. He hated lizards. But he loved his sunglasses. So instead of running away, he crouched down to the ground. “Have any of you seen some sunglasses on your travels? I’ve lost my favourite pair.”

“Nope,” said one.

“Nope,” said another.

“Nope,” said another.

“How would you even reach to put them on!” said another.

A million laughs trickled into Terence’s frustrated ears before he was all alone again.

“Lost something?” came a distant voice.

“Who said that?” said a startled Terence, unable to spot the voice’s owner.

“Up ‘ere” said the Pterodactyl.

Terence looked up, the brightness of the sky becoming uncomfortably overwhelming. “I can’t find my sunglasses. Have you seen them?”

“Certainly have!”

“Really?!” beamed Terence.

“Nah” laughed the Pterodactyl. “Good luck getting them on your massive head with those shitty little arms! I’m off. And so should you be!”

Terence collapsed on the floor in tears. Why won’t anyone help me, he thought. Am I that horrible? All I want is my sunglasses. Is that too much to ask?

In a blind rage Terence screamed at the top of his lungs and smashed his face on the floor. As he sat back upright he felt something trickle off the top of his head and land on his foot. He squinted down to see his sunglasses. They were on his head the entire time.

To say he blushed is an understatement. But who cares, he thought. I’ve got my sunglasses! He remembered back to that wonderful summer with his Dad and balanced the glasses on his claws, flicked them up to the perfect height and thrusted his face into them. They felt absolutely perfect.

He was delighted. His eyes relaxed into the shades as he took in the ground, the trees, and the gorgeous flowers. He looked out to the horizon and felt calm.

Terence lay on the floor and watched as the bright, burning sky smashed into the island – killing him instantly.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Greg Smart: “A T-Rex who’s lost his sunglasses.”

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!

Jimmy was nervous about his new job.
He’d always found first days difficult.
He over-thought everything.
He analysed every single thing he did and everything he saw.
And this day was no different.
He did everything he possibly could to make sure it ran smoothly.
He polished his shoes.
He bought a brand new suit and got it pressed. Twice.
He styled his hair three times and settled on the side parting.
He wore his Granddad’s lucky cufflinks.
He tied his tie in a classy Windsor knot.
He ate nothing spillable for breakfast.
He got a taxi to the office two hours early and waited patiently.
When his new colleagues arrived, he shook every hand.
No hugs.
He smiled widely, but not too widely.
He limited his small talk.
He kept his questions friendly, but professional.
He repeated everyone’s names to commit them to memory.
He warmed to them straight away:
They kept eye-contact in a way he’d never experienced before.
They were polite, but didn’t talk too much.
They seemed focused on work.
It was refreshing.
He was given few tasks so diligently read up on the organisation.
He ate lunch alone, but looked happy doing so.
He signed himself up for the softball team and played down his throwing arm.
He offered to make drinks, but everyone politely declined.
He sent a jolly company-wide email thanking everyone for a nice day.
He limited the number of jokes to two.
He said goodbye to everyone on the way out:
The cleaner, his team, the receptionists, the CEO.
He was pleased with his performance.
When his wife met him for a celebratory drink
And told him his penis was hanging out of his broken flies,
He felt embarrassed,
But pleased he’d finally managed to have at least one good day at work.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Jason Mathias: “I started a new job the other day. They gave me £5.00 and said ‘do something good with it and present back next week’. Can you write me a story about starting a new job for me to read out and I’ll donate the fiver to you.”

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!

“Surprise me,” she said. “Let your imagination run wild.”

It’s been nearly a year since Clark Hud heard those words. £14,000, a missing ring finger, one dead dog and a funeral later, Hello Magazine‘s Sandy Loy meets the star of what’s been billed the most unlucky episode of Don’t Tell the Bride yet.

“We’d always been an adventurous couple,” says Clark as he polishes off the last of his Roast Beef Monster Munch. “But this was one adventure we bit off more than we could chew.” Clark chuckles at his pun, before looking at the space his ring finger used to occupy.

I quickly change the subject and ask him why they applied for Sky 1‘s wedding reality show.

“A free wedding,” he says, almost staring a hole through me. “Not only did she… we like to do stuff none of our friends had ever done, I… we were chuffing skint. Proper, proper skint. Penelope’s thirst to get up to mischief meant by the time I proposed, we had nothing. But she wasn’t prepared to wait around.”

So this was Penelope’s decision, I ask. “Everything was Penelope’s decision! I mean, well I was intrigued by it, but I was also up for getting a steady job to save up for a traditional wedding. Before I could suggest that, I was in front of TV people making up nonsense about the theme of our wedding and what kind of dress I thought she’d like.

“Since being in the show I’ve spoken to fellow survivors and they all said their bride completely briefed them beforehand. ‘Surprise me,’ she said. ‘Let your imagination run wild.’”

Clark begins to well up. “I tried my best. Her dad always had pitbull’s growing up. Of course he did. He said they were easy to train. I swear, I swear I’d heard her say she always wanted some at her wedding. I’d spent all of the money at that point. It was the producer that found the ‘trainer.’”

I hand Clark a tissue as he scoffs, blows his nose and rubs his stump. “I was happy for them just to be at the door, or something, you know? But there’s just so many decisions to make. Flower colours. Honeymoon destination. Stag and Hen parties. Guest list. Chair covers. Chair covers? You barely seem them when a fat arse is on them.

“I never expected them to be the ring bearers. By the time Penelope was walking down the aisle, it was too late. I don’t blame my ushers, but I’m confident I could’ve held on to the chains tighter than they did. She… she should’ve kept the veil on.”

Clark erupts into tears and leaves the room, yelling: “Pitbull’s hate sudden movements. She knew that!”

Don’t Tell the Bride producers were unavailable for comment, but have previously rejected all claims of manslaughter.

The murder case of Penelope Rich continues.

Return next week as Sandy Loy speaks to controversial pitbull breeder, Barry Muttdance.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Daisy Vickers: “Surprise me. Let your imagination run wild.”

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!