Dearest sister,

Have you ever met an average male human? Are they ugly? Do they have something wrong with them?

As you know I’ve always been a nervous traveller and, unlike you, have yet to leave the forest let alone jump the water, so I’ve not seen one myself.

I’ve heard rumours that some have hairy faces and backs, and that if they eat too much they let out a stench.

When Maggie went to the other side of the stream for a family holiday in the park, she said she saw one hit a female human in the face with his hand.

Apparently their hands are quite strange too. Maggie said the male human she saw had dirty, podgy fingers and that they didn’t have pretty colours on them like the female human fingers did. And once he’d finished hitting her, he gave her a cuddle and fed her bread. He didn’t even wash his fingers! We may live in a forest, but Rupert and I wash before every meal. It’s just good manners.

Not that it matters anymore.

Oh sister, how I wish you were here.

I’m sorry if it seems I only write to you with troubles, but I ask if you’ve met an average human male before because for the third time in the space of, what, two years now, I’ve lost a boyfriend to a female human. Why must their females come to our homes and steal our partners, our lovers, our soul mates? Why do they not stick to their own?

When it happened with Tod and Freddie, yes I was sad, but I got over them quite quickly. They were both rotten boys. I never felt love, affection or even a dash of commitment from them. No matter how many kids we had, I was always looking over my shoulder. I’m much better off without those two.

But Rupert? Not Rupert.

Sweet, sweet Rupert.

I can’t do without Rupert.

You never met Rupert, and for that I’ll be forever sorry. His jokes and stories would have floored you. He’s seen the world, like you, but he was happy making a home, a loving home, with me.

I’d regularly ask whether he would have preferred to keep travelling, hopping from place to place, seeing more of the world, and he’d always just snuggle up to me and whisper: “I’ve seen the world, now I have it right beside me.”

Oh sweet, sweet Rupert.

I’ll try to describe him to you but I fear my efforts will be below par, as the words of which to paint the picture of Rupert are yet to be invented.

The first thing that struck me about Rupert were his eyes. They swallowed all he saw and I soon fell into them. He had a healthy thirst for the new. That’s not to say he’d disregard the old, far from it. Rupert embraced life and intoxicated those around him.

His tongue was a thing of wonder. I wish not to get too graphic, but the things he did with it still make me tremor. The lengths to which it could stretch never failed to baffle me.

Oh sweet, sweet Rupert.

How I miss his skin, his soft, supple skin pressed against mine, his breath intoxicating me. His strong, powerful legs. I’d often just sit and stare at his legs. They gave him the spring in his step, the platform to provide food for me and my family.

And that’s what I’ll miss the most, sister: Rupert’s kindness. To me and to my children. He saw us as an extension of himself and would fight off any danger, big or small, to keep us fit and healthy. He was a great father, I’m just saddened that I never got to mother any of his own.

We’d planned to have kids, you see. We had it all figured out, until the incident took place.

It was a nice morning so Rupert and I decided to have a day out together, just the two of us. Love was very much in the air, as true as the sun was in the sky.

After a quick nibble I nestled in the grass and watched Rupert splash about in the stream. The sound of him giggling as the fish tickled his feet washed over me like a dream and I closed my eyes.

Oh sister, how I wish I never closed my eyes as when I awoke I was presented with my nightmare.

Stood in front on me was a female human. She had hair like a weeping willow, drooping down her elegant spine, with a cluster of shiny diamonds sitting on top. Her backside was just as pert as her bosom, whilst her lips, her damned lips, were pressed against those of Rupert who rested comfortably in her hand.

After a moment Rupert burst into a thousand rays of light. The glow shone like the halo that hovered above his head throughout our relationship, until he was no longer himself. He was a hundred times taller. He was a hundred miles away. The man of my dreams was now the man of the female human’s.

As they walked away, hand in hand, Rupert turned his giant, alien head my way. His eyes were different, but they swallowed me all over again as he mouthed a word I didn’t understand and then disappeared forever.

Sister, I am lost. I am green with envy and I fear for my heart.

Visit soon.

Forever yours,

Lilly P.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The following is a true story…

At the weekend my six-year-old nephew and I were watching the TV show Horrible Histories.

After finding out lots of fun information about the olden times, there was a brief reference to grave robbing.

I looked over at my nephew, whose brow was furrowed. You could tell he knew what the two words alone were, but not together.

There was a long silence and then:

NEPHEW: Uncle Carl…
ME: Yep?
NEPHEW: What’s grave robbing?

I couldn’t lie, it wouldn’t be fair.

ME: It’s exactly how it sounds.
NEPHEW: What, so people rob graves?
ME: That’s right. More so in the past.
NEPHEW: But, but why?
ME: Well, as you’ve seen from watching this show before, the world was very different long ago. Whilst we were learning how to live with each other, as we still are, people would make mistakes. Years ago people were so, so poor they would do naughty things sometimes just to make sure them and their children could eat. Like grave robbing. They would dig the grave up and pinch any jewellery or watches that may be inside. It wasn’t very nice, but it doesn’t happen that much now.

NEPHEW: OK, I understand. Thank you, Uncle Carl.
ME: That’s OK.
NEPHEW: Uncle Carl…
ME: Yep?

NEPHEW: Did the grave robbers ever dig up the graves just to see their friends one last time?

My heart melted before I kissed his head.

ME: Yeah, sometimes.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

When I opened the door to the toilet cubicle, the dead man’s body was slumped in the corner: his arms behind his back, his right leg cocked over the basin.

I rifled through his pockets but they were empty, someone obviously got there before me.

I peered around the man’s urine stained coffin for traces of his life, who he was, why he was here, but the vultures had picked his bones. He was no use to me.

As I turned to leave, I was surprised to see his phone lying face down on the floor, presumably locked, underneath his left knee. I picked it up, shaking off a few specks of watery vomit, and tried switching it on. A set of deep blues eyes and bloated pink lips looked at me as I pressed a button.

I looked at the man, then back at the woman’s face; an on screen marking of territory pissing all over the corpse at my feet. She was his. He was hers.

I shut the door. He was now mine.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

For six years the boy and the girl held hands as they walked home from primary school; at first with their mothers, then eventually as a pair.

Every day they would stop and tickle the ginger cat that patrolled the nearby alley; skim stones along the river; run past the play park where the local bullies hung out and sit together on the hilltop bench that overlooked their separate streets, before waving goodbye.

In their final week, before breaking up for the summer and preparing to start different secondary schools to each other, the boy didn’t turn up; leaving the girl to walk home alone.

On the Monday the girl saw the ginger cat get hit and killed by a car. On the Tuesday the girl slipped on the river bank and fell into the water. On the Wednesday the girl was dragged into the play park and punched and kicked by the local bullies. On the Thursday a rain cloud opened above the hilltop bench, waving goodbye to what little happiness remained inside the girl.

On the Friday the boy turned up.

“Where on Earth have you been?!” cried the girl, bedraggled and betrayed. She looked at his wrists to see they were covered in soft, white bandages. “What have you done?” she snapped.

“I chopped my hands off,” the boy said. “I couldn’t bear to wave goodbye to you today.”

The girl smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes. She hooked her arm around what was left of the boy’s and said: “I guess I’ll just have to settle for a farewell stroll.”

© Carl Burkitt 2013

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