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

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

We’d been sat silently beside one another on the rickety porch swing for five minutes, the sun beaming on us both.

I’d already finished telling Rose everything. I told her how I found him dying by the railroad tracks. I explained that he didn’t want her to be alone; that he’d asked me to tell her how to spend his bag of money, and that he was proud of their son. I reassured her that someone was there to witness his last breath and comforted her with his final words: “Give my love to Rose.”

Tears of condensation trickled down my glass of lemonade as Rose’s face remained dry.

“10 years is a long time to wait,” she said, staring intensely at the floor. “My goodbyes were said in the courthouse.”

Rose opened the bag of dusty dollar bills and grubby coins that sat on her thighs. She fingered the notes and gave a half smile: “Clothes, you say?”

“Only the prettiest,” I nodded.

A silence hung in the dry air as our eyes met properly for the first time. I began to undress Rose in my mind; removing her stained apron, greying, over-sized t-shirt and baggy torn jeans. I thought about taking her in the shower, cleaning her over-worked skin and dressing her in a thin, revealing, linen summer dress. The kind that would celebrate the curves she was graced with.

Rose’s gaze remained locked on mine. She gently pushed her hair behind her back, the sunlight kissing her neck. I could hear my heart thumping. Rose leant in closer to me, her sweet scent filling my nostrils. “10 years is a long time to wait,” she said, her eyes moistening.

I placed my palm on her left cheek, catching a teardrop with my thumb. “He’s right, what he said,” I whispered. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Rose smiled a warm smile as she brought her hand up to mine and said: “I’m not.”

The front door creaked open, slowly, and a 12 year-old head appeared from behind it. “Who’s this, mommy?” the boy said, tentatively.

Rose placed my hand back on my knee and shuffled across the porch swing. “This is Johnny,” she said, rubbing the dampness from her eyes. “He’s a friend of Daddy’s.” Rose patted the newly formed space between us. “Come and say hi.”

© Carl Burkitt 2013

This story was inspired by the lovely Johnny Cash song ‘Give My Love To Rose’.

“…and so that’s how I got telekinesis.”

She wasn’t listening. She just kept staring at my bulge.

I closed my eyes, focused my powers, and fired the buttons off my jeans into the pervert’s face.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

My goldfish won’t stop crying and it’s rather disconcerting. Especially when I have guests round. Like the other night, Alexander, you know, the one from the bakery, tall guy, dark skin, he came round for a couple of drinks and I cooked him a chicken salad, no dressing or carbs, I want to keep that body trim as much as he does. Well, we’d finished dinner, he’d told me stories of 4am starts to make tiger bread and finally explained to me why a baker’s dozen is 13 instead of 12 and I tried to care and pretend I wasn’t looking at his bulge whilst deciding if I was going to have sex with him that night or keep him waiting for another week as planned. We sat on my sofa, I smiled at him and told him to kiss me, so he did his usual move, remember, the one I told you about, the one that Louise used to do too that would instantly ripple goosebumps down my skin, the one where he slides his left hand up my left thigh while cupping his right hand on my cheek, pushing up the grain of my stubble before firmly kissing my lips. As our tongues met and rolled over and under each other like wrestlers, I tasted garlic on Alex’s, sorry, Alexander’s breath, which was weird as I specifically didn’t put garlic in our salad as I thought he didn’t like it. That got me thinking of Louise, remember how I told you her bolognese would always have four garlic bulbs, not cloves, bulbs, no matter if she was cooking for two or 12 people, and it was at that point my goldfish starting crying and crying. Really loudly, too, like a human. Well obviously this quite clearly freaked Alexander out and he made some excuse about running a spinning class in the morning and that he should get an early night, little did he know that after tasting that garlic all he was going to be getting was an early night to be honest, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed that he left. I stared at my goldfish for hours as it wailed and screeched in pure agony. I was helpless. Seriously, what on Earth could I do? I couldn’t exactly leave it as it would only get worse so I had to call in sick from work, it’s not like I could tell the truth so I made up some excuse, but my boss was pretty nice about it, then I basically curled up on the sofa with a duvet, I thought I shouldn’t go too far, and I just looked at it and thought about what I should do. It’s been six days since my goldfish started crying, and I still don’t know what to do. It’s the day before I’ve always planned to have sex with Alexander, and the tears are still flowing from the little guy while his screams are getting so hoarse and severely depressing. Alexander text me earlier about tomorrow and whether I still want him to come round for the evening and the only real option I’ve got is to say no. Or kill my goldfish once and for all.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The other day, I tried to see if the urban legend of Voller the Fashion Goblin was real.

Like the supposed hundreds of people before me, I settled myself in front of my bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection.

I looked left and right, then whispered: “Style and fashion, style and fashion.” I paused, looked deep into my own eyes, took a breath and said for the third and final time: “Style and fashion.”

I closed my eyes and winced. Silence. I looked around the room. Nothing. ‘Ha,’ I thought, my cheeks going rosy. ‘I knew the guys at work were winding me up.’

I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, chuckling. As I turned to leave the room a puff of smoke filled the air, followed by a loud popping sound.

“Jesus!” I yelped. “The guys were right!”

Like the legend had predicted, before me in the smoke stood a beautiful woman in her mid twenties. She had the complexion, cheekbones and dress sense best suited to the pages of Vogue, but, as it turned out, the mouth of a disgruntled, cockney bricklayer.

“What the fack you lookin’ at, mug?” She said.

“Oh, um, are you?-” I tried.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fackin’ Voller the fackin’ Fashion Goblin. What the fack do you want?”

“Um, nothing, I was just-”

“Let me fackin’ guess. You were just tryin’ to see if repeatin’ that fackin’ phrase in the mirror would fackin’ get me here?”

I nodded, gingerly.

“You soppy prick, I was knee deep in chicken and chips. The fackers will be cold by the time I get back.”

I looked at the ground.

“Don’t you go cryin’ on me, you tart. Let’s not make this a completely useless fackin’ trip. I can still work my magic.”

Voller looked me up and down, then flicked a toggle on my hoodie with one of her well kept fingernails.

“Your clobber’s lookin’ ropey. Grey top over a grey T-shirt? You slag. Saps the colour right out of your fackin’ cheeks. And don’t even get me started on those fackin’ brown chords with ‘oles in the fackin’ knees. Who fackin’ told you to let your hair grow that fackin’ long as well? Your curls make you look like Ronald fackin’ McDonald. And look at that fackin’ bum fluff on your fackin’ chin! Let’s sort your life out, boy.”

Before I had the chance to tell Voller I didn’t need her help, she clicked her fingers and I was naked.

After a little snigger, each click placed a new item of clothing on me.

Click.

David Beckham H&M brief boxers.

Click.

Navy blue Paul Smith socks.

Click.

Swatch watch.

Click.

Charcoal grey trousers.

Click.

A round neck navy blue, woollen jumper with incredibly faint specks of orange.

Click.

Some slightly pointed dark brown shoes.

Click.

Earthy brown duffel coat.

Click.

Hair trim and a face shave down to stubble.

“Right then,” said Voller, slapping my bum. “See you later, silly bollocks.” And with that, she disappeared.

I stared in the mirror, a tad windswept and entirely bemused. ‘What on Earth just happened?’ I thought. My nerves were shaken and my self-esteem shot to pieces. But I did look good.

To tell the truth, I’m still not entirely certain what went on that day. But strangely, and against my better judgement, I wouldn’t actually mind seeing Voller again soon.

© Carl Burkitt 2013