Donald Trump was knackered. But he couldn’t fall asleep.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since about late January, to be honest, but this night was a particularly difficult night.

Rather the writhe around in bed, he decided to get up and go for a wander around the White House. He loved the White House. His favourite bit was probably how white it was. Even at night. ‘No matter how much it tries,’ he thought. ‘The black night just can’t take over the beautifully white old White House.’

Donald was always surprised how quiet the White House was at night. He missed all the noise. ‘It’s just not as fun with no one to shout over,’ he thought. But he still managed to find his own fun during his blurry late-night adventures.

More often than not he’d head to the corridor filled with portraits of every former President of the United States of America. He loved sticking two fingers up at Abraham Lincoln and kissing Richard Nixon. Some nights he’d build a little wall of pillows in front of Obama’s painting and giggle as he nibbled on a burrito.

On this night, though, he just stuck to the classic move of poking his penis out of his dressing gown and screamed the Star-Spangled Banner. As he reached the final line, he heard a cough from behind him. Donald turned – his swinging ballbag shrivelling from the movement – and froze as he saw what looked like himself staring back at him.

Donald instinctively spat at the intruder, convinced it was a previously unnoticed mirror. He rubbed his exhausted eyes as the globule of phlegm didn’t hit glass, but instead connected with the forehead of a very real, albeit waxy-looking, Trump.

“Who are you?!” barked Donald.

The waxy-looking Trump nodded in the direction of Donald’s own portrait on the wall, revealing nothing but a silhouette of a man in a glassless frame.

“What the…?” tried Donald, as the painting of himself grabbed his shoulders. “Get off me! You’re not real!”

The painting dragged Donald towards the frame as he continued to scream. “Let go of me, you fraud! You alien! You may look like me, but you’re no President dammit! Get off me!”

Ignoring every word, the painting picked Donald up and slotted him in to the gaping hole of the portrait.

“You can’t do this!” yelled Donald. “The people voted!”

The painting slid the glass back on to the frame, silencing Donald Trump, before turning its back and walking out of the White House.

Donald Trump looked at his new, painted surroundings, rubbed his eyes for a final time and fell asleep.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Seb Baird: “I’d like a story about Donald Trump wandering around the White House at night where he encounters a surprising character.”

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!

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Lyndsey Tullett: “I owe Michael a present. He’s moody and has long hair.”

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!

Larry never felt like he belonged anywhere. Anywhere except his cheese van.

He loved that van, almost as much as he loved cheese.

He’d developed quite a reputation in his hometown of Somerset for, not only the range of cheese his van offered, but his quite remarkable sense of smell. In his latest press release, he boasted the ability to recognise over 1,700 cheeses by scent alone and claimed to be able to detect goat’s milk up to 500 yards away.

Camemwhere? Over there! His van’s sign read. A piece of Brie? Come here and see! This is a van owned by the Cheese Man!

Larry was mightily proud of his cheese van, but after several failed marriages, countless fizzled-out friendships and a decline in sales, he wanted to know why he shared his van only with himself.

“You’re boring,” said his mum.

“Excuse me?” asked Larry, confused.

“Oh come on dear, don’t be so naive. All you do it talk about bloody cheese. Whether it’s the history of Cheddar or the latest stuff they’ve discovered in Sardinia, you never stop banging on about it. Yeah, cheese is nice, but people don’t want to be talking about the difference between shorthorn cow’s milk and Nigerian dwarf goat’s milk. It’s dull. And sure your nose is impressive, but you’re verging on arrogance now. Anyone could smell cheese that far off with a honker the size of yours! And don’t even get me started on your stench! You bloody stink of the stuff. The second you came in here I got a whiff of Stilton. When did you last eat Stilton? It’s as if you’ve got some in your pockets. Wait. You’ve got some in your pockets…haven’t you? Jesus Christ, Larry. The trouser pockets? You better take a serious look at yourself son, you’re nearly 40. If you’re not careful, you’ll never find people to be around.”

Larry thought for a moment.

“Shut up, mum.”

And with another relationship destroyed, Larry went walking. And thinking. And walking. And crying. And walking. Until he found himself in France.

With sore feet, a bruised ego and grumbly tummy, Larry wandered in to the nearest Fromagerie.

It was beautiful. It was wall-to-wall cheese, with some of the finest cow’s milk options in the world. There was Beaufort, Munster-Géromé and Emmental de Savoie. There was Gruyère, Morbier and Brie de Meaux. It was the stuff of dreams. The waft of churned milk hugged Larry like a lifelong friend. He felt calm. He felt at home.

Behind the counter was a man standing roughly six feet tall, four feet wide, with a smile like a hungry shark.

“How can I help?” asked the man, in broken English.

Larry took a whiff and licked his lips. “I’ll have some of the Banon.”

“Sorry, sir” said the man. “We have no Banon. We do not do goat’s cheese.”

“Yes you do,” said Larry, taking a bigger whiff. “I can smell it. Out the back. Far end of the storeroom. Behind the boxes of napkins.”

“My word!” said the man. “That’s my secret stash of goat’s cheese! How could you possibly smell it from there?!”

Larry tapped his nose. “It’s kind of my thing,” boasted Larry.

“Well come with me right away, sir.”

The man led Larry through a door, to the far end of the storeroom, behind the boxes of napkins.

“Here it is,” said the man, nodding at a mountain of goat’s cheese.

Larry drooled as he picked up one of the seemingly endless blocks of Banon.

“Tuck in, sir,” said the man.

Larry sank to his knees without a second’s hesitation. He revelled in the pleasure of finally being in the company of a like-minded soul. He plunged his nose into the pile. He caressed his fingers against the soft-ripened delight. He whispered sweet nothings as he undressed and embraced his new mistress with each of his limbs.

The man smiled as he bent down to help lather Larry’s skin with Banon, before clamping his teeth into his latest victim.

Every munch to his cream-kissed flesh filled Larry with an indescribable joy. But it wasn’t until he made it safely inside the warm, acidy stomach of his consumer, that Larry finally lived happily ever after.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brief by Laurence Davies: “I’d like a story about a man who owns a cheese van and lives happily ever after.”

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!

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!