2728. Beyond the garden shed

Aren’t you sick of stories where the kid goes through the back of a wardrobe, or walks through a mirror, and suddenly everything is transformed into some sort of magical place? You’d think these writers could come up with something more original. Of course, the first time it was done was original, but not anymore.

I wanted to shy away from such a common clichéd motif but it suddenly happened to me in real life. I am not one to shun the facts of a truth, nor will I dolly things up to make them more palatable, but it’s a fact that I was walking to the garden shed to get a trowel to weed my garden and I opened the door and walked into the most spectacular garden I have ever seen.

There were four people picnicking on the lawn in the shade of a tree. I approached and asked them where I was. They turned and stared at me like I was from outer space and then one of them said “What?”

I walked away, but I heard one of them say as I left, “That idiot can suck eggs for all I care.”

 Then I saw a group of about six people watching four people playing badminton on a lawn next to a duck pond. I went up to the group of onlookers and said “Excuse me. Where exactly am I?” They were a lot more polite than the previous group. They said I was watching the Penguins playing the Gazelles in a game of badminton, and they suspected that the team from Clotsville would win. I thanked them but was none the wiser. I moved on.

Very soon I came across a garden shed. I opened the door and entered. I picked up a trowel and went out to my garden. As I asked at the beginning, aren’t you sick of stories where the kid goes through the back of a wardrobe, or walks through a mirror, and suddenly everything is transformed into some sort of magical place? So I threw thoughts of my very real experience aside and got on with the business of weeding the garden.

2632. The invisible cloak

Well! What a successful night Percy the Goblin had. He was returning home after scaring the living daylights out of most of the villagers. His invisible cloak – or rather the cloak he wore to make himself invisible – had been the best thing he had ever bought. When he had tried the cloak on at the stall in the town marketplace, the Witch running the stall said, “It’s you! It’s definitely you! It’s got your name written all over it!”

Who could resist such encouragement? He purchased it instantly. Of course he probably paid too much for it, but he asked for a written receipt so that he could manually change the purchase price and then his wife would say, “Goodness! You got that for a song!”

He had wandered around the village all night. When he saw a possible victim he would pick up something handy and wave it in the air. It looked like the thing was boogying in the air. He would do a little dance with it and the victims would rush off screaming in fright.

The biggest fright he had given anyone all night was a little old lady with a miniature poodle. Percy grabbed the poodle and waved it about. The old lady screamed and stood motionless. She couldn’t move. She was transfixed. Honestly it was the funniest thing he had ever done in his life.

When he got home he couldn’t wait to tell of his adventures, especially the episode with the little old lady and the poodle.

“Show me!” said his wife. “Pretend I’m the little old lady!”

Percy put on his cloak. He picked up a pot off the kitchen table. “Pretend this pot is a poodle!” He waved the pot in the air. He jived frenetically. He even did the splits (as only goblins can).

His wife screamed with laughter. She was helpless. “It doesn’t make you invisible at all dear. It simply makes the viewer see through all your clothes!”

2015. The trials of having a pet

Charleen rented. The rental agency inspected the house every seven weeks. The inspector pretended the visit was in case anything was needed, or if anything needed fixing. In reality, the inspection was for the sake of the landlord. Make sure those horrible renters are not destroying my property.

Charleen loathed these inspection but was grateful she got seven days warning. It gave her time to “tidy up”. It also gave her time to hide her pet dragon. The rental agreement had stated “NO PETS” and in particular “NO DRAGONS”. Charleen had kept her dragon for well-nigh twenty years. It was impossible to find a landlord who would allow a pet dragon. The only way to find accommodation was to lie about the dragon – and hide it every seven weeks.

Charleen’s dragon was called Constibelle. It was a very pretty name for a dragon. The thing that Charleen detested the most about dragons was that they stained the carpet like you wouldn’t believe. It was possible to house-train them, but it wasn’t an easy task. Fortunately Constibelle’s was house-trained, but there were a few accidents on the way, and Charleen had to tastefully arrange mats and furniture to hide the stains. She dreaded the day when she might have to move house, and the final inspection would reveal the dragon stains in hideous detail.

Then disaster struck. Constibelle died. Quite suddenly. The neighbours wondered why Charleen was digging such a huge hole in her back yard, but Charleen explain that she was hoping to plant a well-grown apple tree.

Those of you who have never had a pet dragon will be unaware of the two possible things that can happen upon the death of a dragon. Either nothing happens at all, or dragon stains made during the course of a lifetime miraculously disappear. In this case, nothing happened.

Charleen was devastated. She grew to despise her departed dragon. Why had Clara’s pet dragon performed a miracle upon its death and why not Charleen’s? Selfish selfish dead dragon.

To hell with the corpse. The hole digging was abandoned. Charleen threw the dead dragon into a dumpster. She swore she would never get another dragon. She would never make that mistake again. Her next pet would be a pterodactyl.

1874. Outside a thrush was singing

Iseult was a novelist. She wrote horror, fantasy and science fiction.

It was raining outside. It was one of those sun-shower days that make you understand why Ireland is called “The Emerald Isle”. The green was translucent.

Iseult gazed out the window. She had been stuck on a sentence for two days now. “Herman raised the axe”. Iseult knew she couldn’t kill off Aoibhinn, the heroine, so early in the novel. It was after all only page 19.

“Herman raised the axe.” What comes next? How could Aoibhinn escape this inevitable fate? Does she bend down to pat the dog and thus escape the plunging axe head? No! No! It’s all too predictable. Simply bending to pat a dog and escaping murder is so gauche. Maybe Iseult had made a mistake modelling Herman on the guy who comes to mow her lawns – he was too much an unexciting character. His personality didn’t advance the plot.

Outside the window a thrush was singing its heart out in the rain. Now there’s a sentence, thought Iseult. “Herman raised the axe. Outside the window a thrush was singing its heart out in the rain.”

Iseult typed the new sentence. At least she was one sentence further on. It’s fun, she thought, that what I type is actually happening! Outside the window a thrush was singing…

Herman raised the axe. Outside the window a thrush was singing its heart out in the rain. Iseult bent down to pat the dog.

(The real Iseult blogs HERE. There she reviews many a book. Her own novel – “7 Days in Hell” – is available on Amazon. Sometime ago, in the comments on my blog, Iseult expressed a mild desire to be a “victim” in one of my stories! Hence today’s gentle, though callous, plot.)