I love writing. It's what I do when I'm not doing other stuff - such as sleeping, eating or visiting the toilet - and, over the years, through trial and error, I think I've developed a pretty solid, expressive and entertaining style. At least, that's what I've been told.
 
This section of my site is dedicated to fiction, and dodgy ‘artwork', and gives a glimpse of my slightly off-centre sense of humour.
 
As well as the first chapter of my novel, ‘The Wise Boy', there are also a couple of short-stories, the Lord of the Rings/Murder, She Wrote hybrid, ‘Mordor, She Wrote' and the legendary ‘Barnsley Bear'.
 
Not to be forgotten are my strangely popular, fact-based cartoons: ‘The Adventures of Mr Sheep'.
 
If you enjoy your viewing through this area of my site, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a few moments to give me your thoughts and feedback, by emailing me.

Fiction

The Wise Boy (Chapter One)
 
Barnsley Bear
 
Mordor, She Wrote (Part One)

'Art'

The Adventures Of Mr Sheep
 
If Pets Could Blog
(Not by me, dammit! Will everyone stop the compliments?)

The Wise Boy (Chapter One)

Mummy had gone out. Past experience told Barry she wouldn't be back until breakfast time, so it looked like a lonely night in with baked-beans for dinner, and only then if his mother hadn't hidden the can-opener. She was naughty sometimes - especially when she drank the enchanted water she kept in a locked cupboard under the sink. Once, after she was the most enchanted that Barry had ever seen her, she made his Daddy disappear. Barry came downstairs the next morning to find his mother planting a long bed of flowers beside the tall fence in the back garden, and she told him that Daddy had vanished without trace, and that if he ever told his friends or teachers what had happened, he would vanish too. After that, the rough boys at school started to call him ‘Barry the Bastard', but he still never told anyone about his mother's magical abilities. It was their special secret...

Clasping the crumpled tin of beans his mother had thrown at him as she left for the night, Barry craned his head to see the can-opener was Sellotaped to the kitchen ceiling, and he knew he wouldn't be able to reach it, even if he stood on a chair. His tummy was gurgling with hunger pangs as he opened up the fridge, but there was nothing in there except a sweaty plastic bag with three slices of green bread inside, and a curled up spider in the salad crisper.

There was only one thing for it: he pulled his school trousers up around his waist, opened the door under the stairs, and crept slowly down the steps to the cellar. He hated it there, but if he wanted those beans, he'd have to get Mummy's big axe from the workbench and chop the tin open.

The axe was hidden under the bench in a special compartment that his mother had made. Barry knelt down in the dust, unclasped the catches and the axe, wrapped in a thick plastic sheet, tumbled to the floor with a loud thud, which made Barry flinch. He picked up the bundle and scuttled back up the steps, slamming the door behind him - in case a Maeglem was chasing him - then ran back through to the kitchen.

An old man with a wild, white beard and silver hair stood by the door. His shabby, long trench coat swayed as he turned to the arrival of the boy, and his eyes opened wide, as did his mouth, with mortificiation.

With an involuntary hoot of surprise, Barry fumbled his burden and it fell to the floor with a resounding clang, spilling open to reveal the razor-honed edge of the axe head. It glinted, relatively, under the twenty-watt bulb of the kitchen light.

Both Barry and the stranger regarded each other in a tense moment of vigilant silence, aware of the weapon lying on the floor between them, but hesitant to make the first move towards it.

"Watch out!" called the stranger, raising his hand and pointing a long, bony finger over Barry's shoulder.

Barry turned his head in terror, expecting the fanged Maeglem his mother had warned of to be looming up from behind. He ran forwards, his craned neck looking back into the darkness of the hallway, and then - thump - he hit his head against something soft.

"Ooof!" said the stranger, falling to the floor with his hands apparently searching for stray pocket change.

Barry leapt over the old man and made a grab for the back door handle, rattling it desperately with both hands, but the door wouldn't budge. (Even after he'd asked what to do if there was a fire, his Mother had insisted that the door stay locked when she wasn't there. As an afterthought, she had put the child-benefit book into an envelope and pinned it to the notice board, telling Barry that, if there was a fire, he should post it through the letterbox and help would be on its way. That was no good now though - not when the thing he was trying to escape from was blocking his escape route.) Resigned to his fate, he let loose of the door handle and turned, timidly, to face the salivating jaws of death...

There was nothing there except the old man, curled up and writhing in a heap on the kitchen floor, but no Maeglem anywhere to be seen. Barry puzzled, staring into space like a child who was due substantial damages from the local maternity hospital, before the penny finally dropped.

Stepping around the stranger as if he was something a dog dropped, Barry retrieved the heavy axe and brandished it with as much menace as he could muster.

"You tried to trick me!"

The stranger looked up; his bloodshot eyes catching sight of the axe before wandering on to meet with Barry's stern glare. "No, no..." he croaked.

"Yes you did! You tried to make me think there was a Maeglem after me when there wasn't one at all. I'm not stupid, you know!"

The stranger suspected otherwise. His pain abating, he lifted himself slowly onto one elbow. "But there was one there... I saw it - just behind you - and I pointed to it because I didn't want to see a fine boy like you get eaten all up."

"Oh yeah?" said Barry, fidgeting with the axe, "Well I bet you don't even know what a Maeglem looks like, do you? And I do, ‘cos I saw one once. So, if you did see one, you can tell me what it looks like, can't you?" Barry hadn't actually seen one, but with his Mother describing them to him so often - if he'd dropped biscuit crumbs; made the stairs creak when he came down them; or spoke during Ricki Lake - he had a very good idea of what they did look like. "Go on then... tell me what a Maeglem looks like, or I'll... I'll chop off your head!"

Far from a full recovery, the old man whimpered. Someone had been putting a lot of hours into sharpening that axe, and even with the minimal strength of the boy he was sure it would cut through him like a laser.

"Well," began the stranger, looking to read the boy's face. "It had great big, sharp teeth, like the biggest rat you ever saw..."

Barry shook visibly.

"... and instead of fingernails, it had talons, and they was dripping with blood. And its eyes were, oh, like glowing coals they were... red as the setting sun."

An icy wave washed down Barry's spine, and he backed away and to the side so he could keep an eye on the hallway door. There had been a Maeglem there after all. His bottom lip began to tremble as his grip on the axe loosened slightly.

"The skin on his face was white as a skeleton's bones," continued the man, confident he had the boy in retreat. "... and he was creeping up on you with his hands all ready to grab you, and that's when I went and warned you. That's what I did."

After a deep gulp, Barry asked, solemnly, "Where did it go, then?"

"I went and killed it, didn't I... sent it back to its maker." The stranger motioned towards the bowels of the Earth with a down turned thumb. "I saved your life, that's what I did. And now you're wanting to chop me up with that axe? I ask you!"

Barry softened, but didn't completely relinquish his stance. "But where's its body gone then?"

The stranger laughed, nervously. "Everyone knows that Maeglems disappear when they've been killed. But you know that already, don't you? After all, you're not stupid!"

Barry cocked his head. "Well, of course, I know that," he said, and tutted, relieved that the threat had been dealt with. "I was just testing to see if you knew."

"Ahh," said the stranger with a wry smile. "That's what you done, you smart lad. So can I get up off this cold floor now?"

"Not so fast!" snapped Barry with renewed bravado. "You still haven't explained what you're doing here. How did you get in? Are you a burglar?" The axe began to look menacing again.

"Whoa there," said the old man, waving his hand, stalling for thought. "Do I looks like a burglar?"

"Well, I think so," scoffed Barry. "And Mother always locks the doors when she goes out, and only a burglar can open locked doors, so you must be one." He advanced half a pace on the man, but stayed safely out of reach.

"Aaah," said the stranger, raising a finger to tap the side of his nose. "But you yourself couldn't even open that door. And what kind of burglar would lock a door after he'd gone and opened it, when he still had to get out?"

Barry's eye twitched.

"You see," followed the stranger, "it's not just burglar's who can get through them doors. Wizards can too... with magic!"

Barry's jaw dropped, as nearly did the axe. "A wizard?" he said, aghast.

"Of course," whooped the old man as he twisted to sit. "Just look at my whiskers," he said, running his fingers through his white beard. "Who ever heard of a burglar with whiskers like these?"

"Erm..."

"And who ever heard of a wizard without whiskers like these?" said the old man with growing confidence, twisting the end of his moustache to a sharp point.

Barry was stumped. "But why are you here?"

"Well," began the man, "I was just sitting there at home, and I went and did my washing up and turned on the taps and then I said, ‘Hello, what's this then?' because I could see a picture in the water in the sink. That's where us wizards see stuff, isn't it? And I saw this picture, and I thought to myself, ‘Oh dear!' because I could see a little boy in some trouble. I could see he was going to get eaten by a terrible monster, and I thought, ‘I can't have that happen now, can I? I'll have to get round there to help that poor boy before something awful occurs.' And that's just what I did!"

Barry lowered his eyebrows and frowned. It all made sense. He laid the axe on the table and helped the friendly old wizard to his feet. "I'm ever so sorry for being rude," he said, "but the last thing I expected was to find someone in the house with me. And I certainly didn't expect a wizard. I hope you can forgive me?"

The old man rubbed the base of his spine and adjusted his pocket change. Now that the axe was out of harm's way he had half a mind to give the boy a slap but, as he looked down into those inquisitive blue eyes, half hidden under a scruffy bowl of brown hair, all he could see was dumb admiration. "Aye, you're forgiven."

Barry smiled. "My name's Barry Wise. What's yours?"

"Er, Chris... the... um... White Wizard. Put it there, sonny..." he said, offering an open palm.

Normally, an outstretched hand was a precursor to a scuff on the head from his Mother, or a punch in the stomach from the rough boys at school, so Barry was delighted to shake the wizard's hand, especially as it was his very first grown-up handshake ever. He positively bristled with pride.

"What's a young laddie doing with a thing like this?" frowned the old man, his fingers brushing the shaft of the resting axe.

"Oh," said Barry, "I needed to open my tin of beans with it."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "You open tins with an axe in this house?"

"Of course not," giggled Barry. "Not normally, anyway, but Mother played a trick on me again," he said, pointing to the ceiling. "She says it keeps me on my toes."

"I'd say so..." mused the old man, looking up at the can-opener. "She must be a barrel of laughs must your Mum. How about I get it down for you and stop you from slicing your foot off?"

"Oh, please!"

Chris the White Wizard clambered up onto the kitchen table, reaching on tiptoe to pull away the Sellotape that secured the can-opener. It dropped to the floor, narrowly missing the boy's head. With creaking bones, he climbed back down and pulled up a chair.

"Do you want to share my beans?" asked Barry as he retrieved the can-opener and began to open the tin.

"Oh, no, no... You're a growing boy! You need your eats, don't you? Besides, I went and had my tea before I came out here, didn't I?" The old man smiled to himself. "I tell you what, you go and put this axe away, and I'll cook your beans for you. How's about that?"

Barry's face fell. "I don't want to go down there again," he gulped.

"What?" said the wizard, turning in his chair. "You still afraid of that Maeglem?"

Barry looked ashamedly at his shoes. "A little bit."

"I told you I went and killed it, didn't I? And don't you know the rules?"

"Rules?"

"There are rules, there are, that should a little boy show kindness to a wizard - such as you did just now by being so gentlemanly as to offers me some of your food - then that little boy is protected by magic from monsters and them like. So don't you worry about no Maeglem, and you take that axe back down to where you went and got it." Chris stood up and took the opened tin from the boy. "Now you do as a wise old wizard tells you, see, and I'll go and warm up these here beans."

Barry felt better, knowing he was magically protected, and wrapped the axe back up in the plastic sheet. "Okay," he smiled confidently; "I'll see you in a minute." He went into the hall and Chris heard footfalls descending the cellar steps.

Quickly, the old man went to the window and pulled it closed, securing the locking arm back into place. The dent from the screwdriver he'd used to work under the frame was barely noticeable. He grabbed a jay cloth from the sink and wiped away the footprints on the window ledge and work surface, then rinsed the cloth under the tap and put it back where he found it. Now he'd covered his tracks, he knelt down in search of a pan and tried to open the cupboard under the sink. It wouldn't give. He checked the next one to discover a box of rat-poison amongst bottles containing bleaches and drain-cleaner, and it struck him as odd that these were exactly the things that should have been locked away from harm's reach.

With a thunderous stampede and vicious thump as the cellar door slammed shut, the boy was back, and walked over to the old man, his chest heaving.

"Where do you keep your pans, then?" asked Chris, standing and closing the cupboard door with a flick of his knee.

Barry, pink-cheeked and breathless, skirted around the wizard and plucked a small saucepan from an opposite cupboard. "Here you go," he said, handing it to Chris.

"See any monsters down there, then?"

"No, there was nothing there - not even a spider!"

Chris gave a friendly wink: "I'd say you know the magic's working, boy?" He put the pan on the hob and emptied the tin of beans into it, turning the electric ring up to full.
 
* * * * *
 
"Mmmm..." declared Barry with a lick of his lips, "I would never have thought that beans could taste so much better by just making them hot." He laid his fork on the plate and smiled across the table to the wizard.

"Ahh, boy - you just should knows you deserves them that way, whether a wizard is with you or is not. Cold beans is no good to a growing boy - no good at all to anyone, unless you be sitting in a bath of them for charity, or it be the last thing you have to eat in the North Pole. Your Mum should be ashamed..."

Barry circled his tongue, cleaning the last of the tomato-sauce from his mouth and chin, then looked up with a creased brow, "What do you mean?"

"I only mean that you should have better than this here what you've got," said Chris with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "I don't mean to say no disrespect, but your old mum sounds like a bit of a bloody witch to me, and more when she won't give you no food over tricking you like what she went and did." Chris rolled his eyes to the ceiling and back down to meet the boy's innocent gaze.

Thinking carefully, Barry wiped the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. He stood up from his chair, picked up the plate and fork, and placed them in the sink. Turning back to the wizard, he said in a half-whisper, "Do you want to know a special secret?"

"What kind of secret?"

Barry cast furtive glances around the room as he sidled up to the wizard. "Do you promise you won't tell anyone... ever?"

The wizard raised an eyebrow. "Go on..."

"No, you have to promise - cross your heart and hope to die."

Chris made a casual cross over his chest. "I promise now, boy, on my early grave."

"Mummy is a witch; a proper one, like you're a proper wizard."

"Is that so? And what makes you think that?"

Barry's eyes gleamed. "She made my Daddy disappear..."

"Disappear, you say? And how's that, then?"

"Well, Daddy came home very late from work one night, smelling of beer and I think he had blood on the collar of his shirt, so Mummy was very angry. She'd been drinking her enchanted water, but then she drank even more of it, and I think that's why it happened."

"Enchanted water?" asked Chris.

"It's what give witches their power," explained Barry quickly, before continuing: "And after Mummy sent me to bed, she cast a spell on Daddy, and she was so cross and so enchanted that, I think, she accidentally disappeared him forever."

Chris was troubled. "And you haven't seen him since?"

"Not except in dreams," Barry replied glossy-eyed. "I think that's where people go when they disappear."

"You miss him?"

Barry blinked, skimming a single tear that ran down his cheek. "Sometimes. But when I do, I go out in the garden and sit by the flowers and talk to him. Mummy planted them for me. She said that I'd always be close to him in the garden."

Chris ruffled the boy's hair and Barry looked up with a brave smile.

"Where's your Mum now, then?" asked Chris.

Barry wiped the sleeve of his jumper across his face. "She's out with Uncle Peter."

"And left you all on your lonesome?"

"Oh, I'm okay by myself. I am nearly twelve after all. How old are you?"

Chris laughed. "Old as the hills..." he said. "Hey, Barry, what you be saying about this enchanted water, anyhow? Can I have a look at it? See if it's the same enchanted water us wizards drink?"

Barry pulled his bottom lip. "Well, I don't know. Mummy says it's very special and nobody should touch it except her."

"Surely she be meaning ‘normal' people, not the likes of those in witchcraft and wizardry? What harm is there, now? I've probably gone and drank the same thing a thousand times before I had the pleasure of meeting you."

Barry nodded. He knelt below the sink and opened the cupboard, then began to remove an assortment of chemicals and poisons from the shelf inside, lining them up neatly and in order of removal on the kitchen tiles. "Mother would be furious if she knew I was doing this. She'd probably disappear me too."

The wizard watched curiously.

Barry tugged at the cleared shelf and it came free in his hands. He twisted and leant it against a leg of the kitchen table, then reached back, far inside the cupboard, and clawed his little fingers around the back of the wooden panel that separated that compartment from the locked one. It gave with an easy creak, creating a narrow gap which Barry slid his hand through to retrieve an unlabelled glass bottle of clear liquid.

Laying the bottle to one side, he reversed his actions; replaced the shelf; arranged the chemicals to their original lineup; then closed the door. Grasping the neck of the bottle in one hand, he stood and placed it on the table in front of the wizard. "There you go."

"Top Hat!" congratulated Chris with a pat on the young boy's back. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a sniff... Vodka.

"Is this what you have?" said Barry.

"Most certainly. This is definitely the genuine article."

"Would you like a cup?" asked Barry, already moving towards the cupboard, "Or do you drink it straight from the bottle, like witches do?"

"A cup is good."

Barry passed the cup to the wizard, then took a seat at the table.

Chris filled the cup and lifted it to his lips, taking two deep gulps. "So, this Uncle Peter? He's your Mum's man friend, is he?"

Barry frowned. "Well, he's one of them."

"She has a lot of men friends, does she?" asked Chris, with a raised eyebrow.

"Lots... and lots. I don't approve."

"No?"

"No. Some of my uncles aren't very nice people."

"Why?" asked Chris, taking another gulp of vodka, before topping up the cup.

"I just don't like them. They shout at Mummy."

Chris emptied the cup, a warm feeling building in the pit of his stomach. "That's no way to treat a lady now, is it boy?" He refilled the cup.

"No. One time, when Mummy stopped seeing Uncle Tom, he came around to the house and knocked and knocked on the door, so hard that he broke some glass. Mummy wasn't in and I was frightened. He shouted that Mummy had a wizard's sleeve, and that I should tell her. Then he went away."

Chris nearly choked on his vodka.

"When I gave her the message, she hit me and locked me in the cellar." Barry looked at Chris. "Do you have a wizard's sleeve?"

"Certainly not!" laughed Chris, slurping back the last of the vodka. "Well, Barry, my little friend. I've done my work for this night and day, so I be on my way now."

Chris rose from his chair and pushed it neatly back under the table.

Barry looked sullen and lifted from his chair like a sodden rag caught on a fishing line. Turning, he contorted the lower part of his face into something that resembled a smile, and said, hopefully, "Will I see you again?"

Chris considered the question, then the boy. "Aye, maybe so, young Barry."

Barry's smile spread into his eyes. "Thank you, er... sir." Then, suddenly, the smile went into overload. "Oh, oh, oh... are you going to do magic now?"

"Wha..?"

"Are you going to magic through the door again?"

"Er..."

Barry's eyes were dancing.

"No... I don't think that be a good idea. What with all that enchanted water, I'd be blowing the door to pieces if I went and tried that now."

Barry tightened his mouth and raised his eyebrows. "But how will you get out? Only Mummy has the key?"

"Well," said Chris, "Why don't I try and see if I can fit through that window."
 

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Barnsley Bear

Barnsley Bear shuffled in from the kitchen with a tray, carrying a pot of steaming tea, his favourite china cup and a plate of freshly-baked honey biscuits, which he laid on the small table beside his chair. Then with a groan of satisfaction, he sat down, ready to watch his favourite programme.
 
As he reached for the remote-control, and the television flickered to life, he thought to himself that his was the most comfortable chair ever made, and he shuffled his bottom until he was perfectly settled.
 
Anne Robearson greeted him from the television with a stern glare which made Barnsley nearly spill the tea as he poured it.
 
"Steady on, Anne," said Barnsley, chuckling, as he dunked a honey biscuit. "I don't think the old ticker can take shocks like that."
 
He liked 'The Bleakest Wink' but that ginger bear frightened him. Once, he had such a terrible nightmare that he woke up in a cold sweat, and couldn't get back to sleep until he checked under the bed to make sure she wasn't there.
 
"You are obviously an idiot," sneered Anne at one of the contestants, raising another chuckle from Barnsley, who sipped at the piping-hot tea. "As a binbear, you don't know that the atomic weight of Nitrogen is 14.0067 and NOT 15.9994... which is obviously Oxygen? "
 
The contestant began to cry.
 
At that moment, there was a tap-tap-tapping at the window... very much like the sound a dyslexic woodpecker would make.
 
"What on earth?" Barnsley asked himself.
 
He put down the cup of tea, and lifted wearily from his chair to investigate the noise.
 
With more puzzlement than shock, he watched the half-brick smash through his living-room window on a trajectory that led it to bounce from the top of his head and knock him solidly backwards into the arms of his comfy chair.
 
"Goodbye!" said Anne Robearson, winking from the television screen before Barnsley slipped into unconsciousness.
 
***
 
When Barnsley awoke, the Ambulancebear was covering a nasty wound on his forehead with vinegar and brown paper.
 
"Ouch!" said Barnsley, as his vision began to return.
 
"Sorry about that," said the Ambulancebear, securing the stinging paper bandage with butchers' string. "Management cutbacks I'm afraid."
 
The whirling image of Detective Sergeant Panda floated into view. "Listen Barnsley, I'm not mucking about with your problems any more. This is the nineteenth time bricks have been blown through your windows this month, so I suggest you contact the Council. If I have to come over here again, I'm arresting you for murder - and you just see if I can't make it stick."
 
"But I didn't call you!" protested the injured bear in confusion.
 
Something solid swiped across the back of Barnsley's head, and he looked around to see PC Polar turn away and replace his baton. He was eating the last of the honey biscuits.
 
"Needless to say, Barnsley, if you so much as think of calling us again..." continued DS Panda, "it will be the last phone-call you make as a free bear."
 
"But I don't even have a telephone... Oof!"
 
Barnsley rubbed the tender spot on the back of his head as PC Polar began to whistle innocently.
 
"Very well," accepted Barnsley with a sigh of resignation.
 
"Good, good," said DS Panda, with a crooked smile. "Now," he carried on, turning to the Ambulancebear, "I suggest you have this bear checked out in hospital. We wouldn't want him dying on us now, would we?"
 
PC Polar sniggered.
 
"Well, I normally would," said the Ambulancebear, putting the ball of string back into his Tesco carrier-bag. "It's these cutbacks, though... the Hospital Manager had to sell the ambulance so he could get a nicer car. You know how it is, you can't get funding if you don't make the right impression, so he needs it for conferences and whatnot. So, I'm on me bike. Can you take him in your car?"
 
DS Panda muttered something sharply at the Ambulancebear.
 
"Right away," said Barnsley, wobbling to his feet. "Sugar and milk?"
 
The three uniformed bears looked at him with bewilderment.
 
"Four coffees? I think I've got a jar of Goldielocks Blend somewhere."
 
The Ambulancebear patted Barnsley on the shoulder. "You get some sleep. It seems you're having a little trouble hearing, so if you get any discharge from your ears later on, just plug it with cotton-wool and get yourself to the hospital in the morning."
 
"Put the lights and siren on, Polar..." whispered DS Panda to his assistant as they left with the Ambulancebear. "I'm late for my dinner because of that hairy wanker."
 
Barnsley sighed. He hated to cause trouble.
 
With a visit to the cupboard, he placed a wooden board over the smashed pane and nailed it into place. The wintry breeze still crept in.
 
After sweeping up the broken glass and washing his dishes, he turned off the television and the lights, and clambered up the stairs to his warm bed, which was cold.
 
***
 
With bleary eyes, and a wide yawn, Barnsley surveyed the damage in the light of day. There was nothing that couldn't be fixed with a little work, and he liked his little odd-jobs. It kept him busy. The only concern was a patch of dried blood in the carpet. It was too late to simply mop it out. He would need to make a visit to the village shop for some cleaner.
 
With that, he put on his coat and scarf - making sure he remembered his keys - and walked out of the front door, pulling it tight behind him.
 
It was a bitterly cold morning, but looked jolly seasonal with the layer of frost that covered the trees and buildings. The sound of swearing birds filled the air as Barnsley, with a spring in his step, paced down the street. It was all the circle of life, he thought, as he whistled to himself. Without the beauty of winter, he wouldn't have the joy of summer.
 
Pushing through the shop doorway, with a tinkle of the bell above his head, Barnsley loosened his scarf and approached the counter.
 
A beautiful young lady-bear stood behind the till.
 
She'd made quite an impression on Barnsley since she came to work in the village as part of her care-in-the-community rehabilitation programme.
 
"Hello there, Miss Bear," greeted Barnsley with a blush behind his fur.
 
"Good Morning," replied Miss Bear, before shouting "Woof!" at the till.
 
"I'm afraid I had a little trouble last night."
 
"What's with the... the... the... BUMPS on your head?" interrupted Miss Bear. "It makes you look like a ferr... a ferr... a FERRUCKING triceratops!"
 
"Oh Miss Bear, you do make me laugh with your observations."
 
Miss Bear looked past Barnsley with unblinking eyes. A slug of drool dribbled from the corner of her mouth and dangled from the fur on her chin.
 
"Well, I had a mishap last night and took a few bumps on the head," said Barnsley. "I have a bloodstain on the carpet, and I wondered if you stocked any stain-remover?"
 
Miss Bear blinked fast, returning to the land of the living.
 
"Yes? Can I f-f-f.... help you?" asked Miss Bear, before barking again.
 
"Erm. Perhaps I should have a look myself?" suggested Barnsley with a warm smile.
 
"Perhaps you should WHAT?" yelled Miss Bear at the counter.
 
Barnsley edged away from the till, and walked to the back of the shop. Miss Bear was definitely the loveliest bear he'd ever set eyes on, but he sometimes wondered if the assurances from the police and medical-assessor were true. But, he smiled, if her ex-boyfriend hadn't fallen on the scissors, that jury would have convicted her. That's the way the law worked.
 
Searching the shelves, Barnsley found a bottle of 'New Improved Remove-o-Blood'. The advertisement on the television said that it was even better at removing bloodstains from fabric than 'Remove-o-Blood', and that would be perfect.
 
He walked back to the counter, and Miss Bear slammed the till.
 
"Just this," said Barnsley, smiling and placing the bottle on the desk. "What do I owe you?"
 
"THIRTY POUNDS! I DON'T DO IT FOR LESS THAN THIRTY!" screamed Miss Bear.
 
Barnsley frowned. "But it says eighty-five pence on the bottle."
 
Miss Bear smiled, and keyed the eighty-five pence into the till. "Lovely weather?"
 
Back on familiar conversational ground, Barnsley took a twenty pound note from his wallet and handed it to Miss Bear. "I think we may have snow for Christmas this year." He looked through the window to the early-morning frost of Christmas Eve, and smiled at the hope of it being layered with white for the following day.
 
With a slap of her hand against the counter, Miss Bear stared at Barnsley.
 
Fifteen pence lay there.
 
Barnsley blinked hard. "But I gave you a twenty pound note?"
 
"Prove it," hissed Miss Bear, stuffing a crinkly piece of paper down the front of her trousers.
 
"Erm... I only had a twenty pound note..." said Barnsley, opening up the leather wallet and looking down to ensure he hadn't made a mistake.
 
As he checked, he heard the shop door slam behind him. Looking out through the window, and onto the street, he saw Miss Bear waving her arms in front of a large truck that had slid to a halt on the icy road before her.
 
Barnsley wondered what on Earth had happened. He rushed, as much as his tired legs would allow him, to the shop door, and pulled it open.
 
"He wanted me to kiss his dirty gerbil!" wailed Miss Bear to the truck driver, who was already climbing down from the cab. She pointed over to Barnsley.
 
The truck driver - a very large brown-bear - looked across to Barnsley with disgust. He rolled up his sleeves and stomped in the direction of the shop.
 
Barnsley quickly went back inside. He didn't like the look of things.
 
The truck driver pushed through the door and broke the bell, sending it spinning into a shelf of cornflakes. He sneered at a cowering Barnsley.
 
"She's playing a trick. I didn't do anything, honestly," whimpered Barnsley, stepping further and further into the back of the shop. "There's some sort of mistake."
 
The muscular truck driver cornered Barnsley and bared his teeth. "I'll show you what happens to mistakes."
 
Suddenly, a loud grumble startled both bears, and they turned around to see the headlights of the truck smash through the window of the shop...
 
***
 
The roaring fire lit the room with a soft orange glow. Barnsley lifted his son onto his knee, giving him a warm cuddle.
 
"And that was how I met your Mum." He smiled as he kissed the top of his boy's head.
 
Barnaby Bear looked up to his Father.
 
"After the coma, I was so surprised..." continued Barnsley.
 
"Why Daddy?"
 
Barnsley chuckled. "After the shop was destroyed she wasn't allowed to work there any longer. Can you imagine my surprise when the first face that greeted me, when I work up in hospital, was that of that same lovely bear from my own local shop?"
 
Barnaby was cross-eyed with perplexion.
 
"A clever man in the government thought it would be a good idea for those people under community supervision to help out in the hospitals, and he made your dear mother a nursing assistant,." explained Barnsley. "It's still a mystery who threw those bricks, though."
 
"Dad?" asked Barnaby.
 
"Yes, my boy?" Barnsley said, giving his son with a warm cuddle and a soft smile.
 
"You really are a ferrucking idiot, aren't you??"
 
The End
 

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Mordor, She Wrote (Part One)

When the news reached Jessica Baggins that her second-cousin, Bilbo, had been charged with breaking and entry at the Hobbiton branch of Anne Summers, she packed a knapsack with a few bottles of juniper juice and caught the last dragon flight to the Shire. She didn't know, or even care if Bilbo was guilty or innocent, but it sounded like a great plot for a shit book.
 
***
 
Frodo was sitting against the trunk of a tree at the edge of a mossy glade, reading the tattered copy of 'Elven Wives' his uncle Bilbo had given him one drunken night, when he heard the wheels of the cart clattering along the cobblestone lane. As he stood, and with deftness not usually associated with the race of Hobbits, he pulled up his trousers and lodged the magazine back in its hiding hole in the tree. The brief exclamation of the resident tawny owl did nothing to distract young Frodo, and, clasping his belt, he ran off in the direction of the noise.
 
The cart trundled to a halt as Frodo stood on the grassy bank, overlooking the cobbled road.
 
"You're late!" mocked Frodo, his arms crossed.
 
The woman in the cart swigged back the last of the juniper juice and swayed a glance to the erect Hobbit.
 
Frodo lowered his hands, misconstruing the previous paragraph, which was simply trying to explain that he was standing proudly or standing straight… nothing to do with his genitals at all.
 
"Authors are never late, Frodo Baggins," began Jessica, bloodshot eyes peeking from beneath a flowery bonnet. "And neither are they... hmm… spiders."
 
"What?" said Frodo, checking his script. "What are you on about?"
 
"Well, it's a fact, isn't it?" drooled Jessica, smugly, as she opened another bottle of juniper juice. " How many books have been written by spiders? Answer me that!"
 
Frodo frowned. "But that's like saying that rats can't be car mechanics. It's nonsense."
 
Jessica stared wide-eyed at Frodo in a disturbingly long pause. "Where am I?" she asked at last, lapsing into a moment of sobriety.
 
Frodo's lips tightened. "Act one, page one. At the bottom." He pointed a stubby finger to the open page of his script.
 
"Ahh, yes," said Jessica, looking over the top of her spectacles, then down to the untidy bundle of paper on the seat beside her. "Carry on, then."
 
With a broad smile, Frodo jumped from the bank and into Jessica's arms. "It's so wonderful to see you!"
 
Jessica looked down at the young hobbit and chuckled. "You didn't think I'd miss your Uncle Bilbo's hanging?"
 
"What? But it's obvious there's been some sort of mistake," protested Frodo. "I thought you were here to help, not to watch Bilbo die?"
 
"I'll do what I can, my Frodo. I swear that on the life of my dear husband."
 
Frodo frowned. "But didn't he disappear mysteriously last year? And didn't you have him declared dead so you could get the money from his insurance policy?"
 
"That is neither here nor there..."
 
Suddenly, there was a burst of delighted laughter from the lane behind, as five excited children rushed out from their garden.
 
"Fireworks, Jessica! Fireworks!" shouted the smallest of the hobbits.
 
Frodo looked across to Jessica and smiled. Although she appeared not to have heard the voices, there was an amused twinkling in her eyes as she looked along the road ahead. With one hand on the reins, she delved the other into her handbag.
 
"Fireworks," moaned the dispirited voices as they watched the cart trundle away.
 
Jessica threw something in a high arc over her shoulder and Frodo laughed, then heard joyful screams as it exploded. At least he thought the screams were joyful, until he turned around and noticed that blood was running from the children's eyes and ears, and they were stumbling around and bumping into one another.
 
"Stop the cart," said Frodo urgently, causing Jessica to look over her shoulder.
 
The horses lurched forward as she whipped the reins.
 
"Didn't you hear me, Jessica? Stop the cart!"
 
"I think not," snorted Jessica. "Offer ourselves to the police when those kids don't have a chance of picking us out of an identity parade?" She shook her head.
 
Frodo crossed his arms angrily as the cart moved along the track at speed. He was beginning to think Jessica wasn't as nice as he'd remembered.
 
***
 
Bilbo sat in the cold, damp prison cell and whimpered to himself. Through the barred window, he could see the sun setting. Tomorrow morning, he would be hanged, and the world of Middle Earth would leave him; but his current disturbance came from a rather large and ugly Orc who sat, salivating, on the cot directly across from him.
 
"Go on..." said the Orc, "Show us your ring."
 
Bilbo stammered in hesitation. "N-n-no! It's mine, I tell you!"
 
"Just let me give it a little rub?" asked the Orc again, his lips twisting to a grimacing smile. He lifted to his feet.
 
Bilbo flurried and ran to the bars of the cell. "Help!" he shouted.
 
At that moment, the door to the holding block clunked as the lock turned, and the Orc sat back in his bed and snarled.
 
Frodo and Jessica were ushered through the door by a particularly small Hobbit guard who also played an Ewok in Return of the Jedi, though it wasn't a primary role, and he was dressed in a bear costume at the time, which meant his friends always took the piss and called him a lying bastard.
 
"Frodo? Frodo, my lad?" gasped Bilbo, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Did you find Gandalf?"
 
"Sort of," said Frodo. "Gandalf was elected Prime Wizard. He said he doesn't give a toss about local stuff any more. He wants to concentrate on his image, and he told me that aligning himself to petty criminals isn't good for his street-cred. He wishes you well, though, but he'll deny saying so if it gets to the papers."
 
A tear trickled down Bilbo's cheek. "Good old Gandalf."
 
"Jessica's here, though," brightened Frodo. "Maybe she can help?"
 
"I'm sure, cousin Bilbo, that there's been some terrible mistake," announced Jessica as she patted down her crumpled dress. "I intend to get to the bottom of this. I'll do anything I can to help you through this sorry situation."
 
Bilbo paced up and down, nervously. "Well you could start by having me transferred to another cell. He..." he said, pointing to the Orc, "wants to rub my ring!"
 
"That doesn't make sense, uncle," said Frodo. "The ring is in a sealed envelope back at Bag End."
 
"Exactly!" replied Bilbo.
 
***
 
Sheriff Brody reclined in his rocking-chair, sipped his coffee and pretended to listen as Jessica read her lines. He wondered for a moment why the author of the story had named him after the lead character in Jaws? Was it forgetfulness, or just bone-idle lack of research? 'Mr Cunningham', 'Father Dowling', or even 'Ritchie's dad from Happy Days' would have been much clearer. At least they were recognizable parts, from programmes he still received a steady royalty cheque from. There were certainly no personal battles with sharks in his career which he could recall.
 
"Why would Bilbo Baggins need to break into Anne Summers, Sheriff?" asked Jessica with a dismissive, yellow-toothed smile. "That man has the greatest wealth in the whole of Hobbiton."
 
Sheriff Brody rocked the chair forwards and stood, trying his best to look like a better actor than he actually was. He raised his hands and let them fall again. "Jessica, you don't seem to understand," he sighed. "We've got positive identification; fingerprints; closed-circuit television footage; matching DNA samples... damn, we've got a signed confession from Bilbo himself, and we didn't even have to hit him."
 
"Yes, you bloody well did!" came Bilbo's faint voice from the corridor.
 
Jessica creased her brow. "But something just doesn't make sense, Sheriff. There's an element to this episode which we're not seeing."
 
Sheriff Brody flicked to the end of his script and sat heavily back in his chair. "You're probably right, Jessica, but I don't like to wear glasses on screen. Okay... I'll give you a day to prove Bilbo is innocent."
 
"Oh, thank you, Sheriff," said Jessica. "You won't regret it, I promise."
 
***
 
Samwise Gangee was cutting the grass in the garden of Bag End. He liked gardening, but all the more when he could cultivate his crop of high-wield cannabis skunk in the vegetable patches of gullible fools who paid him to tend their lawns unsupervised.
 
It was always good to play the idiot, thought Sam. He'd say "master" and "missus" and they'd laugh behind his back, paying him half the going rate because "the idiot don't know no better". Then they'd carry on laughing down the tavern with the money they saved, and the news gets round that stupid Sam is a soft touch. Soon enough, he'd have a hundred gardens around the Shire to attend to, and a hundred different places to grow his gold.
 
And who would the police blame if they found all the plants? Not stupid Samwise, that's for sure. "He don't have the brains for that", the Sheriff would say. And before you know it, Sam would be far away in Mordor, personally auditioning some pretty elves before pimping them out to the lustful orcs - making even more money - while the hobbits who laughed at his naivety were dangling from the branches of the oak in the market-place, feeding the crows.
 
Sam sniggered with his thoughts as he stood and wiped his soiled hands against the waist of his overalls. Next stop was Master Greyscurdle's garden, where a bit of pruning and trimming was required… though, of course, there would be no clippings for the compost heap.
 
"Samwise Gangee," said a sudden, ominous voice.
 
The hobbit startled and spun around, then rushed a sigh of relief. "You scared me then," said Sam with a nervous laugh. "What are you doing out, anyway? I thought if I set eyes on you again it would be through bars at best... or on a rope at worst."
 
A flash of light in the side of his skull threw Samwise to the ground before he realized he'd been hit. It was a numb pain, and even though he was disorientated, he tried to push himself back up. Then another strike came in - a heavy boot against his forehead - whipping his head backward and snapping his neck like a branch of a dead tree.
 
His body convulsed for a moment, and then he was dead.
 
End of Part One
 

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The Adventures of Mr Sheep

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If Pets Could Blog

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