WhimFairies

“Watson, come here, I want you,” said Bell wistfully. He had been daydreaming and spoke, quite by accident, to the wall that separated his and Watson’s rooms. The mouthpiece on his desk had other ideas, however, and had transmitted his absent-brained plea straight to the ears of his colleague, who started, then leapt to his feet and ran through the corridor to Bell’s office. “I heard you, Bell, I heard you!” he exclaimed, red of face, and panting with exultation. Now it was Bell’s turn to start. “You … heard that?” he said, bemused, and somewhat worried. “Yes! By jingo it works! The device works!” Watson beamed, placing a hand on Bell’s shoulder. Bell’s body bristled and his beard twitched with barely concealed nervousness. “Terrific, yes,” he said distractedly, “but - we must ensure it transmitted with absolute clarity. What was it you heard me say? Exactly?” He leaned forward. Not too much. Watson cleared his throat dramatically, aiming for the exact

I n the year 2000, the last Pyrenean ibex died, crushed by a falling tree. Nine years later, scientists successfully brought it back to life via cloning. A landmark in biology: the first extinct taxon to be raised from the dead. Alas, no sooner had they achieved this remarkable feat than the fruit of their labour died from respiratory failure. It was alive for seven minutes, giving the Pyrenean ibex the dubious distinction of being the only creature to go extinct twice. * Sir Edwin de Machin-Hague X picked up a book a pauper had left on the tube. This was stupendously unlikely for two reasons: firstly he was using the tube for charity. Ordinarily he never would. Secondly he seldom touched anything a peasant had previously owned, least of all a book, as his were all far superior, the knowledge bound within them of an altogether better quality than that cack-handed white-collar fare. Nevertheless he skimmed a few pages and lighted on the story of the Pyrenean ibex, and subsequen

"When the weather is fine/Then you know it's a sign/For messing about on the river..." The saccharine lyricising curled tinnily from Basil's makeshift TV set. As he sat in his cage, he became aware of a nose protruding from the aperture he called a door, which was in fact merely an absence of bars caused by a controlled explosion some hours before. "W ellington's doing a speech," said Bully, his whiskers twitching with perturbation. Basil continued to watch, pretending not to hear. "S'pose we'd better go..." "Watching my stories," said Basil, shortly. "But you know how he gets," Bully whined. Basil let out a sigh with such vigour that it hurt, got to his feet and switched off the TV. He'd fashioned it from magnesium and litmus paper only a day ago, yet somehow it managed to pick up most terrestrial channels, and a number of interesting diseases. How many of those cathode ray amateurs could do THAT? "Fine,

Joshua bent over his keyboard, head in hands, staring at his computer screen as though willing his final year thesis to appear out of thin air. At his elbow lay the study he'd chosen to discuss: Diffusion of Responsibility among Adolescents, Niaga et al, 2011. He'd thumbed through it innumerable times already, and what at first glance had appeared a curiosity-piquing, appetite-whetting fodder-mill for a dissertation, was rapidly beginning to appear, not so much a red herring, as a whale shark with a full-body blood blister. Joshua groaned, and rubbed his eyes. He'd been here five hours, and the essay was due at 11am the following morning. Why had he left it so late? Why had he chosen a degree in Psychology in the first place? Why had he not throttled himself with his own umbilical cord when he'd had the chance? He couldn't hand in another assignment late, least of all this one. His track record in this area was notoriously appalling. Why did he never learn? Pu

"I mean what the fuck are you playing at?" roared the scrawny, grey-haired man in a thick, Scottish burr. The Mau'phaat sat at his desk, phlegmatically puffing on a cigarette, unfazed by the interloper's tirade. The Doctor continued. "I don't know if you've noticed, but ahm gettin' fuckin' rinsed over here!" he screamed hoarsely, "The storylines are shite, the execution shoddy, and the supporting cast patchy at best!" He punctuated this last point by sweeping all the various paraphernalia from the Mau'phaat's expansive desk onto the floor, denting a Newton's cradle beyond repair. He continued over the sound of the rattling ball-bearings... "I mean the last episode had me wading across an ocean planet composed entirely of petrol in search of a fuckin' magic tyre! Are you so bereft of ideas, is your budget so fuckin' non-existent that this is what you call quality fuckin' programmin'?" His r

Hiro Homada flew into his room and removed his helmet. He breathed heavily, exhausted yet exulted by the day's exertions. He'd taken only a few steps when his eyes fell on the red box that housed his erstwhile friend Baymax. Baymax had once been a member of the Big Hero 6, which Hiro had formed some two years ago, aged just 14, but of late they'd ha d to rebrand themselves the Big Hero 5, as Baymax had started acting weird. The other crimefighters suggested he may have computer senility. Whatever the reason, Hiro was sad that he'd had to excise the cuddly robot from the group. But he couldn't dwell on it. He turned to his computer, bringing up the ever-present window listing illegal bot fights in the city. Hiro no longer competed. Now the Big Hero 5 broke up the gatherings, one of their many vigilante duties. Just then a pop-up appeared, showing a naked woman doing questionable things with a root vegetable. Hiro stared transfixed, suddenly becoming aware of a

The soft roucoulement of a dozen rock doves filtered through the alleyway. High on a window ledge sat Eddie, the oldest and most moth-eaten of the group, his mottled feathers gently moulting in the breeze. A young juvenile named Jerry fluttered down beside him and surveyed the scene below. All the ledges and outcrops from the first floor down were c overed in formidable looking spikes, as though the building's mother had been rogered by a porcupine. "Sad, isn't it?" said Eddie. "No, Jerry," said Jerry, perplexed. "No, the spikes," said Eddie. "Oh," said Jerry. "I remember when a pigeon could perch anywhere he damn well pleased, but now..." Eddie trailed off in disgust. "Why do they put them there?" asked Jerry. "Who can say?" said Eddie, "It defies reason. Where do they expect us to nest? And defecate? One day they'll work out that the less space we have to go on the ledges the more we have

The salt waters swirled around, the light from the azure sky effortlessly penetrating the shallow cove, and illuminating the sandy seabed. There, in amongst the fine white grains, stood a polyp - well, as far as a polyp can stand, that is - its feathery tentacles, barely visible to the naked eye, swaying lazily in the current. Before too long, a seco nd polyp arrived, and paused, staring at the first with a hint of consternation. "Are you alright there?" said the second polyp. "Fine thanks," replied the first. "It's just you've been sitting there for a damnably long time-" "I'm standing actually." "Ah, forgive me, it's hard to tell, but, erm, what are you waiting for?" The first polyp looked at the second. Or rather, he twisted his medusa-like crown vaguely in his direction. "Wait with me and you'll see." The second polyp had no pressing engagements, because it was a polyp, so it waited with its

Ethan Hutchens sat swilling whisky in his ornate armchair, as he had been doing most of the day. He had reached a stage of inebriation foreign, and indeed fatal, to most men. But Ethan remained characteristically unfazed. As he took another sip, however, he felt a strange swirling sensation (well, stranger than the one he'd been experiencing for th e last few hours) and a bright light blazed all around. Then, from the living room aurora emerged a small, parrot-like creature with a red breast, that fluttered down onto Hutchens' futon. "Greetings Ethan," said the bird, "I am the Whisky Galah. Your advanced state of drunkenness has summoned me from the Underwhelm, to grant you three whiskies." Ethan, unsurprised by the talking cockatoo but suitably excited by its offer, gawped in amazement. "Blimey," he said, "That's a hell of a thing." "Indeed," said the Galah, puffing his chest out proudly, "but it's all in a da

Balls MacReady had the largest collection of thistles in the western world. And, were he to live in the southern, eastern or northern world, the largest collection in those as well. Put simply, he had the largest collection of thistles in the world. He would walk o'er the Scottish moors, clad only in a kilt, and at the end of the day he would remove all the specimens that had attached themselves to his scrotum (sometimes as many as eighty) and place them in ornate display cases in his study, which was now full to bursting with thistles old, new, thin, fat, tall, small and withered. MacReady was sitting amongst his precious collection one day, when he heard a knock at the door. "Come in," he wheezed, warily. He very rarely received visitors… There was the sound of heavy boots clumping down the hallway, then there in the doorframe of his study stood an imposing sight. And man. Easily seven foot tall, with a dirty trench coat reaching down to the floor, soiled fedora

I lazed on the sofa, bestrewn with chocolates. Hans Gruber was belching out Christmas cheer in a fetching cathode ray flavour from across the room. Next up was Scrooged. Yum. Just then a knock at the door, a trope which has featured in no fewer than three Fairy Tale Fridays this year, rang out across my yuletide abode. I rose warily to my feet and padded across the shag, my soles picking up no fewer than several unwanted pine needles from our resolutely vengeful indoor tree as I did so. There, in the doorway, gazing upon me in my unapologetic "Arthur Dent chic", was the hulking figure of the Gorey Beast, besuited, bebearded and betop-hatted. "Oh bloody hell, it's another meta one is it?" I sighed, bemoaning the lack of originality in my own accursed oeuvre. "Aye, tis that!" said the Gorey Beast chirpily, stepping over the threshold and tugging off his gloves, then he removed them, wiped them off and placed them on the hook provided. "Come in,

"One dozen mice, please" said Ephram cheerily. The myriad tweets and chirrups of the veg and pet emporium resounded around him as the Brylcreemed Scotch proprietor, McBook, leaned down behind the counter and scooped up twelve mice, pouring them into a sizeable cardboard box. Ephram deposited a handful of coins before him and grasped the box eagerly, making to leave. "Wait!" barked McBook, "You forgot your special offer!" Ephram turned, taken aback. "Special offer?" he said, perplexed. "Indeed," said McBook enticingly, "With every twelfth mouse you buy, you get a complimentary cat!" Ephram stared at him incredulously. McBook grinned. "Say that again..." said Ephram uncertainly. "You heard correctly," nodded McBook, "a whole cat! It's what we call a 'lagni-app'. A complimentary application which, when placed in amongst your rodent purchases, will keep them fresh, fit and lithe, and

The Gorey Beast lounged in his armchair of puppy skins, guzzling a McFlurry, and laughing. After a time he paused, wiped his spittle-caked jaws with a nearby infant, and threw it out of the window. Rising laboriously to his feet with a swarm of grunts, he made a beeline for his anteroom, where he kept a harem of badgers, ripe for the plundering. Jus t then however there rang a knock at the doorbell. Mumbling cantankerously, he swung it open to reveal the town's mild-mannered butcher, Graceland. "Whatchoo want?!" roared the Gorey Beast indignantly. "Please sir," stammered Graceland, "I've brought you a leg of lamb. The townsfolk thought it might help to appease your wrath." "Whyyy?" said the Gorey Beast suspiciously, eyeing the bloody slab before him. "Well, your name implies a predilection for the ... er ... visceral" murmured the butcher. "It's Gorey! Not Gory, you jillock! As in the part of that sceptered isle

It was the smackdown to end all smackdowns. Or, more accurately, 'twas the smackdown to begin all smackdowns, given that it took place in the superheated miasma that spewed forth following the Big Bang, and therefore predated the vast majority of all things. The combatants were two warring factions, brought to a head by literal nanoseconds of animosity. Seven friends, Helium, Neon, Krypton, Argon, Xenon, Radon, and Gisellium stood tall (figuratively, their untameable atoms being incapable of either standing or tallness) and faced down their enemies. They were the Noble Gases, and across the rapidly expanding vacuum that lay before them, hovered their anathemas: The Ignoble Plasmagorians (or "gases"). Their leader was Damnium, a fearsome adversary, his right-hand element a fetid, choking smog named Guffonium, and HIS lackey a duplicitous knave named Rogon. Filling out the wretched septet were Twatton, the annoying, the megalomaniacal Despotium, Moron the ignorant and t

Scrumpy-Flop bent low over his writing desk and scribbled furiously. He'd been responding to fan/hate mail for hours and his sagging eyes were bloodshot in the weak light of his standard lamp. Scrumpy-Flop was an obscure demigod, responsible for the maintenance of the plumper forest creatures that inhabited his particular plane of reality. But to a lmost everyone besides himself, he was a rabbit. A slightly chubby, moth-eaten rabbit, in fact, and not a polytheistic deity at all. To all intents and purposes, he was a crap lagomorph. He tried his best to dispel these distressing thoughts though, as the letters he currently pored over contained quite enough allegations to this effect to rob him of any shred of self-esteem he may have left. It seemed having one's own religion wasn't enough for some pan-dimensional beings. They wanted mind-bending miracle-work or some such. Looking after overweight mustelids didn't cut it. Scrumpy threw down his half-moon spectacles and rubb

Wizard Gagmuffin sat in his voluminous armchair, reading his daily rag of choice and munching on a spindly pipe. All of a sudden he heard a curt rapping 'pon his front door, and rose wearily to answer it. There on his doorstep stood Minerva Wart. 'Oh, Gagmuffin!' she brayed, 'My cat's gone missing again. Mrs Elvstead from next door said she saw her c rossing the enchanted stream…' Gagmuffin raised a knotted hand to silence her. 'Is this a quest?' he asked, laconically. 'Er … in a manner of speaking' said Minerva uncertainly. 'Don't do quests anymore,' said Gagmuffin shortly, 'can't be arsed with them. I'll summon the Questlings. They'll take care of it.' He half-heartedly waved his wand and muttered something which could have been either an incantation or his shopping list for all he gave a fuck, and three misshapen oddities sprang into being upon his flagstone floor. The shortest, fattest one (named Quest

There once was a man who despised the way he looked. His entire body repulsed him. He went to bed every night, gazing at himself in the ceiling-mounted mirror which he'd had INEXPLICABLY installed in his room, and sighing at his mismatched features and puny physique. One morning however, he awoke to a stranger standing at the foot of his bed, and jumped up with a start, ejaculating loudly. 'Who you?' he mused, thunderously. 'I am a genie,' responded the genie, for he was a genie. 'I hear you are dissatisfied with yourself, so I am here to grant you a very special power. When you set foot outside your door today, any part of any creature or object you encounter will be yours for the having. You need only desire it, and any appendage or implement that takes your fancy will graft itself to you bodily.' 'My my,' said the man, and without waiting to make sure that this strange interloper was indeed a supernatural being and not some madman or bur

There once lived a man who lived in a desolate hovel. Where he lived. He was a poor man, and strange. His worldly possessions amounted to nothing more than a kettle and a strip of corrugated iron, which he used as a pillow and a blanket respectively. For this man was an idiot. A himbo of the highest order. He could not even summon the cognitive hut zpah to eat, bathe or perform differential calculus, and was consequently very thin and smelly, but thankfully not boring. One day he ventured outside his shitty mudhut, and beheld the world at large. He promptly suffered a minor aneurism and retired to the safety of his house, away from such intellectual assailants as "change" and "things". But soon thereafter he grew curious once more, and broached the outside world once again. What he saw this time changed(!) his life forever… A large bovine with long, curved horns and fleshy dewlap, was rummaging in the flora outside his ill-fitted doorway, munching up his greens

"Once Upon a Time" strikes me as a trite and staid way to begin my story. My stories are my babies, each one I care for in my own unique idiom, and depending on what they as individual word-sprites require. Must I be compelled to blindly imitate the fashion of countless generations of storytellers before me, who have chosen this prosaic, comfortabl e inaugural phrase? That should be like myself taking a new-born babe and swaddling it in suffocating rolls of narrative cloth, then hanging it on the wall by the fire because that is what the dull, unevolved savages have done before me in the name of that sickening sepulchral spectre known as "tradition". How I cannot stand that word. It conjures up all manner of fearful, small-minded obedience to some ancient, groundless idiocy. It is the enemy of inspiration, and progression, and growth. When I point a camera at something, I wish for the image to spill out from the margins and infect my audience, blurring the line betw