The Lady And The Box

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man who, along with Mex has been sent to earth to discover the ways of us humans?

So far, they have discovered “hot” means more than just burn your mouth food, “cool” means more than just the inside of a fridge and the meaning of “chilling”, “chilled” and chilly” are as varied as dishes in an Indian takeaway.

Please read on…

It was Woody’s idea to take me to the Edinburgh festival and Mex was happy to follow. We were sitting in an Indian at the time working our way through a selection of curries as hot as Bunny’s temper .My stomach was on fire, I was burning up and sweating at the same time.

“What is this stuff?” I said.

“It an Indian.” said the blond on the next table- like that explained everything.

Normally I’d be enjoying the background music; but I was feeling all tight and crunchy, like one of those packets of crisps. What I needed was a long, lean stretch followed by a position of great twisting, that would help my digestion.

Then I heard of the lady in the box.

Apparently, there was a lady who could squash herself into a box and I was curious. I am a robot of great flexibility, a yoga expert and if a woman can squeeze herself into a box, I want to know about it.

“We’ve just seen a contortionist,” said the blonde on the next table.

“Cartoonist?” said Mex.

“No, contortionist—street performer,” said the blonde. “She folded herself up into a square box . . .”

“Whatever for?” muttered Mex.

“And she can twist…” said her partner “…into knots that would turn a seaman’s hair.

He produced a video that stopped the restaurant and almost put Mex of her Jalfrezi.

“All you could see in the end…’ sniffed the blond, “…was her leotard.”

* * *

I had to go. I took a chance and headed for the back door.

Nobody noticed, the blond was giving her partner “what for” about the seaman comment, while Woody was explaining to Mex the difference be seaman and semen and the waiter was trying to shut them all up with free mints.

* * *

As I entered the festival, I could hear the roar of applause. The street was chock-a-block with people and noisy-cars, buses, and drilling mixed with music, applause, and chattering; people speaking languages and accents I never heard.

I was buzzing off my Teflon tits.

The only music played on Planet Hy Man is the sort of elevator music that puts everyone into a comma and the cars we see are limos driven by robots.

I gazed up at the castle; a piper blasted into the street.

“Am I near the Royal Mile?” I shouted.

“Just around the corner,” said the teenager, “you’re almost there.”

I continued past a magician with a dog; skidded on a leaflet, righted myself on a drunk, ignored the insult, and continued.

It was slow work working through the crowds, but finally, I made my way onto Mount Pleasant. I passed a seedy-looking man with dreadlocks yelling into the crowd.

“You ain’t seen nothing like this, me hearties,” he yelled and pulled a bunch of flowers from his pants.

“Jesus!” muttered someone.

I walked on; past two men playing drums, past a dark man in a duffel coat sniffing into a bottle in a bag.

“Pound for coffee,” he said.

I gestured to my empty pockets then, reading the brown man’s upright-middle-finger gesture, quickly moved on.

The street was lined with performers competing for the attention of the crowd; it was hard to keep moving. I ended up sandwiched between a young girl lamenting her one-night stand and an elderly woman moaning about her bunions; right in front of a man wriggling about in a locked straitjacket.

“Let me tell you a story,” grunted the performer, “of Alcatraz and my escape.”

The crowd muttered and jolted forward. I was about to move on when I heard a chainsaw start up. I turned to see a large, hairy, masked juggler pose with a chainsaw.

The sound drowned out everything.

“Alcatraz the inescapable,” shouted the escapologist.

The juggler tossed the chainsaw into the air. The crowd gasped as his thick muscular arms caught the saw.

The escapologist watching his audience dwindle nodded to his sidekick, who wheeled on a unicycle . . .

“Alcatraz, oh Alcatraz, the place where no bird sings.”

The crowd was silent as he leveraged onto the unicycle, his arms still twisted in the straitjacket. He was a thin man with a thin ponytail and birdlike features, which at the moment were pinched with discomfort as he balanced on the unicycle.

The older woman cheered bunions forgotten.

“This is way better than the lady in the box,” she said. “I mean how long can you stare at a box?”

“Is she still there?” I said.

“Oh yes, she’s still there with a sidekick for comedy.”

“Comedy in a box?” said someone from behind. “hardly call it that.”

I marched up the steep hill of Cockburn Street past more food shops and the smell of waffles,

chocolate, and chips.

“You see the lady? The one in the box?”

“Aye, something else.”

“Where?”

The young man whistled through his teeth. “Just keep going, ignore the comedian he as funny as herpes.”

The street was lined with tables and chairs, people sitting, talking, artists drawing, manipulating balloons into weird shapes.

I pushed through the crowd, skidded to a stop and stared at the Perspex box. Her limbs folded about her body—and all I could see was her leotard.

“Come see the impossible,” shouted the comedian, “a woman who can tie herself into knots any seaman would be proud of.”

Nobody laughed until that I caught the comedian’s eye.

Full of festive spirit and desperate for a twist and fold to sort my rumbling tum, I shouted

“Bring me a smaller box and I show you a few knots a seaman has never heard off.”

Cont. next blog …

 Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information

The Riding Of A Hosptial Trolley

It was a horse but not as you'd know it.

Dive into my short story, a true story about a time I would do anything for attention. Although what is fact and what is fiction I let you be the judge…

I was promised a stallion, large, white and decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree and I pictured me, on that horse, with a war cry to silence a town.

Nobody mentioned anything about paper mache…

The theme was Celtic hero's and I was chosen to play Boudicca. I had been promised a lot -except for a costume and a fee and was looking forward to the big adventure.

After all, I was the main attraction.

My pal says "I would do anything for attention," she says, that I'm "so driven for an audience that I would sell not only my soul but my best friend, my matching mugs and the secret recipe for long life, lighter than air, mayonnaise."

Of course, I disagreed with her, I have no idea how to make mayonnaise.

I stood outside the community center as 'it' rolled up the car park. I heard the squeak of the hospital trolley before I saw it and my heart began to pound. A giant, paper mache, shire horse appeared from around the corner, supposedly rooted to a hospital trolley despite its mid-trot pose; and before I had time to ditch my tartan and run, I was up a fireman's ladder astride a horse so wide it required a yoga position to balance.

With my pelvis locked into some sort of childbirth position that made even coughing uncomfortably, I looked about for escape.

The parade headed for the top of the main street with a 'braw view 'of the loch. I clung on with my flexible pelvis working overtime as three rope holders pulled the horse to the top of the hill.

I stared down at the pipe band standing to attention, not a sound.

"What have we stopped for," I shouted into the wind.

"The storyteller, " said the rope holder at the front, "Once she's finished we can head off, and then the Celtic wars will begin."

The judo team stood behind me. Celtic warriors and Judo is a slim connection, but apparently, with enough blue paint it is believable. And the crowd loved them. They began to chant. The judo team inspired by the chanting and the lack of adults began to push -egging each other on. They were fed up waiting, they had had enough of a storyteller they couldn't hear.

"Freedom" shouted a voice from the crowd.

"Bring on the warriors," shouted another.

"She's finished, let's go," said the led warrior.

Inspired by their leader the judo team filled their lungs and let forth a war cry. The crowd joined in as the local youths rampaged down the street like a Kung Fo film past me and my brakeless trolley.

The rope holders didn't stand a chance.

"Stop," shouted one of the rope holder as the warriors swept past him.

He grimly hung onto the rope until a girl raced past. She, lost in the moment yelling, "you can take our homes, you can take our mobiles, but you will never take our freedom," grabbed him and he lost his grip.

I watched him disappear into the distance.

With only one rope holder left the trolley staggered, tilted and began to roll, faster and faster… 

"We've lost it," shouted the other boy who vainly tried to hang on until he skidded on a chip wrapper and fell to the ground. I looked back to see him sprawled on the tarmac, arms outstretched shouting,

"Nooooo…"

The trolley picked up speed.

The pipe band scattered like sheep as my trolley rampage through the band. I clung onto the paper reigns like my life depended on it; which was as much use as toilet paper. One tug and the reigns cascaded down the road joining the rope holder sprawled on the road.

I rolled down the street, my arms flapping about like a cartoon chicken. I looked as much like a great warrior as Marg Simpson and was now screaming like her.

I passed the pipe major. He, a round man of sixty made a dive for the horse's leg, missed and fell to the ground. Within an instant, he was up- running like a stunt man half his age. He hurled himself at the trolley; wrapped one arm around its leg, and then used his legs as a break. His kilt flapped in the wind like a flag revealing a true Scotsman with a fine set of jewels -as impressive as his much talked about sporran …

I sailed, bumped and skidded past the Viking boat, knocking over the quartet, a few bins, and a paper mache beaver. The pipe major hung on, digging his heels into the ground.

"Come on lads," he shouted. "She heading for burger van, that thing will blow."

The pipe major's words moved many men who grabbed the trolley from all sides. They slowed the trolley down until, with a mere plop and a mountain of grunts I landed on the green, just shy of the burger van.

Not a roll was disturbed.

The crowd cheered as they circled around the pipe major.

"Best parade ever," muttered an elderly woman, her eyes on the pipe major sporran.

After all a parade without a burger van, is like a pipe major without his sporran."

first published on www.kerrienoor.com

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.