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.

Fire Walking

Tir na nOg is a magical place where, if fairies lived would come to party, dwarfs to tell stories, and angels to meet for supper, knit and swap recipes over homebrew.

It is a place where trees, wild garlic, and cows sit side by side with fairy lights, massage and homemade soap, a place that makes you forget your hangover, traffic lights, and phone. And a place where people meet, laugh and share, while crows nesting above squawk their lungs out.

I was there for fire walking, fire performances, and a very large green man…

The Beltane festival.

I, a virgin fire walker vaguely wondered if it would hurt? My two pals swear by the powers of fire walking. They talked of their first time like I would my first kiss/shag/blowjob (depending on the listener). And they have been back several times; consoling until you think of childbirth-women return to that too.

I mean why walk on coals, what is the point? And if I did find the point, would my feet benefit, loss their cracked skin, soften the callouses, did magic happened on a foot?

It’s not even on my bucket list; not that I have one, apart from leaving a ton of books behind when I am no longer here. But I was curious and had a vague idea for a scene in a future book, so I told myself…

As we prepared to walk, I along with the forty odd walkers listened to the inspiring fire-walking instructor. A woman with Lady Godiva hair that talked with great wit of “burning past shit and walking to greater things”.

I thought I had nothing to burn, I racked my brains over a vegan chapatti. I was already walking towards what I wanted was there something else? And what if I wanted too much and didn’t get it? Would I burn my soul for an empty dream?

We lined up by the coals.

“Jesus,” I said, “it’s red”.

“Red is the colour of womanhood.” Muttered a voice from somewhere.

“Not at my vintage,” I laughed into the midnight air.  

I made jokes about flammable foot lotion and nail polish, how I had “I picked a good day to wear flares.”

A few laughed…this was good stuff I thought, fear brings out the comedian in me-better than alcohol.

Of course, I fear everything from old ladies jumping in front of me at co-op queue, to needles, and driving around huge roundabouts-thank God I am not a lorry driver or a diabetic.

I stared into the burning ambers watching everyone line up for their walk. There is something about sharing apprehension while slipping off your shoes amongst strangers in the dark. Blood bank springs to mind and as I laughingly cracked a similar joke the first of the walkers started.

I watched as one prayed before walking, another marched, face serene.

I waited for my turn mentally chanting…

At one with the fire at one with the fire….

I skipped across the burning embers swearing as the fire oblivious to our oneness burnt the soles of my friggin feet.

Standing on the cool wet grass I watched as the others did it again…again!

Some strutting and one like me stumbling with ‘bloody hell that’s hot” look and finally two girls holding hands ending with a tearful hug.

The crowd watched and cheered.

“Marvellous,” said one.

“Wonderful,” said another.

“I walked three times.” Said one virgin.

My feet were burning. There was no way I was walking on that bastard again.

But then I am not a great believer in new begins. I have had as many as I have new hair colours and like hair dye new beginnings never lasts- there is always shit days and shit thoughts and old ladies who queue jump.

Walking on fire didn’t do it for me and I don't have any desire to do any more although my feet do feel a lot cleaner and lighter. But the gathering of people is a beautiful thing and sharing in their hopes, dreams and fears can be life-affirming.

The fire afterward was spectacular, we walked through woods with fire batons. I felt like I was in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, except the only Queen of fairies was in the gift shop.

That next day as I stood in the co-op check out queue my feet crying out for some foot cream, my 

hubby rang.

“Were you drunk last night,” he said.

I did waffle on a bit about A Midsummer Night’s dream.

“No, but my feet feel fabulously clean,” I said.

“Your feet you need to be kind to that hard skin.” He said.

I thought about my callus did it look just a bit smaller? And was just about to share this revelation with said hubby when before me squeezed a pensioner as old as Midsomer Murders pushing a trolley load.

I brazed myself for the queue jump when she turned, looked at my single purchase of foot cream and said. “You first, I’ll be ages with this lot.”

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

First published on www.kerrienoor.com

Marmite

Marmite by Kerrie Noor

It was in 2006 and my first novel was still a mere baby of funny scenes strung together and I was under the illusion that it was the next Brigid Jones-and more. I along with six other Scottish writers had been offered a place on a weekend retreat. 

We were all working on our first project.

It was a weekend full of workshops, great food and an audience with a well-known agent.

I truly believed I had written a best seller. I was so excited, so close to my dream I couldn't touch my breakfast. 

Instead, like the others, I waited.

The agent was a woman with a packet of cigarettes a day voice and she didn't mince her words.

“You’re too coarse,” she said, “I mean describing her breast as…” she flicked through her notes “elephant ears?” She looked at me “why would you do that?”

“Is it not funny?” I muttered.

She didn’t even answer but instead gave me half an hour of her time. I took a page full of notes and tried not to think too much about my English teacher. She always sent my stories back covered in red marks and comments such as…

“I find this hard to believe.”

“Is there such a word?”

“Were you drunk when you wrote this?”

Her idea of constructive criticism was to tell me to get a job in MacDonald’s where “no spelling was required!”

I wandered the beach crying into my phone, ““what will I do if I can’t write,” I said to my pal. “I may as well…join a commune, take to chocolate, it’s all so hopeless.”

“Writing is like marmite,” she said sagely. “You either love or hate it-lukewarm, does not cut it with Marmite.”

For those of you who have never heard of Marmite, it is something very British, salty and considered good for you. Yeast in a dark sticky mass you either spread thick as you can on toast-like me or gag at the mere thought of unscrewing the lid.

My pal then launched into a list of writers from Ernest Hemingway to Agatha Christie who all experience wrist slashing reviews. Not one writers of comedy however were mentioned.

“What are you trying to say?” I said, “I should be writing mysteries; fishing for marlin?”

“Can you not take out the elephant description?” she sighed.

In truth the writing wasn’t finished. Once my tears were wiped away, I reread my notes re-grouped and re-plotted.

Years later, my first book rewritten, edited and self-published, a reader wrote to me, I love your book,” she said. “It touched me, and I laughed out loud.” A husband whose wife “just loved the book” asked me for an autograph. And my daughter’s friend, an English student, said “there is more to your book than first appears, worth a second read.”

Of course, the same book has received some pretty hurtful reviews too, some along the lines of “impossible to read”; “utter rubbish,” and as funny as a road accident” nothing I can’t handle without a jar of marmite by my side.

The lesson learned…

• One reader’s funny bone is another readers snooze button.
• What some called “racy and fast-paced” others call “impossible to follow”. And what some call a “cracking caste of full body characters” others called a “confusing entourage of women who do not attract a second read…”

And

When you think your work is finished your probably halfway there and steer clear of comic descriptions involving elephants.

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

 Rebel Without A Bra' is also now available via Smashwords, Kobo and Nook Ibooks and Amazon

The Polishing Of A Knob

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man.

He has a way of looking at things that not only makes you sit up; but ponder a world without drivers, teachers, and voting booths. Pete is still trying to understand the difference between English spoken by the English, English spoken by the Scottish and English spoken by those, not from England or Scotland.

Mex, his boss tries to help but as gravity is playing havoc with her hormones. She spends a lot her time feeling hot, cold and then all “weird and tearful.”

Please read on…

“February is a month never spoken about on Planet Hy Man,” I said to Bunny.

Bunny a master of multi-tasking was spring cleaning and listening. While Mex was sitting on the couch, feet up trying to get to grips with the Radio Times.

Bunny muttered a “hmmm.”

“We used to celebrate it when men were more than footmen and enjoyed festivals, dressing up and coming home to a woman pleased to see them.’ I said. “Back in the days when automation was on the cusp of existence.”

“March, on the other hand, is a month of cleaning,” muttered Mex.

“And what the hell is a footman? said Bunny. Working up a shine on the tv screen.

“March,” I continued. “Is a month of celebration for us on Planet Hy man. It is the anniversary of the first egg fertilization and the slow decline of men and their festivals.”

“It’s celebrated by wearing giant Petri dishes on one’s head,” muttered Mex turning the magazine upside down, the TV guide really threw her.

Bunny stopped ‘what’?

“And for those who can’t afford a Petri dish anything that looks like a large Petri dish,” I said.

“Aye right.” Muttered Bunny returning to her polishing.

“A month where women are “tickled pink” and “spring into action at the drop of a hat,” I said.

“Or pertinent dish if you want to get technical.” Said Mex with a flick of a page.

“You’re taking the piss.” Said Bunny.

“The first day of March is spent filling one’s Petri dish with freebies. The markets are free, and the lower level Building of Opulence is open to all.”

“Women go crazy.” Muttered Mex.

“I find that hard to believe.” Said Bunny.

“And create such a mess that it takes the rest of the month to clean up,” I said.

“March is a month hated by the cleaning team,” muttered Mex rotating the new page with a confused look.

Bunny stopped in her tracks, “wait a minute, you have a building called Opulence?”

“Well yes,” I said.

“Why would you call a building Opulent.” Said Bunny.

‘Figure of speech, Mam”.

“It more a statement,” said Mex tossing the magazine aside with disinterest.

“Of what?”

“Well, opulence, it’s not for everyone I guess.”

Bunny admired her polished TV. “Yes, we all know that,” she said flicking imaginary dust from the top. “But what is opulence in your world?”

“How would I know?”

Bunny looked at her.

“Anything that is in the building of opulence Mam,” I said.

“And what is that?” Said Bunny.

“I don’t know.” Sighed Mex. “I have only been to the Room with a View for orders. I am not a voted in. I am only allowed up the back entrance.”

Bunny moved onto the door surveying the finger marks, she let Izzy in. “I have spent the last month trying to understand a world where men are footman; whatever that is.”

“Men who stand to attention mam, and retrieves things, sort of like a… retriever…”

Bunny eyed me with the sort of look she called cryptic “really?”

Izzy barked, jumped up on Mex lap his favourite place.

Mex cooed.

“We don’t have dogs on planet Hy man mam.”

“That explains a lot, except…” Bunny eyed Mex talking gibberish to Izzie. “You're the great man spy who rid Planet Hy Man of all men-kicked them out.”

“More kicked to the gym Mam.”

“You made it all possible.”

“Well yes.”

“Why the back entrance?”

“Voted in are easily pleased mam, their idea of opulence is anything others can’t afford.”

“And?”

So, Mex and the like choose what to make unaffordable and…”

“Who’s a cute boy?" Mex cooed at Issy.

“Insightful.”

“Turns a vote it is a voted in male or female,” I said.

“I see,” tutted Bunny.

“Manipulatable.”

“What some would call a knob.” Said Bunny now polishing one.

Mex and I confused looked at each other until Bunny gave a way too in-depth description of the true meaning of a knob where as she put it, polishing was negotiable.

“So, the polishing a knob,” I said, “is a term best keep in the same sentence as a duster.”

“Or Mr. Sheen.” She chuckled.

“On our planet,” muttered Mex “polishing is strictly for the robots.”

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

Rebel Without A Bra' is also now available via Smashwords, Kobo and Nook Ibooks and Amazon

Another Day Another Blog

I grew up in “seventies Essendon”, a suburb of Melbourne and a stone’s throw from Moonee Ponds-Dame Edna territory. As a kid, I met many Dame Edna like women including some of my family.

My parents spent their time 'doing up' the house which in the 70's meant, large flowery wallpaper, brown and green carpet, and wood everywhere. It was like living in a sitcom.

I remember coming back from Scotland having learned how to cook in a hotel. I made egg mayonnaise and lasagne for tea.

“Easy on the garlic,” said my mother tight-lipped. “You know what your father’s like.”

My father looked at it made some comment about “a waste of mince,” then poked at the white sauce. “Is that smelly cheese?”

No one touched the egg mayonnaise.

“It’s homemade,” I said, referring to the mayonnaise, not the egg. Forgetting completely my parent’s low fat, keep your heart-healthy diet, my sister’s dodgy fat averse stomach, and my brother's sniff and I don’t think so approach. Expecting my family to embrace seventies British cuisine when even my nana’s tomato chutney was seen as “alien” was like expecting Dame Edna to throw a compliment to her audience.

Two hours later my dad was at the chippy oblivious to me sulked in front of the Two Ronnie’s. My first “know your audience or die" moment had been painful.

As a comic writer finding my audience has not been easy.

One man’s funny bone is another man’s snooze button, and one woman's joke is another woman's insult. But I have found reading my work out loud helps, especially to a group of readers on their second glass of wine.

So here is my read to you, Bunny and her bouncy chest, inspired by none other than Benny Hill and Rosanne Barr.

Enjoy, I hope you laugh and if you don’t, try watching again after a glass or three.

First Published on www.kerrienoor.com

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

Her new book 'Rebel Without A Clue' is now available via Smashwords, Koboand Nook Ibooks.