Brian Hedley
Cheesey
Once upon a time, there was a small creature by the name of Cheesy, and he was about four feet tall and owned over seven million socks. This might seem like an obscenely large amount of socks, but what it was, he was a member of the sock harvester clan. They are a race of dwarves who have special powers. They come into your bedroom in the middle of the night using stealth magic and make sure you can never find a complete pair of socks. They also sometimes give you socks you never knew you owned. That’s because you probably did not. The race has an active sock switch program to allow for the variance among races.
They also have special devices they insert into washing machines, which are only accessible if you know the magical password. It eats socks at random, so even if you had ten pairs of black socks, you won’t have them by the time you get them out. It also has a special dye supplement that, every so often, dyes one of your socks pink just to confuse you.
Many years have been spent by the sock harvesters working out the optimum times of when to take your socks. So if you have a job interview, I guarantee you will never find a pair as this triggers several sensors in the clansmen, and they will group together to hide your socks.
They have a sub-clan who is responsible for hiding your keys at critical times, like when you are due to go to the cinema or need to pick someone up from the airport. There is also the airport clan that is designed to eat passports at airports, so beware.
So if you have ever lost your socks, have no keys, and are at the airport with no passport, you can now inform them that there is a secret race of dwarves who are conspiring against you and the world and making your life hell.
When they finally let you out of your padded cell, hopefully, you will have forgotten it was me who informed you of this phenomenon, and you will not come and lynch me.
By Brian Hedley
Silly
The Master of Ceremonies stood at the sacrificial altar in his black silk robes, rhythmic chanting echoed round the amphitheater directly on cue. A sacrifice lay on the marble slab waiting for the moment to arrive. She had been securely bound and her gaze was intently fixed on the figure standing in-front of her.
The figure turned and raised his hands to the air. The chanting ceased and he moved on with the ceremony. His voice reverberated as he spoke, reaching to a side table sat a sword, the hilt was emblazoned with a small array of gemstones.
With blade in hand, he finished the ritual reading and turned to his victim. Fear streaked across her face she prepared for the ultimate blow. The Master of Ceremonies gave a wry smile then swung the blade up high, to hear it clash with steel.
He turned around ignoring the sacrifice to find himself face to face with a very large muscular figure. “Just what the hell do you think your up to ?” said the strange figure. “Ritual Sacrifice, now move so I can finish the ritual.” The Master said trying to get rid of this odd bloke.
“Oh fine “ said the figure moving his blade. He walked back of the stage platform and wandered off, pushing his way through the crowd.
The master returned unnerved to his task. With sword aloft he delivered the final decapitating blow. The blood was then drained into a chalice. He raised above his head and the crowd cheered.
Just then the strange figure now some distance from the crowd spoke “Oh Bugger…. I’ve got it wrong again.”. Fred Pucklethwaite the worlds worst hero. Built like a hero, looks like a hero but brain of a hamster.
He knew it was too late to do anything about it. Shrugging his shoulders he looked at the damage to his sword. That persons blade was sharper than he hoped and a small nick etched the blade edge. Fred rummaged round in his pocket for his whetstone.
Finally he found it and sat down on a nearby rock. “Ritual sacrifice this week, stabbed foot last week what ever next ?” he muttered under his breath.
“Even lost my bloody horse, to a midget in a game of poker.” He concluded the blade would really need repairing but just getting it back to optimum sharpness for the moment would have to do.
Checking the edge he managed to slice a fine line across the top of his index finger. “Bugger!” he cursed, sucking his finger.
Putting the whetstone back in his pocket, he got up from his rock. His finger still hurt but he tried to put a brave face on.
He trudged towards the nearest town. Fred spent his life wandering, not that he wanted to but it was his job.
“I didn’t want to be a hero, I wanted to be an accountant” he mumbled to himself.
