This started as an exercise in constructing sentences. Things got a bit silly and suddenly a few characters appeared and I went on to think of more silly things. Good fun, but I don't think I'm much of a humour writer.
A word of warning, this contains 'adult themes'
In the water was steaming comfort. Currents of turquoise and silk parted round Pook's head while birds hummed sweet a microcosm of life. If there were a way to become a part of the river's tapestry he would take it and become one - one with all that pleased him so that spring morning. He froze inside memories blue as winter, suspect to his mind's monotony and the pains of hunger. That which could feel his soul took precedence and he wished to be rid of the earthly attachments of routine and labour.
I'm such a trifle bore, he thought. Ganiman wouldn't approve of his sentimental feelings, but Ganiman never seemed to approve of anything. Except himself. But that was Ganiman.
“Ganiman!” he shouted
“What be it this morning, Pook? Apple stew? Because that's what ya' gettin'”
Pook's nose twisted this way and that as he formulated a response. Apple stew, rhymes with... goo. Not one to remember, but still better than apple stew.
“Certainly, Gani-my-man.” Pook erupted from the spring and pulled damping clothes round his frame. A skinny frame. He thought it nimble, but his aunt often referred to him as 'delicate' - and to this day was still no closer to understanding why Pook took offence.
From his hut Ganiman did strut “Do you want apple stew or a kick in the teeth?” He liked to strut, from his hut – and hurl empty threats at Pook and whoever else would listen, as listening was something he couldn't do by himself. Too short of patience and all else that followed.
“Gani-my-man, I insist that you crack the curves oh-so-delicate on my china-face. Then I can call you whatever I wasn't whenever I wish, just as long as you leave me the capacity to speak. But even without I can still think dirty of you.” Pook changed into his uniform and carefully aligned the bells and buttons for maximum pomp.
“I wasn't never whatever it was that you called me, but didn't... I think” Ganiman thumbed his chin as a smith would thumb a knife, though there was nothing knife-edge about Ganiman's chin – it was more like a mallet. A mallet that had been hit with another mallet. A lot.
He carried a hot pot in one hand the way a bub would cradle a bee. The fact that it was a pot, and hot, didn't matter. His skin was leather through and through - much like his wit. Pook seated himself at at the giant stump and Ganiman joined him.
“Thank you, Ganiman. It smells... delicious.”
“Wasn't nothing”
“But a bit of something!” Pook twirled his spoon.
“Eh?”
“Nothing”
“That's what I said.”
“And you say it well.”
Pook soon forgot about his winter blues and devoured a fair portion of Ganiman's stewed apple. Peas Good and Non-such, it was called. Why someone would call something as boring as an apple Peas Good and Non-such was a mystery to Pook, but he imagined it had something to do with an old, old man who looked something like cat's whiskers stuck to a hessian bag of potatoes dressed in a green parka. He thought the potatoes dignified. They must be.
“And what be your plans today, my little friend?” Ganiman ladled apple into his maw with unnerving precision. Pook was a moment to respond, mesmerised as he was by the sheer volume of food that evaporated from Ganiman's plate. Or was it a trough...
“Oh... today, Ganiman, my man... I mean Ganiman - I go to town for a new costume, and I need a good girl of fashion to polish my bells.”
“Good for you, little friend. I be in the forest choppin' dead wood an' cookin' more stew”
“That's precisely what you did yesterday and every day before that since I met you.”
“Precisely!” Ganiman punctuated his statement by flicking his ladle in Pook's face, then grinned a mouthful of stew. Pook peered inside looking for buried treasure. Caves were full of treasure - so he was told - and he gathered the relative number of cavities was much of a muchness. The cave-mouth collapsed and Pook blinked at the strewn rubble.
“I bet you be going to town to see your lil' girlyfriend. What's 'er name... Dandylion?” Ganiman mimicked man's first wheel with two fingers and a thumb. Pook wished that Dandylion was her real name.
“It's Dainty Lion, my large and obscene friend. Not Dandylion - such a sweet mercy that would be.”
“A sweet what?”
“It's French - you wouldn't understand.”
Ganiman's face said “OH”
Dainty Lion imagined - rather too vividly - that every wig in the world could fit perfectly beneath the one she and two others now cradled. Up, up towards the shiny egg-head they went - a triangle of ladders and their passengers dancing geometric.
Droogle peeked, peered, and leered. He sat in front of a large mirror that was opposite another large mirror that enabled him to see all the girls at once. Bless the world for small mercies, he thought.
Dainty felt her balance waver near the crest and she shot a hand toward the closest support. A high-pitched squeak preceded muffled laughter as her hand slid to a stop on the pink, fleshy surface of Droogle's scalp. The path of her hand was now slightly less pink and slightly more red. Mayor Droogle pursed his lips like a five year old and his dove brows pinched a big schnozz – the big schnozz - as was his nick-name to all but himself.
Mother Grey floated over in a dress that resembled layered pastries. Her wig, twice her height, lent back as if to topple a cake into oblivion. She puffed to a stop and the cake swung back and forth as she twitched a rotund finger at poor Dainty Lion. Her face was red from embarrassment. Just like Droogle's head.
“Be a fright more careful, Dainty dear. Droogle is a dignified man and deserves no less than our full attention” Dainty had ceased listening at “fright more careful” Did it actually make sense? She replayed the phrase over her employer's still moving sausage lips...
“So sorry, ma'am... I slipped.” The other girls chuckled and Mother Grey waved a fist of ham.
“Get back to it, girls – there's still the powder job.”
Dainty groaned. Nothing was more embarrassing than dabbing a fluffy shield of white over the face of an egg-head. Nothing - except maybe the sound she had once again extracted from Droogle's dignity. The ladder skittered back and forth and his trumpet lips blew through cheeks that blossomed into roses of delicate pink. The girl's waited with baited breath for his top to pop. Mother Grey ruffled her pastries as fast she could, and waved an accusatory fistful of deli-meat at Dainty. For a moment her wig formed a square angle. Dainty smirked.
“Out out out! Come back tomorrow when you can be certain of the ability not to make a fool of yourself. And my customers. Out! Dainty!”
“Butt ma'am.” It wasn't a plaintive remark, though Grey had no time for subtleties as she steadied her flip-flopping hair.
“But nothing, young lady - think of what you've done here today.”
Dainty wondered whether she should take that as a threat or an excuse never to come back. She hopped from the ladder and collected her things, which consisted of an empty bag and a bag that was empty, two empty bags inside a bag (empty but for two bags) and a personal make-up thing. She forgot the name for it, and whatever it was she didn't care. Its oval mirror allowed her to apply beautifying colours wherever she pleased and whenever she pleased, much to Pook's amusement.
Pook arrived at the door to Mother Grey's Fine Wigs and Accessories as Dainty stepped past him, twisting his arm to make him follow. Huberta and Geetrice waved from inside and their voices overlapped into a mind-warping echo.
"Se-see you la-later, Poo-poookiman”
Pook stood dead and dumb, then blinked his mind back from its protective sheath of ignorance. They scared him. Oh so ugly. And manly – but that was excusable - they were men at one point. Dainty tugged harder and he trotted along like a pup.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth, Pook.”
“Ruff!”
"Shut it - that frippy old cow has me in a bad mood. And I'm hungry.”
“What was it this time?” Pook's eyes lolled into the back of his head, casino style, and Dainty snorted what Pook could imagine to be streams of fire, though slightly less offensive.
“You know of Mayor Droogle? Of course you do. I played a few notes on his shiny skull and Grey popped a fuse.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“I liked his wig. Spacious.” He waved a semi circle and Dainty stopped in her tracks – and they were tracks - then rounded on him. A light appeared from nowhere but somewhere and illuminated her from below like a wizard necromancer standing at a pit of hot magma. But not really. Pook liked to pretend. She waved a finger and scolded him.
“Don't tease me, Pook. I know your bells need a good spit an' polish, and only a women's touch will suffice. So play nice. Hey, I rhymed!”
“Uh... as you wish, Lioness.” Pook preferred the wizard necromancer.
“Ooh, you called me... don't do that, Pooksie”
Pook lolled his opticals again and grabbed her firmly with a kiss. She blushed, taken aback, and he kissed her again. This time she didn't blush – as only so much red could fit on ones cheeks - and in one swift movement swept him onto her shoulders. Pooks vision blurred as she ran gazelle-like toward her tree hut. Pook thought of something stupid Ganiman had said: “Only so much red can fit onna face, eh?”
The view was quite acceptable. On his left rows of houses flew by like a movie reel, to the right a view of the ocean, and in front the approaching forest. Below him were two squishy mounds of flesh, and up above - what should have been sky was actually the large butt of a flying cannon man. It sailed past with negligent speed. Or so he thought.
Cannon men came from cannons. The cannons shot them at things and they collided with said things, all to the great amusement of slack-jawed onlookers. This cannon man had missed his thing and was now spiralling, as some would say, 'out of bounds'. Dainty stopped in her tracks as the cannon man collided with her tree-hut cum pile of firewood, and within the tinder box there appeared a wholly spherical man of generous proportion lying on his rear-end while rubbing at his temples, as if to summon demons of wrath. Pook wished he would summon demons of a bath - or something - as he stunk like a mules backside.
Dainty dropped him with characteristic daintiness and he landed on something not at all soft. Cannon man had a head for a neck and a neck for head. This confused Dainty to no end as she looked for something to strangle. Cannon man's voice was a lit wick.
“Begat... begone... yes, begone, wench. I have servi... serious injuries.”
His arms swept back and forth in a long running motion but there wasn't nearly enough momentum to raise his beached hemispheres. Pook stepped back as Dainty led the charge against his bulging - his bulgingness - somewhere around what Pook thought of as his crotch.
If one imagined a slow motion replay of a football star striking a ball, its soft sides crumpling and springing back into shape, one would have an idea as to what was taking place. Pook didn't now whether to laugh or cry, so he did both, and as he did a town warden appeared with night-stick - but in plain day - and tapped it against his crooked arms. Why he did that Pook didn't know. Dainty and the cannon man ignored him.
“You could try saying something, sir.” Pook raised his eyebrows in the direction of the crumple zone.
“Shan't. Enjoying the view.” And so he was. Pook was to, though it was only now he noticed the way his eyes swayed with Dainty's backside like a clockwork monkey. Good form on those kicks, he mused. Cannon man's cries for help moved him forward, slowly but surely, like a child awaiting mother's wrath for raiding the cookie jar with a hammer.
“Dainty, please stop. You're making me dizzy, and the town warden here is fondling his night-stick. But in the day.” Dainty spun round and Pook cupped himself, awaiting the penalty kick.
“My house is gone, Pookies. Don't you care?” She knelt in front of him with her face nestled into his baubles. They jingled and jangled as she sobbed, and Pook lent his chin on her thick head of hair.
“What a thing to say! Of course I care. You can live with me until we find you a new home.”
Pook's teeth slammed together as Dainty leapt up and hugged him, and Cannon man regained his gravity with the warden's aid. He waddled forward and there was fire in his eyes. Literally. Pook rubbed his jaw and goggled at cannon man - how was such a person meant to see? He shrugged at his own question. Dainty awaited an apology.
“Now look here, young lady – you've left me rather sore in the nether regions, and I demand an apology. Wasn't me that aimed the bloody cannon, and I did all I could to avoid hitting small children and animals” he scratched a smoky chin and sniffed “Animals especially, all that hair is hard to get rid of. Ghastly stuff, really.”
Pook covered his eyes and waited. Dainty did the same. Cannon man exploded.
“You two can open your eyes now - the worst of it is over.” The warden tapped his night-stick and they sighed a shrug and gasped in shock. Cannon man was everywhere – in their clothes, in their hair. Everywhere.
“Ghastly stuff, really” said the warden “I'm off to go organise a crew - clean this up. You best be doing the same. Heh...”
“Right you are, warden.” Pook picked a piece of brown shoe from his shoulder and shook Dainty, who stood rigid with a stupefied expression. “Come on, girl - snap out of it. You can do it. Deep breaths. Focus.”
“Stop shaking my hips like that, Pooksie. We're in public.” Dainty dusted some cannon man from her dress. It fell on Pook.
“Oh... so we are.”
“Do you think it hurt, Pook?”
“Well, I don't know. Cannons blow up. Cannon balls hit things. Sometimes they explode - don't they? Of course they do. I think.” He stroked his pointed hat. “Perhaps it was fate.”
“It was his fate that I should be here to kick him in the crotch? You say the silliest things, Pook.”
“So it seems, Dainty.”
