#aerospoon

I’ll tell you a tail about Barry, a quail

Now this Barry, a quail, came a cropper

He was chatting away about doing “fowl play”

But misunderstood by a copper.

So young Barry, a quail,

Spent a spell in a jail,

He roomed with a vulture called Frank.

Time’s feet were fleet, and when back on the street,

They’d plotted to heist a big bank.

They were feeling dead good when they slipped on their hoods

And waddled on into Natwest,

But their hoods were on fleek, and it was Fashion Week

So instead they made Vogue’s 10 Best Dressed.

~ Leland V, 2015

The battered old box was deep in the cupboard, steadfast as ever. He thrust the longest pair firmly into the old candlesticks and slid open the matches. He smiled knowingly as the bulbs all winked out, as they did every storm, accompanied by a series of sudden yelps that fought to be heard over the thunder. Returning to the lounge he set the candlesticks down, opened the book, adjusted the blanket, and beckoned. The children heard only him as the storm, despite its sound and fury, passed without further comment.

He brought his fist down so hard on his chrome desk that diamonds rattled off his iPhone case.

“Bored?! ALREADY?!”

“I’m sorry Sir-Z, people tire of them easy! What do you want us to do, update the music?!”

They laughed as Jay-Z wandered towards the machine & pressed “VEND”.

With a wet noise, a scream of a sudden sentience, & a whoosh of vapour, the door slid open.

“This is what, number 10? Call it Rita X & get it a ridiculous haircut immediately.”

The vat-born songstresses stirred in their nutriTanks as the door to the PlethORA machine slid shut.

“Pan it, Tony!” cried Madeleine. Her husband swung the skillet at an intruder, who fell to the floor with a loud garache. It was a Dundee-d. “This is a bit rum, baba” Madeleine went down all all petits fours & tied the intruder up, ladyfingers pulling the rope torte. He ganached his teeth and went to see what the other Battenburglar had stollen. “Oh Eccles like! Chorley not! The world’s gone upside-down!” Tony cried, “They’re taking the bara brith!” “What is it, angel, what did they Fondant Fancy?” “I dunno, but my bloody lawn’s ruined where they were parkin.”

The waves never stopped hammering into the pebble beach, that was the injustice of it. They never faded into background noise, they never crept along the bay: it was always violent as if to taunt him. Well to hell with the waves, with the sea itself. He stared back at it as wind and age fractured his skin, as salt collected in the crow’s feet, as the waves smashed down with gleeful abandon. No matter how he wished or squinted or looked askance, there was nothing heading back over that horizon and there never would be.

~ Leland V, 2015

“I ain’t spillin’ the beans, pig, you’ll not get a sausage outta me.”

“You think this is gonna go over-easy, Cherry? We’re hard-boiled detectives & we know you poached them eggs. You’re toast & there’s gonna be a JAMboree. A little PAIN aux REASON & you’ll start waffling on. Omelette you think about this further. Muffin personal, you’re a nice bit of crumpet, but you’ll be doing porridge off the back(bacon) of this unless you start Alpen us.”

SLAM.

“Bit hammy in there, Crackle.”

“Don’t gimme that crepe, Pop,” he peered back at Ms. Tomato in the interview room, “this bitch got Snap killed & if she’s getting a grilling, i’m turning up the heat.”

They hauled him up on pulleys and ropes, in one foot increments. Inevitable really, this change of careers, after the accident. He was no longer cut out for office dronedom, his mind would wander and the sitting would

ache

. It’s not often one trips forward onto a low wall and their entire body

wraps around it

like a human trough, but when life gives you lemons and all that. He felt the contractors’ hands leave him as they screwed him under the eaves, and the first of soon to be many leaves collected in the concave of his belly.

Jean De Carteret flourished his new cape and looked sheepishly into his coin purse. It was worth it, the tithes would recompense him for his extravagant cape purchases soon enough. A seigneur of a fiefdom must look the part, after all. He swept into his overlord’s hall with a beaming grin, heavy moleskin cloak verily polishing the floor with swooping finery. “My good man!” his vassal lord beamed, presenting him with a long box. Surely deeds and titles lay inside, in unquestionable ink. “Gi’ us a tune, Jean!” cried his lord, as he pulled out the fife. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuu–”

~ Leland V, 2015