Bohemia Village Voice

A Clip Round the Ear

This was the third night in a row he had sat waiting in the dark room, heavy weapon across his lap.
Twice the house had been burgled, in less than four weeks. It seemed the police couldn’t do much. They took fingerprints and generally messed up the house more than the burglars had. But to be fair they were patrolling the area more nowadays, even into the early hours. Even the system seemed to be against them these days, when a clip round the ear in the good old days was often all the warning you needed to keep to the straight and narrow.
He knew the thugs would return. This time he was ready for them. Hazy light filtered through the cold damp air from a corner lamp post, touching the window glass with a dirty yellow light. Net curtains added a strange pattern everywhere.
‘Like spider’s web them net things,’ he remembered saying to his wife.
“We must have nets on a large bay like this one,” she said, turning away from the window. Looking up, she laughed loudly at the funny face he had pulled, although he hadn’t realised. A beautiful sound, her laughter, it made him smile just thinking about it.
“Oh I wish you were here now,” whispered the man, suddenly silent and edgy.
A shape had darkened the window, looking like a huge spider woven through the net curtain, doused in lamp light. He could make out the spiky hair style, big head, short broad body. No mistake, this was the young man from across the road. A loudmouth youth he had watched grow from an obnoxious child, always causing trouble, to what he was today.
In the five weeks he had returned home from yet another prison holiday, life on the estate had been hell. A window frame creaked as the knife blade slid between wooden edges, lifting the metal catch very slowly, a thick coating of rust making it hard work. With a thud the window was slowly opening. He lifted the weapon, pointing the long barrels towards the shape, now seeing the thug’s face in the yellow light.
Slowly, the intruder started to enter the house, first a trainer was seen then the bottom of a pair of jeans, the hands meanwhile were trying to find a good grip on the window frame. The man was trembling now with the stress of it all, arms shaking with the weight of the super-dooper weapon, ready for use. Now, let him have it, with all the frustration built up over the weeks, he pulled the trigger.
Both barrels caught the intruder full in the face and chest, huge clouds of liquid staining the curtains and windows. With a spluttering cry of surprise the body fell backwards into the garden, laying still on the concrete path. Looking down at the body he thought maybe this could be the end of it. His wife would come back home from her sisters, life could carry on as before. This house could be a happy home again.
He phoned the police and told them what he had done – they were round in four minutes. Of the intruder there was no sign, except a pool of red on the path. He told them where they would find him without any trouble, he would be the one with red dye all over his face. A dye delivered with all the power of his grandson’s super-dooper giant space water rifle. A dye guaranteed to stain, no matter how hard you scrubbed, for at least ten weeks.

The Cat, the Witch and the Baby

When Wilma the witch found a baby on her doorstep, she knew this was going to be a funny day. Putting the infant on the dining-room table she went to get a drink.
“Oh he bit me,” she heard. Rushing into the room she saw the baby hanging onto the table’s leg as the table shook from side to side. Grabbing the baby she turned around falling over the cat’s bowl, slipping in the milk and hitting the floor.
“Stupid cat, why did you leave your dinner down there?”
The clock answered, “Cuckoo, cats away, mice will play, gone to town, with half a crown, cuckoo.”
“Well he never told me, I needed some more bat wings. Table why did you move?” asked the witch.
“I told you, he bit me, see the teeth marks in my wood.”
“You don’t still use bat wings do you?” asked the baby.
“Well, well, a talking baby with sharp teeth no less,” said the witch.
“I’m not a baby, I’m a handsome prince. I’ve got the powder spell in the toe of my sock to change me back.”
“Oh a handsome prince is it, you won’t do the washing-up then. Well at the moment you’re a baby, so drink the milk and go to sleep,” picking up her bag she left for the shops.
“Ohhhh, she’s in a moody,” laughed the baby. “Get in her good books you lot. Mix up the powder and when she comes back I’ll be a handsome prince. I can polish up all you beautiful bits of furniture.”
“It’s been years since I’ve been polished,” said the table, “Where do we start?”
“Well, the powder must be mixed with water; when it stops fizzing, I can drink it.”
“I can help,” shouted the whisk.
“We can help,” shouted the spoons.
“We can help,” sang the mice.
“Be careful with the powder,” said the baby. “Don’t throw it about, watch out, mind what you’re doing, this is a bad idea, oh no, getting worse.”
“Cuckoo, what a mess, all over the floor, up the door, high in the air, we don’t care, cuckoo.”
At last the drink was ready, the baby drank with loud slurping noises through a straw. Almost at once he started growing.
“Here we go, look at me grow.”
“Oh such long legs,” shouted the mice, “he might be a giant.”
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” purred the cat, back from town. “A very tall baby.”
“You keep out of this,” said the baby, “it’s none of your business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said the cat. “Mice, take that drink away. I heard it all in town. You were caught stealing babies’ milk, you even tried to blame the cats. It’s very fitting the wizards made a baby out of you, for one whole year.”
“Oh no, a year of milk and runny puddings.”
“I’m home,” called the witch as she slammed the door. “What is all this mess? Where did the baby get those long legs?”
“It’s a long story,” said the cat, “Sit down and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, and I will tell you all about it.”
“Cuckoo, tea and cake, tummy ache, sticky bun, lots of fun, cuckoo.”
“Shut up clock!”
“Cuckoo, sorry.”