Short story: The Canterbury Tales By Karl Whitney - - - - Being of various degrees of height, possessing various names, and being in varying degrees of inebriation, the three to four or thereabouts personages began to walk after a night spent cavorting in the citadel. Michael, a gentleman, but a brute nonetheless, piped up with a suggestion. ‘Why don’t we tell each other stories about something or other and then when we get home we’ll kick the shit out of whoever told the worst one.’ Jock, not usually interested in such things, grunted, either in consent or contrariwise, and continued chewing the chunk of cow he had pinned between two slices of bread. ‘Jaysus’ said Seamus, a stage Irishman who had come along to tell a tale or two, ‘Sure that meat’s still shakin’’. All turned and addressed their respective gazes towards Jock’s burger, which was, indeed, still moving. The burger, a sensitive soul, didn’t like the attention. ‘Stop staring at me like I’m a piece of meat’, it cried, to everyone’s shock and amusement. ‘Look what you’ve done’ cried Jack, looking at the others, ‘with all your talking you’ve distracted me from my food.’ ‘Or we’ve distracted your talking food from you, more like’, interjected Seamus – he thought humorously, Jock thought not. And then like a bolt from the beyond, Jock delivered a swift blow to the chin of one Seamus McHugh, amateur bodybuilder, keen jogger and frequent masturbator of 7 Colostomy Row, Norwich. Time shuddered to a halt. Then quickly started again. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Seamus volubly inquired of Jock. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’ the burger interjected, ‘I’ve had just about enough of your bull. I have a suggestion.’ The boys, not used to the offer of constructive criticism, especially from an item of fast food, were all ears. ‘Listen to my voice, and hear the words I am saying, for tonight there will be a great storytelling competition here on the Earlham Road between Jock Roddington, Seamus McHugh, Michael Davis, and the mysterious fourth member of your party who has yet to make himself known.’ The mysterious fourth member of the party stood in the shadows next to the wall, cleared his throat, thought about moving forward into the light and saying something, thought better of it, and finally, resolutely, stayed in the shadows. The burger, unperturbed by the lack of drama, cleared his throat and continued. ‘There will be a storytelling competition, as I was saying, and the winner will gain much renown as the master of storytelling in the Earlham Road area for at least the next twenty-four hours or so.’ ‘Brilliant!’ sulked Michael, ‘I mean we had thought of this whole storytelling thing before you decided to join in, why the hell did you bother.’ ‘I’m sorry’, responded the burger penitently ‘I hadn’t been listening.’ Michael, who decided he had had just about enough of this whole thing, snatched the foodstuff from the hands of Jock, and cast it away over a nearby wall. It landed in a grassy area near some trees, where over the next few days it would be: Sniffed by interested dogs, Poked with sticks by a curious parson out for his morning walk, remarking to himself that it was the first time he had seen a half-eaten burger in this particular park, and thinking how it made a nice change from the more usual dogshit, Used by children as a Frisbee, Thrown by one of these selfsame children back over the wall to approximately the same position (with regard to longitude and latitude) as where it had been angrily cast from a few nights before. Jock, his punching-fist slightly injured since its bonecrack contact with the jawline of Seamus, refrained from physical comment but bemoaned the loss of his dear old burger through much recital of lays and lyrics for the rest of the journey. So, doth quoth I: Solemn lies the flesh Solemn lies the flesh Upon the lawn of no tomorrow Me fuckin’ burger It’s gone and left Me fuckin’ burger Hath swiftly departed Like the head of a bad guy Kicked off by Chuck Norris Me fuckin’ burger Bought for £1.40 Has flown off cross The rivers To a land I don’t know Dragging his weighty cadaver across the pits and trenches of the pathway that parallels the track I have heard called Earlham, Jock Roddington, son of Roddington, begotten, not made, one sweaty night in Benidorm, child of the early-to-mid eighties, caught sight of a star upon the horizon, pointed towards it, and bade his companions make haste towards the light. ‘Get up out of that you stupid cunt’ prompted Seamus as he attempted to drag Jock from the centre of the road where he had bowed down before a Fiat Cinquecento in some kind of attempt at prayer. All Jock could say was: ‘holy, holy, holy’. This blessed triumvirate (for the mysterious fourth member of the trio was, for the moment, missing in inaction), now safely ensconced back on the pathway, continued in the direction of Earlham. ‘That bloody storytelling competition’, Michael recalled, drawing the others’ attention to the endeavour they should most, at this point, be concerned with. ‘What?’ Jock dribbled, ‘you mean the one the burger told us about?’ The others kept silent and carried on walking, Seamus shaking his head. -------- Stories | Home | About This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.