I came up with this title all by myself.

Well, I'm done. I asked for people to give me a title, and they did. I got ten great prompts, and so was able to produce ten great stories. Some, despite their titles (few would have thought Blu-tack would have been hinted towards a break up) were downbeat, others were out and out silly. Surprisingly, one reader found the fate of the naked role rat to be both. Each to their own, I suppose. In the end though, it was a useful exercise all round that allowed me to include a bit of everything from talking animals and topical figures to foodstuff and street signs. I will definitely do this again. Until then, I'll put down my pad, take a break, and go enjoy the simple things in life, like a good meal or a sunrise.

Thanks to everyone who contributed a title. Without you, I'd be sat just waiting for ideas.

Silver Dollar Sunrise

Staring into the campfire, I wonder if it has all been worth it. Was it really a smart move to leave Mary, little Zeke, and a house full of comforts to come out here and pan for gold? After all, all I get is a couple of silver dollars a week. Sure, there’s promise of more if we find something nice and shiny of course, but so far I’ve been sieving nothing but plain ole rocks. Oh well, at least the sunrises around here are spectacular. Honestly, they’re beautiful. I like to think of them as my reward for getting up.

Every time I rise in the morning, that big flame ball that we call the sun is peeping up over the horizon as if checking that I’m awake. Once he’s ascertained I’m up and about, he slowly flies into the sky, ready to redden my cheeks and lighten my hair throughout the day. Naturally, he’s hot as well, but swinging pickaxes into mountains was already a strain without him coming along and making us sweat, so I try not to resent him for that too much. Besides, I know that soon he’ll be retreating and I’ll get to go to bed. It’s the perfect arrangement.

There are times I think about leaving here though. Someday I will probably just chuck it in and return to Mary and little Zeke. I miss them, but right now, for the moment anyway, I know I would miss those silver dollar sunrises even more. Until that changes then, my life is going to be just me, Mr Sun, and a mountain load of rocks, and that sounds pretty good to me.

Butts Wynd

Jamie leads me round a corner. He giggles all the way.
‘What? What? What’s so funny? Where are you taking me?’, I ask.
Jamie laughs.
‘Oh, you’ll see.’
We run across the high street, then down a steep hill. Jamie stops to catch his breath, and then we’re off again. Eventually we stop outside an alley.
‘Here we are’, says Jamie, laughing.
‘What am I meant to be looking at?’
There’s nothing here. Jamie points.
‘The street sign.’
What? I turn around and I see it. BUTTS WYND.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Why, because it contains the word ‘butts’?’
‘Yeah. And ‘wind’.’
‘I see. You do know the origin behind this place name, don’t you?’
‘No. Why, do you?’
‘Sure. Dad told me. Wanna hear it?’
‘Okay.’
I clear my throat loudly and somewhat overdramatically.
‘Right. Well, Tobias Butts was a Roman foot soldier who, pretty much by accident, ended up leading the legion to victory in the Battle of Badoink. He’d just been messing around, trying on his commander’s helmet, when someone mistook him for the actual leader. The real one was probably elsewhere, I don’t know, peeing behind a tree.
Anyway, rather than admit that he was an ordinary soldier playing a bit of dress up, he, out of fear of being found out, gave the men their orders. Luckily, it turns out that Butts had got wind of the enemy’s position via eavesdropping, and it was this knowledge that meant the plan of attack he formulated won them the Battle of Badoink.’
By now, Jamie is sat captivated and open-mouthed.
‘Wow… Is that true? Is that why the street’s called Butt’s Wynd?’
‘Course not’, I scoff, ‘some builders probably wrote up some graffiti by mistake. Come on, let’s go home.’
Helping him up, I laughed at the ridiculous notion that Butts Wynd could ever me named after an actual person or an actual butt when suddenly there was a low rumble below us. A burst of gas wafts in from nowhere. Now, I’m not entirely sure what it was, but it smelt distinctly like…
Farts.

In with Anger, Out with Love

Today, I hate you.

I BURN ALL OF YOUR CLOTHES.

I SHRED ALL OF YOUR PHOTOS.

I WISH YOU WOULD DIE…

Tomorrow, who knows? I might regret this or feel strangely at ease. That’s what’s so fun about being in a relationship.

Please don’t sue me.

The Naked Mole Rat New Testament

St Peter was pretty sure he’d never seen an arrival quite like it. As he peered over his desk, he could swear he was looking at what appeared to be a penis with teeth. Not only that, but it was accompanied by a tiny book. Eventually it spoke – the penis that is, not the book.

‘Is this Heaven?’

St Peter looked around at the pearly gates, the angels beyond them, and the clouds under their feet, and decided not to dignify this with a response. The talking phallus, met with this frosty silence, tried again.

‘Am I dead?’

Now, this was a query to which the answer wasn’t always apparent, so Peter nodded.

‘Excellent!’ The little pink thing started to do a celebratory dance. St Peter stopped it.

‘Sorry, why is your demise something worth celebrating?’

‘Because it means I can bring you our book, of course.’

‘“Our”? “Book”? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m here to bring you a new version of the Bible. A new New Testament if you will.’

‘I see. And you bring this on behalf of who?’

‘The naked mole rats.’

‘What’s that – some sort of punk band?’

‘Nope. We’re burrowing creatures from Africa.’

‘Right. God must have created you on one of his off-days. Come on then, let’s see this Bible of yours.’

St Peter picked up the creature’s book.

‘So what exactly have you put in this new New Testament? You haven’t changed much, I hope.’

‘Uh, well, we’ve, er, altered the odd commandment.’

‘You changed some of the instructions laid down directly from God?'

‘Yeah.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Well, er, adultery. That’s gone. We reason we’re so ugly that it’s a miracle anyone will shag us, so why keep that to the confines of marriage?’

‘Right. What did you replace that with – “thou shall shag around”?’

‘No, of course not – that’s what we put in place of ‘thou shall not kill’. No, instead of adultery, we wrote ‘thou shall not wear clothes or grow fur.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we’re naked mole rats, aren’t we? We’re meant to stay nude.’

‘You can’t grow fur.’

‘Exactly. That’s why it’s in the rules.’

‘No, I mean it’s impossible for you to do it, so there’s no need to ban it. It’s never going to happen.’

‘Oh… still, better safe than sorry.’

‘Better safe than – forget it. Is that all you guys have changed?’

‘Yeah. Ah, no, actually we might have changed Jesus to a mole rat.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, how else are we going to get the kids to read it?’

St Peter glares at the creature, who, despite this, continues talking nonetheless.

‘So, when can we get this published?’

‘When Hell freezes over.’

‘Great! And when will that be exactly?’

St Peter kicks the mole rat off the cloud.

‘You’ll have to go find out for yourself.’

The Glow in the Dark Ladybird

‘Dave?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s that over there?’
‘Where?’
‘By the cabbages. That fluorescent thing.’
‘That?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s just the Glow In The Dark Ladybird.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why, what did you think it was?’
‘A very very small torch.’
‘Ah. Now, that is stupid.’
‘Tell me about it…’

The Dentist's Yoghurt

Dental hygienist Dr Stewart was highly strung. Few would think that dealing with teeth, which neither bleed nor unexpectedly multiply during operations, would be so stressful, but it long has been rumoured that dentists have a very high suicide rate. However, it was not issues with overcrowding, plaque, or crowns that so bothered Stewart today. No, what he was more irate about was that someone had nicked his lunchtime yoghurt.

This meant his assistant, Cat, now had the incredibly difficult job of trying to calm the good doctor down. After all, his patients would hardly want him this wound up during their extractions.

‘Maybe you just forgot to take one this morning’, she offered, hoping this explanation would placate him. It did not.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve been working at this surgery for eight years, and in those eight years, every single day I’ve brought a yoghurt from home for lunch. It’s no longer a question of remembering for me, it’s now a matter of routine.’

‘Well, maybe you should change the routine. Shake things up a bit. Have a peach.’‘HAVE A – Cat, are you listening to yourself? Having a yoghurt every day is hardly a destructive habit. It’s not like I’m having an hourly dose of crack, or swallowing fire for a living, it’s just a little snack I’ve had in my lunchbox since I was five, and, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to maintain that tradition.’

‘Fine. Whatever. Keep having your yoghurt.'

‘Well, I can’t, can I? Why? Because somebody’s taken it!’

‘Look, do you want me to get you another one?’

‘What?’

‘The corner shop down the street. I could go there and buy you a new yoghurt. Would that make you happy?’

‘Yes. Yes, it would. Thank you, Cat.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

With Cat gone, Dr Stewart calls in his next patient. In walks a mother and her little boy, Sammy. Sammy is eating a yoghurt. The dentist looks at his suspiciously whilst his mother gets in the chair.

‘Wh – Where’d Sammy get that, Mrs Allen?’

She looks, then waves her hand dismissively.

‘What, the yoghurt? It was just lying around in the waiting room, and I said if nobody claimed it in twenty minutes, he could have it.’

‘I see… What did you say you’re in for again?’

‘Oh, just a routine clean. Nothing special.’

‘Ah, very well.’

Dr Stewart smiles, lowers the chair, and reaches for his pliers. This is definitely one cleaning that is going to hurt. To be fair to him though, she did deprive him of his yoghurt.