The Tales of Beetle About

The Tales of Beetle, About

By Gerrard T Wilson

www.crazymadwriter.com

The Tales of Beetle, About

The Tales of Beetle, About Text copyright Š 2012 Gerrard T Wilson Gerrard T Wilson asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

Conditions of sale: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book contains a selection of stories, rhymes and a whole lot more, about beetles of the mechanical kind and the insect kind. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I did, writing it.

Gerrard T Wilson (the crazymad writer)

The Tales of Beetle, About Contents The Circus of Grotesques Alice – from Wonderland?

Beetles About!

Your Car is a Slug!

The Car Behind Me The Amulet of Oxmosis The Crazy-mad Mallard Bertie the Beetle We Three Beetles Run, Run For Your Lives!

The Tales of Beetle, About The Circus of Grotesques While I was attending the afternoon performance of the Circus of Grotesques, a show that I had heard so much about (and not all of it being good, I might add), a most peculiar thing happened; something appeared on the back seat of my classic Volkswagen Beetle...

Exiting the marquee, I scrunched up the piece of paper the girl in the ticket booth had given me, when purchasing my ticket, a flyer advertising the Circus of Grotesques, and all of its eccentrically gross abnormalities. Dropping the flyer, I grumbled, “The Circus of Grotesques: it will change your life forever. Hah, that was certainly a load of old codswallop. It certainly hasn’t changed mine!”

Arriving back at my bug, glancing casually through the side windows, onto the rear seat, I saw what appeared to be a bundle of cloths stacked upon it. Confused, knowing only too well that I had not left anything there; I concluded that some person or persons unknown must have broken into my car while I was at the circus, and put them there. Tentatively placing my hand upon the door handle, I tried to open it. The

door, however, didn’t budge; my car was still securely locked.

Withdrawing the key from my trouser pocket, I inserted it into the lock and carefully, ever so slowly turned it. With a reassuring click, the mechanism unlocked. I cautiously opened the door.

Staring in at the mysterious bundle that someone has quite obviously taken a great deal of time and effort to put there – and all without forcing entry into my beloved old bug, I scratched my head. I could not understand why anyone would want to do it in the first place, let alone go to the bother of locking the door again when they were finished.

Scratching my head, still as confused, I tilted the driver’s seat forward and, leaning in, delved a hand into the mysterious bundle. Yanking it back fast, frightened, I raced away from my car as fast as my legs would carry me. You see, the thing that had frightened me, that had scared me half to death, was the bundle of cloths had suddenly moving. There was something ALIVE within it.

After several minutes in splendid isolation, far away from my car – and the thing lurking within, I gathered my composure and nerve, and cautiously, ever so cautiously returned to it. Reentering my vehicle, I could feel my newfound bravery

slipping, sliding away. All that I wanted to do was to run, to run away as fast as my legs would carry me, but I did not. No. For some peculiar reason, I stayed put, waiting, watching, and listening for signs of life from the mysterious bundle before me.

Then it happened again, the mysterious bundle began moving about as if it was alive. In fright, I felt the contents of my stomach, my wonderful breakfast of hot, sticky porridge, trying to escape it via my throat. At the last second, the very last second before I took flight, I heard a noise, a sound that I had never in my wildest dreams expected to hear, not in my car. I heard the sound of a baby, a baby contentedly gurgling and glooping away to itself, uttering the nonsensical mutterings that only babies are capable of doing.

My fears abating, I delved a hand into the bundle. After peeling away layer upon layer of pastel coloured cloths, I revealed the happy, smiling face of a baby child. Tears of joy welled in my eyes; I was young again, staring down at the innocent, helpless tot before me.

Looking around, thinking it might be some sort of a sick, practical joke being perpetrated upon me, I was afraid that someone would spot the wee article in the back seat of my car,

a baby that was quite obviously not mine, and I panicked.

“They might think that I have kidnapped it!” I whispered. But no, no one appeared; no one came to claim the baby, to speak for it – or against me.

Calming down, I come to the conclusion that it must have been abandoned. Leaning in further, I tried speaking to it, but because it was so very young all that I got by way of return were more giggles, gloops and nonsensical mutterings, interspersed by wet dribbly bubbles discharging from its ever so tiny mouth.

“What are you doing here?” I asked it questioningly. The helpless article smiled up at me, blowing yet more bubbles, its little arms thrashing about erratically, but still saying nothing.

Knowing only too well that I would never get an answer from the little tyke, my thoughts drifted to the problem of what I should do with it.

“Shall we bring you to the police?” I asked. “Surely they’ll know what to do with you, and how to find your mummy and your daddy.” Upon hearing these words the baby began crying, wailing so loudly I feared that if anyone had been passing, they would most surely have believed I was murdering it. “Okay, okay,” I said, “we’ll give the police a miss, for now.” To my

utter surprise, the wee bairn stopped crying. Relieved, I whispered, “You win the first round, little one. But whether you like it or not, I still have to work out what to do with you.”

This time, thankfully, the baby did not cry. It just stared up at me with its huge, round eyes, pointing. Yes, it pointed – I am sure of it. Yes, yes, its little arm were still thrashing about in all directions, but amidst all this thrashing I believed – I knew, for some peculiar reason, that it was pointing to the driver’s seat.

You are probably thinking I was mad, crazymad, believing that to be the case. Please allow me to continue, to explain what happened next.

Having ascertained the tot wanted to be taken for a drive, I settled it safely in the back seat of my car, ready for the off.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I inserted the key into the ignition switch and turned it on. Gurgling and glooping in its own peculiar way, the old engine burst into life, and Betsy (the name I had many years pervious affectionately given to my old bug) pulled away from the curb.

In little more than a few minutes of pleasant driving – and on such a wonderful day – I had forgotten that the wee bairn was actually there (you see, it had been so very quiet). It was only after I had taken a left turn, onto a road that I always enjoyed

driving along, with its twists and turns and ever so wonderful scenery, did I remember that I had a passenger. “Are you alright, back there?” I asked, glancing into my rear view mirror, to see. With that, I lost control of Betsy. Swerving right, left again and then right again, along the road that had suddenly lost all of its appeal, a road that if I did not regain control of Betsy – and fast, had every chance of taking my life, I glanced into the rear view mirror, shocked by what I had seen. Spotting a lay-by, I wrestled with the steering wheel and managed to guide Betsy to a safe halt. Pulling up the handbrake, I turned off the ignition switch. I sat there sweating, shaking, trying to get my head around what I had seen in the rear view mirror, the vision, the thing that had frightened me, so, and caused me to lose control of the vehicle.

“That was fun,” said a voice from behind me.” Can we do it again?”

Turning round, I faced the thing that had startled me – a fiveyear-old boy draped in the same multicoloured cloths the baby had been swathed in, moments earlier.

Laughing, poking me in the arm as it spoke, the child said, “Well, can we do it again?”

In a voice barely audible, I whispered, “W, who are you? And where is the baby?”

The smile disappearing from its face, the child cryptically replied, “I am who I am, be it baby or tot, and anyone else that you need me to be.”

Having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, I said, “I don’t know what you have done with the wee bairn, but I do know that if you don’t return him – and pronto, there’ll be trouble, heaps of it, for both of us!”

Lifting one of the cloths, a beautiful peach coloured one, the child said, “See this?” I nodded. “This is just one layer of many, is it not?” I nodded again. “My present appearance, like this piece of cloth, is also one of many.”

Scratching my head, bewildered that so young a child could be lecturing me – and in so philosophical a manner, I said, “Are you trying to tell me that you are the baby I found in my car?”

Nodding, the child replied, “You have said it.”

Taking this to be yes, I asked, “But how?”

The child, however, did not attempt to explain; he just fiddled about with the coloured cloths draped around him. After several minutes in complete silence, the child spoke again, saying, “This is a wonderful place. What do you call it?”

“It’s a lay-by,” I replied nonchalantly.

“It is far more than that.”

“Well, it’s also a picnic area, you know, because it’s quite scenic,” I added.

“It’s so green and brown,” the child continued. “Look at those flowers” he said, excitedly pointing to a stand of rose bay willow herbs not far from the car. “What colour are they?”

“They’re mauve, I suppose,” I replied, thinking nothing more of it.

“No, they’re exact colour?”

“They’re exact colour?” I grumbled, “I don’t know! Orwellian Violet? Fizzing Fruit Purple? Onishian Plum? I have never given it any real thought, you know, they’re exact colour.”

Turning round, to see if my suggestions were getting any reaction from my unexpected travelling companion, I was shocked to see that he had grown older. The baby, the child, now a good fifteen years of age, a pimply faced teenager, was giving me a most un-approving look.

“What sort of a jalopy do you call this?” he asked, thumping the back of my seat with one of his hands. “It must be as old as you – how old are you, anyway? No, don’t tell me, let me guess.” Scratching his pimply chin, the disdainful individual’s

eyes gave me the once over, and then he said, “I reckon you must be sixty on a good day, and sixty five on a bad one. Am I right? What sort of a day are you having, anyway, you old fart?”

Bamboozled by the sudden appearance of a teenager – and a particularly bad-mannered one at that – sitting so smugly on the back seat of my car, I struggled to find words for a reply, words to, hopefully, calm the obnoxious individual. However, when I had finally found some, he had already moved to the next matter. “How fast can this old crate go?” he asked, thumping my seat again. “Well, how fast?”

Hoping to pacify him, I said, “When it was new–” The obnoxious individual cut me off midsentence, saying, “Like, a million years ago? Hah, hah!”

To say his bad attitude was grating on my nerves would be an understatement, the spotty faced adolescent, sitting so smugly on the rear seat of my car, was annoyance personified. Trying to contain the situation, I tried another way of gaining control, of calming the spotty face teenager. “My name is Gerrard,” I said, “What’s yours?”

The spotty faced individual, however, made no effort to answer me. Whacking the back of my seat, returning to his question, he said, “Well, how fast can this jalopy go?”

Deciding that another change of tactics was required, I said – and firmly, “If you answer my question, I might, just might answer yours!”

“Hah, hah,” he laughed. “The old codger has spunk! I like that, you old fart, good on ya!”

Although it was undeniably some progress, I still felt no affinity with the youth sitting behind me, indeed, if anything, I wanted rid of him all the sooner. Having said that, he reminded me of someone, and it scared me... You want to know who he reminded me of, don’t you? Read on, my friend, read on...

“So you see,” he continued, “my name is Versavious. I don’t like it, but I’m stuck with it. I guess someone had a weird sense of humour, what say you?”

It was only then, when he had finally told me his name, could I face up to – and admit – who he reminded me off – it was I. You see, I too had that name, though in my case it was, thankfully, the middle one.

Extending my hand, I offered it to the pimply faced youth – Versavious. Slapping his squarely upon mine, he laughed

loudly, and said, “Come on, then, give her some welly, and show me how fast this old bucket can go.” Slapping Betsy into first gear, pushing the pedal to the metal, with the back wheels spinning, spitting out gravel, we roared off down that winding, county road.

“Thirty miles per hour?” Versavious bemoaned. “Is that as fast as it can go?”

“Patience,” I chided. “We are still in third gear.” Pressing hard on the clutch pedal, I shifted up into fourth (and last) gear.

With Betsy’s old but exceptionally reliable engine roaring ever louder, the needle on the speedometer climbed higher and higher. Forty miles per hour. Fifty miles per hour Sixty miles per hour.

“Come on, give it more welly!” Versavious yelled, slapping the passenger seat in front of him for the umpteenth time, in his growing excitement and pleasure.

I did, I gave it more welly. Coaxing Betsy to go faster and faster, I watched the speedometer needle move further around the dial. Seventy miles per hour. Seventy-five miles per hour.

“Give it some more!” Versavious screamed. “Come on, faster!

Eighty, I want to see eighty miles per hour!”

“Come on, old girl,” I said, patting the metal dashboard, willing Betsy on. “Just another five miles per hour, and we are there. Come on, old girl, I know you can do it.” Although the speedometer needle was still climbing, its rate of progress was much slower than before, painfully slower. Seventy-six miles per hour. The doors began rattling noisily. Seventy-seven miles per hour. The rear view mirror, separating from its mount, fell to the floor. Seventy-eight miles per hour. The steering wheel began vibrating within my sweating hands. Seventy-nine miles per hour. With a pop and crack one of the chrome hubcaps took flight, banging and clattering noisily as it disappeared into the distance. Eighty miles per hour!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard about the roar of the engine, the rush of the wind, the noise from the tyres thrashing the tarmac, and various other bits and pieces falling off both the inside and outside my cherished car.

“Versavious!” I cried out. “We’ve done it, we’ve really done it!” Versavious, however, was strangely silent.

Because we were travelling so fast, and with no rear view mirror to look into, to see what could be the matter with him, I had to wait until we had slowed down considerably, before I dared turn round, to see why he was so quiet.

When our speed had decreased to only thirty miles per hour, I glanced over my shoulder, into the rear of the car. I was shocked by what I then saw, because sitting behind me, as quiet as a church mouse, was a man, a man well into his fifties.

“W, who are you?” I spluttered, in my confusion. The man, however, remained silent, staring unblinkingly past me, to the road ahead.

“A, are you VersaviousI” I asked.

He nodded; at least I think he nodded, for his head hardly moved at all.

Leaning back, I offered my hand, to shake his. Pointing unemotionally to the road ahead, he made no move to offer his hand. Facing forward, returning my attention to the road, I panicked with fright, for in my eagerness to make his acquaintance I had all but forgotten that we were still moving.

We were heading straight for a tree, and an extremely large one at that. Wrestling with the steering wheel, I steered old Betsy away from certain destruction with only seconds to spare.

As the car screeched to a halt mere inches away from the tree that had had my name upon it, I was shaking with fright.

Wiping my sweating brow, I opened the door and staggered away from the car and my unusual passenger. It was only after

several minutes of deep breathing, trying to return to some semblance of composure, did I remember him – Versavious.

Returning my gaze to Betsy, I saw him. he was still there, sitting upon the back seat, as cool as a cucumber, enswathed in the pastel coloured cloths.

Waving, trying to get his attention, I wondered why he was still there. “He’s not even looking this way!” I hissed. “What sort of a person is he, anyway?” Then I heard it, I heard his words – and the tot’s, saying, “I am who I am, be it baby or tot, and anyone else that you need me to be.”

“How on earth did he do that?” I whispered. On those words, Versavious stared out of the window, directly at me.

Waving, I signalled for him to come over, to join me, but he did not. No. He remained there, inside the car, as if his life depended on it.

“If the mountain won’t go to Mohammed, I said, “Mohammed will have to go to the mountain.” Retracing my steps, I returned to Betsy.

“Why didn’t you come over?” I asked, opening the door, tilting the driver’s seat forward.

“Did you want me to?” Versavious, the fifty-year-old version, replied.

Exasperated, I said, “Of course! Didn’t you see me waving?”

To that remark, my unusual passenger made no reply. “Are you feeling alright?” I asked.

“Is there any reason why I should not be feeling alright?” he answered.

“Well...” I said, fumbling to find words. “It was a bit hairy, back there... You know, almost crashing into that tree!”

“Hmm,” he said, “I have seen it all before... The speed of youth, the foolhardy dangers we are so willing to take, when we think we will live forever...”

Taken aback by his melancholy musings, I once again found myself struggling to find words, as I too began slipping into the same sombre mood. Versavious speaking again brought me out of it. “What do you see when you look at me?” he asked.

“What do I see?” Nodding, he tapped his chest. “I see...I see a man in his fifties – and a moustache...” Then pointing, I added, “And those pastel coloured cloths...”

Smiling, (it quite surprised me, I can assure you), Versavious said, “Exactly!”

“Exactly?”

“You have said it.”

“I have?”

Lifting one of the cloths, a cerise coloured one, he said, “Look at this, it is beautiful, is it not?”

“I suppose so...if you like pink, that is.”

“It’s not a question of colour,” he replied, letting go of the cloth, the smile disappearing from face. “Have you not learned anything from the child?”

“The child?” I asked, confused, then realising that it was the five-year-old version of himself that he was pertaining to, I said, “He – you told me that you are but one of many... Is that what you are getting at?” I asked, my heart pounding fast in my chest. “That...” “...That, as it falls away, is replaced by another, more beautiful one,” said Versavious, finishing the sentence for me.” After saying that, my travelling companion said nothing more on the subject. Indeed, he was so quiet and still as we drove along that quiet country road, he would have had no trouble at all in passing himself off as a corpse.

We were a good five miles further down the road before I started speaking again, and dared to look into my jerry-rigged rear view mirror. To be utterly truthful, I had absolutely no wish to do either. Listening to the sound of Betsy’s dependable old engine put-putting away behind me, I was in a world of my

own. So, what did happen next? Do you think Versavious grew any older? Read on my friend, read on...

“I’m thirsty,” a creaky, crabby old voice croaked from behind me.

“Me too,” I replied, opening the window, paying little or no heed to the change in my passenger’s voce. “It’s getting dreadfully hot. There’s a petrol station about a mile up the road,” I said, “I’ll pull in there and buy us some water.”

Despite it being only a mile up the road, we never reached that petrol station. No. It might well have been a hundred miles away for all the good it did Versavious.

We were barely a hundred yards further along the road, when I heard the same crabby, creaky old voice calling out to me.

“Water, water...” it implored, “I must have some water...”

Looking into my rear view mirror, I got the shock of my life, for the fifty year old version of Versavious had transformed into one so old, so wizened, so incredibly crinkly, I feared for his very life.

Pulling the car over to the side of the road, I opened the door and jumped out. Tilting my seat forward I leaned in to my passenger and asked him if there was anything I could do to alleviate his distress. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I haven’t got any

water. Can you wait until we reach the petrol station? It’s less than a mile, now.”

Staring up at me, with weak, watery eyes, so different from those of the little baby, less than one hour earlier, but feeling like a lifetime away, the old man said, “No water? Is there no water at all?”

“Take it easy, old timer,” I replied. “There’ plenty of water,” Then I whispered, “The only problem is it’s not here...”

Lifting his bony arm, the old man, his even bonier hand clutching one of the layers of cloth covering him, said, “See this?”

“It’s purple,” I replied.

Gesturing with one of his thin fingers (there were little more than bones covered in skin), Versavious motioned for me to come closer. With my ear tucked close to his mouth, so close I could hear ever intake of his slow, laboured breathing, he whispered, “Have you still not learned? Do you still not see?”

Feeling terribly inadequate, that I had failed him, I replied, “The colour; it’s not the colour, is it?” Nodding, he leaned back into the seat and then closed his eyes.

Withdrawing from the car, speaking ever so quietly to myself, hoping that my elderly passenger might not hear me, I

whispered, “Come on, Gerrard, think! It’s purple – I already know that, but what else is it? What did the child say? He said...he said...he said it’s a layer, one of many. What does that mean? What, what, what?”

Rubbing my chin, telling my brain to get into gear, I suddenly remembered the teenage version of Versavious, and I said, “What did he say? What was he trying to tell me? Hmm, the only thing he was interested in doing was slagging me off, not to mention my car... MY CAR!” I cried out. “THAT’S IT! Why didn’t I see it, sooner?”

A Note: For all of you reading this, wondering where it is going, please be patient. All will soon be revealed...

“Versavious pushed me to drive Betsy faster than I was comfortable with, much faster that I would have otherwise done. That’s it, that’s the lesson – I’m sure of it!” I cried out.

Pacing back and forth alongside the car, I must have looked like a lunatic. Jabbering away to myself, I concluded that the lesson, the lesson the baby, the tot, the teenager, the fifty-yearold man and the ancient old timer had given me was to push myself; that I was capable of achieving so much more than I would have otherwise thought. It’s the layers!” I cried out.

“Peel one away one layer, to reveal another one that is better than its predecessor.”

Returning to Betsy, I opened the door. Leaning, I said, “Versavious, I understand–” but he was gone. The only thing left to show that he had been there at all was a neat pile of pastel coloured cloths stacked upon the rear seat.

Postscript: Diving home, my mind was still reeling from the extraordinary person (people?) that I had met. There was a happy

and

contented baby, a philosophical tot, a bad-mannered teenager, a man in his fifties with the knowledge of maturity behind him, and a man so old, so ancient he faded away into nothing, but not before he had imparted an valuable lesson, a lesson that will change my life forever. I had no sooner thought this, when something on my seat began poking into me. Raising my derriere, I delved a hand under and tried to find the culprit that was causing me such discomfort. Pulling it out, the culprit, I stared at it quite gobsmacked. You see, it was a crumpled up piece of paper, the flyer advertising the Circus of Grotesques.

“I thought I threw this away,” I whispered, reading words printed upon it. They read, ‘The Circus of Grotesques: it will

change your life forever.’ It was right; my life had certainly, most certainly been changed forever.

The Tales of Beetle, about Alice – From Wonderland?

This, here, story is strangely bizarre, It happened one morning: I was not in my car, I was still in my in bed; I had been fast asleep, When I found myself falling down a tunnel, so deep.

What on earth is happening? I whispered in fright, As I fell ever deeper down the tunnel without light, Then, with a bump and a crash my falling it stopped, And I lay in a heap, but at the bottom of what?

Rubbing my soreness, I looked squarely around, The most curious of places I had ever found, For all around me were queer things to see,

Like a Cat and a Hatter – and a Mouse drowning in tea.

Despite drowning in tea, the Mouse struggled not, As the Hatter and Rabbit jammed his head in the pot, But the biggest surprise I ever did see, Was Alice, urging them on, laughing, hee, hee.

Yes, Alice, holding the lid, was spurring them on, Come on, she said, and get the job done, Finish the Mouse, or you’ll have to answer to me, Look, here is the lid, duck him under that tea!

When the Mouse had been finished, despatched to his maker, Alice turned on the Hatter, saying you’re no better, Than a mouse or a lizard or even a carpenter, Take that, and that, you rotten old Hatter.

The only one left, apart from bold Alice, Was a trembling Cat; he wasn’t grinning with malice, When all of a sudden, she lunged at the faker, Despatching him also to his heavenly maker.

So who was this Alice – and what was the matter?

To bring her to murder a Mouse, Cat and Hatter, Just them a horn sounded and I jumped in the seat, Of my beetle; while driving I had fallen asleep!

While waiting for the traffic lights to change to green, that is.

The Tales of Beetle, About Beetles About!

Jeremiah loved his bed; he loved it so much he spent every free moment he had, within it. He was not a lazy man, mind you. It was just that, because he found it so comfortable, cosy and snug, he could think of no better place than bed in which to spend his down time. Lying there, listening to his stereo, to the beautiful voice Sarah Brightman – his favourite performer – singing, he was in another world.

“If heaven is only half as good as this,” he constantly said, “I will be one happy fellow when I get there.”

Jeremiah had a wife. Her name was Bethany. Although she also loved their bed (being heavily pregnant, she needed to rest) with its new and incredibly soft feather pillows, she was in no way as enamoured by it, as was her husband. “I don’t know what has gotten into you,” she said one day. “I thought you were bad, before, but since we got those new feather pillows, you are spending ever more time in bed!”

Sidelining his wife’s concerns, Jeremiah replied, “I have no idea what you can mean. Am I not doing everything I did, before?”

Well, yes,” his wife mumbled. “But–” “No ifs or buts,” her husband replied. With that, yawning and stretching his arms sleepily, he said, “I’m bushed. I think I’ll go for a little snooze, bye.”

“But, but, but!” his wife mumbled, quieter and quieter. “It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon!”

Forty-five minutes later, Jeremiah, still yawning and stretching his arms sleepily, emerged from the bedroom.

“What has you looking so tired?” his wife asked, eyeballing him curiously.

“I found it impossible to sleep,” her husband replied miserably.

“I kept tossing and turning... The pillows...”

“What about the pillows?” Bethany asked.

“It’s...they...were so lumpy.”

“Lumpy? What do you mean they were lumpy?” she asked.

“Lumpy as in uncomfortably lumpy,” her husband told her.

“How can they be lumpy?” she said. “Those pillows cost us a small fortune!”

“I know, that’s because they are – were so soft,” he said defensively (you see, it had been he who had wanted to buy them, that day, in the dilapidated antique shop they had come across, while on holiday in Lincoln).

“I still can’t understand why they were selling pillows in an antique shop,” said Bethany. “And judging by the price we paid for them, the owner must have thought we were a couple of easy touches. Fancy him telling us they were antiques!”

“He said they were new old stock,” said Jeremiah.

“He was playing with words.”

“They are feather pillows, you know! And don’t forget that rocking horse,” he remaindered her, “is an antique!”

Her eyebrows rising, Bethany said, “You think so?”

“Yes, I am sure of it,” her husband replied, hurt that she could doubt his judgement, so.

Seeing the hurt in his eyes, Bethany, mellowing, said, “Well, antique or not, it was a wonderful gesture.” Thinking about it further, she said, “I still cannot understand why he wrapped the pillows around it, instead of putting them into bags.”

“For protection,” Jeremiah explained. “The manager said the pillows were the best way to protect such an old item.”

Although Bethany gave him an odd look, she offered Jeremiah no reply, for or against what he had just said.

Changing the subject, thinking it better to move while the going was good, Jeremiah said, “It looks like rain; I had better go mow the lawn before it begins.”

“Yes, I think you had better,” his wife replied, folding her arms, still smarting from how much the pillows had actually cost.

After her husband had gone into the garden, Bethany watched, waited until he was sitting astride his mower, cutting the grass.

Opening their bedroom door, she made her way across to the bed and carefully pulled down the sheets, studying the feather pillows beneath. “I can’t see anything wrong with them,” she said. Touching one of the pillows, she added, “It feels soft, there are no lumps that I can see.” Getting into bed, resting her head upon the pillow, she said, “It feels alright to me, as soft as a baby’s bottom.”

Returning to the living room, having forgotten entirely to check her husband’s pillow, Bethany made herself a cup of tea.

Sitting down next to the window, she looked out, onto the garden and her husband, her loyal, good, hardworking husband,

wondering how she had managed to be cross with him over something as trivial as pillows.

“I’ve finished,” said Jeremiah, returning inside. “And not a moment too soon,” he added. “It’s starting to rain.”

It was raining; a steady fall of rain was watering the garden.

“I love the rain,” said Bethany,

finishing her tea. “It’s, it’s

so...complete.”

“Complete?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Like...like everything is right in the world.

That God is still here, watching over us, providing.”

“That’s quite poetic, even prophetic,” said her husband. With that, yawning and stretching his arms, he headed straight for the bedroom, “Keep up the good work,” he called out, closing the door behind him.

“Keep up the good work!” Bethany mused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Thirty minutes later, Jeremiah, emerging from the bedroom, yawning and stretching more tiredly than before he went in, made his way into the kitchen. “I’m bushed,” he groaned.

“That pillow is terrible. What happened to my old one?” he asked. “Do you know where it is? Anything is better than that lumpy thing!”

“Your old pillow, both of the old pillows are gone, thrown out,” Bethany replied. “And so will you be, if you don’t give it a rest.”

Thus put in his place, Jeremiah, tired and sleepy Jeremiah, said nothing more on the subject.

It was many days later when Jeremiah next mentioned pillows.

Speaking carefully, tentatively, hoping to get a better response this time around, he said, “Darling...”

“Yes, dear,” his wife replied. “What is it?”

“It’s...”

“Yes?” “It’s...”

“It’s what?” Bethany asked turning to face him directly.

“It’s those....”

“Those pillows! That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” she growled.

“Pillows, pillows, pillows, that’s all I ever hear from you these days!”

“I’m not that bad?”

Giving him a look that would have curdled butter, she replied, “You are!”

A week later, having had little or no sleep in the meantime, Jeremiah was at breaking point. His hands shaking, his lips

quivering and his heart pounding, all that he wanted to do was sleep. “If I can just get a decent night’s sleep,” he said to his wife, pounding his bumpy, lumpy expensive new pillow. “Just one, miserable night’s sleep, I am sure I will then be able to get over this, this – insomnia or whatever it is!”

After kissing her husband goodnight and offering him some words of comfort, Bethany rolled over onto her side and soon fell fast asleep.

An hour later, Jeremiah was still fully awake.

Having spent

the last sixty minutes tossing and turning, walloping his pillow, hoping he might make it more comfortable, but without any success, he decided to give it a rest. Donning his dressing gown, whispering to himself, he said, “Up with you, Jeremiah, there is a mug in the kitchen with your name upon it, a mug that will soon be filled to the brim with piping hot cocoa.”

Entering the kitchen (the tiled floor was cold on his feet), Jeremiah turned on the kettle. “I’ll have you boiling in no time at all,” he whispered. “And when the water is boiled,” he continued, “I shall pour it over my cocoa.” With that, he spooned two heaped teaspoonfuls of the wonderful powder into his mug, ready for the hot water.

“Ah, that’s better,” said Jeremiah, sipping the tasty imbibe.

“Who said there isn’t a god? To have a drink as wonderful as this in the world, there must be a god.”

By the time Jeremiah had finished his cocoa, he was feeling so relaxed he was sure he would fall asleep the instant his head touched the pillow. Getting into bed, being ever so careful not to awaken his wife, he lay down, allowing his head to sink into his pillow – his lumpy, dumpy and ever so bumpy pillow!

“This is awful!” he groaned, sitting up. Turning round, fluffing and plumping up his pillow, he prayed that he might, just might make it more comfortable. However, on lying down, Jeremiah found it no more comfortable than before. Sitting up, turning around, facing his pillow, he hissed, “You won’t get the better of me. I will knock out your lumps, or die trying!” With that, he began pummelling, bashing, whacking, hitting, walloping, and thrashing his pillow.

Ten minutes later, Jeremiah was still pounding his pillow.

“Take that,” he growled. “I paid good money for you. All that I want is a decent night’s sleep. Is that too much to expect, too much to ask of you?” His pillow, however, did not reply.

Exhausted from so many nights of missed sleep, Jeremiah, entering the realms of fantasy, said to the pillow, “So, has the

cat got your tongue? Got nothing to say for yourself, huh?”

Walloping it again, he added, “Take that and that, you horrible thing!” It was at this point, this juncture, as he was walloping the pillow harder than at any time before, when it happened – it burst open. Escaping from their cotton imprisonment, thousands of feathers shot high into the air, where, after floating close to the ceiling for several seconds, as if they were exempt from the law of gravity, they slowly returned to earth.

Covered in soft, downy snow, Jeremiah marvelled in its beauty.

Then he let out a scream so loud his wife shot high into the air, almost as high as the feathers had done, seconds earlier.

“What is it?” she asked, spitting out feathers. “Has the roof come off? Has there been an earthquake? Quick, tell me what is happening!”

Pointing to the burst pillow, shying away from it as if it was infected with the plague, Jeremiah said, “L, look what’s coming out f, from it, the p,pillow!”

Jumping out of bed, Bethany screamed, “Beetles! Your pillow is full of beetles!” It was, from out of the burst pillow hundreds, thousands, perhaps even millions of shiny black beetles were emerging.

Her hands trembling with fright, Bethany tried to open the bedroom door. “It won’t open!” she screamed. “The door is jammed! We can’t get out!”

“Leave it to me,” said her husband, hot on her heels. With that, he grabbed hold of the handle and made to turn it. The handle, however, would not turn, not even a bit.

“What’s wrong?” Bethany screamed to her husband. “Why don’t you open it?”

“I can’t turn the handle,” he replied.

“Try it again, Jeremiah! You must!” Pointing to their bed, screaming louder, Bethany said, “Look! They’re creeping down the bedspread and onto the floor – towards us!”

They were; the beetles, slowly but surely making their way down the sides of the bed and onto the floor, were indeed approaching the frightened couple.

Trying even harder to open the door handle, her husband was still unable to budge it. “I, I can’t turn it!” he whimpered, sadly, badly. “It’s useless...”

“Hurry! Quick! They are getting closer!”

Thus, we temporarily leave them, Jeremiah and his beautiful wife, trying to breakout from their bedroom, trying to escape from the beetles that were inching their way ever closer.

Will the advancing beetles reach Jeremiah and his wife, Bethany? Moreover, if they do reach them, will the beetles gnaw their way into their flesh, through to the very bones of our couple’s frightened bodies?

Before I tell you what happened next, have you any idea where the beetles actually came from, before they were inside that pillow? You don’t? You give up? Okay, I will tell you where the beetles came from. The beetle came from – No, I will not tell you where they came from, you will have to read on and find out for yourself.

Antiques, yet also new?” Jeremiah asked, thinking the man was either a simpleton or a conman.

“That is an exceptionally fine rocking horse, sir,” the manager of the antiques shop said to Jeremiah, the day they had visited it. “It is over one hundred and fifty years old. It belonged to the baroness of Rathvilly, in the County of Carlow. That’s in Ireland, in case you didn’t know, sir.”

“Is it really that old?” asked Bethany, one of her hands rubbing the item’s hard wooden mane.

“Yes indeed,” the manager insisted, “All the antiques and antiquities in my shop are genuine, as old as the proverbial hills.”

“So where did these pillows come from, then?” Jeremiah asked, picking up one of the many pillows that were scattered around the dusty old shop.

Tapping the side of his nose, the manager, looking around him as if he was making sure that no one else was listening, said, “Those pillows are ‘new old stock.’ They are antiques, yet also new.”

“Yes,” the manager continued. “Those pillows came from a very special location indeed....”

“Do you want some, Jeremiah?” Bethany asked her husband.

“Well...” he replied, inspecting one of the pillows, further, “...they do look rather comfortable!”

“They are comfort to the extreme,” the manager insisted. “The queen of England rests her head each night on the very same pillows.

“We’ll take two,” said Bethany, convinced by his argument.

“How much are they?”

His demeanour changing, the manager said, “Very expensive, I’m afraid.”

“How much is expensive?” she asked.

“They are twenty-five shillings apiece.”

“That is expensive!” she said. “Do you still want them, Jeremiah?”

Although the pillows were ridiculously expensive, Jeremiah, valuing a good night’s sleep more than anything else in life (apart from his wife that is), said, “Yes, we’ll buy them. If they are good enough for the queen of England, they are good enough for us. And we’ll also take that rocking horse.”

“That is a fine choice if I say so myself,” said the manager, looking very pleased (relieved?) with the sale.

Withdrawing his wallet, Jeremiad, seeing the manager wrapping the two pillows around the rocking horse, said, “What are you doing?”

“This is the best way to pack a delicate item such as this,” the manager explained. “This rocking horse, being so old, requires something soft around it while you are transporting it home.”

Although Jeremiah thought the manager was telling the truth, for some peculiar reason he did not fully believe him, he felt as if there was something that he was not telling them. Shrugging it off as ‘silly thinking,’ he said, “Okay, good idea. How much do we owe you, in total, including the rocking horse?”

“The full price,” the manager informed him, “is fifty-seven shillings.”

“Fifty-seven shillings?” Bethany asked, acutely surprised that it was not a great deal more.

Coughing, distracting the manager’s attention from what she was implying, Jeremiah said, “Here you are, my man, sixtyshillings. You can keep the change.”

Exiting the shop, the couple headed for their car. Placing the rocking horse upon the path, Jeremiah, opening the passenger door of the car, said, “Here you are, dear. Sit yourself down and take it easy, you being pregnant.”

“Thanks,” she replied, getting into her seat.

Opening the driver’s side door, tilting his seat forward, then picking up the rocking horse, Jeremiah said, “I think I can just about squeeze it in here.”

“Do be careful,” she said, watching her husband as he awkwardly tried to insert the rocking horse onto the back seat of the car. “We don’t want you to be getting a hernia.”

“Ouch,” he replied, just thinking about it.

“You know he made a mistake, don’t you?” said Bethany, chiding her husband for distracting the manager’s attention, so, “A rocking horse – and an antique one at that – has to be more than seven shillings!”

“That’s what the man asked for,” Jeremiah nonchalantly replied, “and that’s what we paid. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” she replied un-approvingly.

Placing the rocking horse inside the wardrobe in the spare room, Jeremiah said, “Jeremiah junior will love this.”

“He has to be born, first,” said Bethany.

“Was I silly?” he asked. “You know, buying it so soon?”

Giving him a big hug, she said, “No, you were not silly. I think it was lovely gesture.” Removing the pillows wrapped snugly around the rocking horse, pointing to a black mark on one of them, she said, “What’s that? It looks like insect droppings!”

Inspecting the mark, and then brushing it casually out, her husband replied, “It’s nothing, just a mark. Look,” he said pointing to the rocking horse. “It picked it up here. See this crack in its neck?” he asked, poking a finger into it.

Withdrawing his finger, showing it to his wife, he said, “Look at the muck on my finger, there must be decades of dust in there.” Moving on from the mark on the pillow, he ordered, “Throw away our old pillows, for we have fine ‘new’ ones to enjoy.”

That, my friend, was how the beetles got inside Jeremiah’s pillow. They had been residing inside the rocking horse, but when the pillow made contact with the crack, seeing a gift horse before them, the beetles hastily migrated – every one of them – to it. Thus ensconced within so wonderland a place – soft, downy and incredibly fluffy – the beetles multiplied at an alarming rate, making Jeremiahs pillow lumpy, dumpy and increasingly bumpy.

Thus, we return to the story, to the beetles making their way down from the bed, heading for Jeremiah and Bethany.

“Open the door!” Bethany begged her husband, “The beetles are almost upon us!”

“I’m sorry, but it won’t open!” he replied. While trying to think of something – anything – they might do to escape the marching insects, Jeremiah spotted the chair in front of the dressing table. Stepping onto it, he said, “Here, Bethany, take my hand. I’ll have you up and away from those horrible things, in a jiff.” Accepting her husband’s hand, Bethany stepped up and onto the chair, alongside him.

Marching across the shag pile carpet, the beetles – in their hundreds of thousands – headed for the spot from which the couple had only seconds earlier vacated. Upon reaching it,

however, the beetles continued their advance as if nothing had happened, as if they had not even noticed the couple, the ever so frightened couple who were now standing, balancing upon the chair, directly above them. Marching, marching, marching, the beetles, the ever so scary beetles, made their way under the door, out from the room.

“Look!” said Bethany, hardly believing their luck, “They’re going under the door!”

“Shush,” Jeremiah whispered. “Don’t say anything until they have all gone.”

It took some considerable time for all of the beetles to exit the bedroom, but when they had gone a relieved couple stepped down from their chair.

“Where do you think they have gone?” asked Bethany.

“If we could only open this door,” Jeremiah replied, “we might find out.”

Let me try it again,” said his wife. “Slowly, careful – definitely not panicky – Bethany took hold of the door handle and turned it.

“How on earth did you do that?” Jeremiah asked, scratching his head, in wonder.

“I, I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t rushing.”

“More haste less speed?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

The door creaking slowly open revealed two human faces.

Looking out and onto the hallway, Jeremiah and Bethany tried to see where the beetles had gone.

“Can you see them?” Bethany asked her husband.

“No, not yet,” he replied, his eyes scouring the carpet for signs of marching insects. Spotting a lone individual, a straggler, heading for the door of the spare room, Jeremiah said, “I see one, look, it’s over there!” He pointed to the said insect. The beetle, as if it had heard him, stopped dead in its tracks.

“Do you think it heard you?” said Bethany.

“I hope not,” he replied, quieter than a church mouse. “I have had my fill of beetles, this day.”

The beetle, returning to its original position, then marched right under the door.

“Phew, that was close,” said Jeremiah, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Where do you think they have gone?” asked Bethany.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he replied, “and that is to follow the little blighter.”

“Jeremiah, I’m afraid,” she protested. “What if they see us?”

Feigning bravery, her husband said, “Don’t you be worrying about anything, dear. Danger is my middle name. Those beetles won’t know what hit them if they do so much as even look at you.”

“Oh, Jeremiah, do grow up,” she laughed.

Carefully pushing the door of the spare room ajar, Jeremiah and Bethany peered inside, trying to see where the beetles had gone.

Pointing to the wardrobe, Bethany said, “Do you think they went in there?”

“I do,” said her husband. “In fact I think I know exactly where the blighters went – and also came from.”

“Where?”

“All in good time,” he replied, tiptoeing his way into the room.

Silently, carefully, tentatively opening the doors of the wardrobe, Jeremiah pointed to the rocking horse within. “In there,” he said to his wife.

“In there?”

“Yes, the beetles – every last one of them – are inside the rocking horse.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as the pope is a catholic.” Pointing to the crack in its neck, the one they had seen, before, he said, “See that?”

“The crack?”

“That’s where they are – the beetles – deep down inside it, and also where they came from.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Remember, the mark we saw on the pillow, the day we purchased them and the rocking horse?”

“Yes...”

“You said it looked like insect droppings.”

“It was insect droppings!” Bethany replied, clapping her wands with excitement.

“Careful,” her husband warned. “We don’t want to be alarming our little friends.”

Several minutes later, having moved the rocking horse from the wardrobe, to the back garden, Jeremiah was standing over it with a box of matches in his hand. “Are you ready, Bethany?” he asked.

Nodding her head, she said, “I am, but please be careful.”

“Careful is my middle man,” her husband replied, with a laugh.

An eyebrow rising, she said, “I thought it was danger?”

“It is,” he explained. “I happen to have two middle names, okay?”

“Okay, you old rogue,” she said, also laughing.

Leaning down low, striking a match against the side of the box, Jeremiah set fire to the kindling he had inserted beneath the rocking horse. Yellow flames advancing up the legs of the antique were soon licking at its neck.

“It seems such a waste,” Bethany mused.

“To kill the beetles?”

“No, you dope,” she replied. “To burn the rocking horses, it being so old.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that,” her husband replied. “But those beetles just had to go!”

“Yes, I know,” she said dolefully.

Although the flames were making good progress, Jeremiah had to be sure they were doing their job, for in all truthfulness, neither he nor his wife had seen the beetles entering the old

rocking horse. Grabbing hold of his spade, he whacked off the rocking horse’s head with the back of it. Looking down into the antique’s burning interior, Jeremiah, howling with delight, saw beetles, beetles and yet more beetles. “The beetles!” he cried out, dancing around the burning antique as if he was a lunatic.

“The beetles are dying; they are burning up, they are being cooked to a frazzle, they are meeting their maker!”

It was at this moment, this instant, that he saw them, the children from next door. Standing, watching his every move, their faces tight against the mesh of the wire fence that divided the gardens, the children – all four of them – were horrified by what they were witnessing.

“Why are you setting fire to that rocking horse?” the eldest child asked.

“We don’t have a rocking horse,” the second eldest child said to Jeremiah.

“Why is he doing that?” asked the next child down the line.

The youngest child said, “I’m frightened.”

Seeing their scared, frightened, shocked and terribly confused faces staring through the wire mesh of the fence, at him,

Jeremiah’s attention returned to earth with a bang. “Err,” he mumbled. “Err...”

“Hello, children,” said Bethany, trying to salvage the situation.

“My husband – Jeremiah – was just burning this broken-down rocking horse that we bought. He thought it was so nice, he took down all the measurements so that he could make an exact copy of it, to give you this Christmas.”

Realising what she was at, Jeremiah, joining her, said, “No! Don’t tell them, Bethany! It was supposed to be a surprise!”

“A surprise?” the youngest of the children asked.

“A rocking horse?” asked the next eldest.

“The third child said, “I love surprises!”

The eldest child, being more canny than his siblings, said, “Do you really mean it?”

Yes, of course we do!” Jeremiah lied. “However, it was supposed to be a surprise... I don’t know what I shall do with it now...”

“Please still give it to us!” said one of the children.

“Yes, please still give it to us, at Christmas!” said another. “We will forget that we ever saw you here!”

The third child said, “I’m good at forgetting. My teacher – Miss Battle-Scars – keeps telling me, so!”

The fourth and eldest child, not as easily convinced, said, “What were you at, burning that rocking horse, anyhow? Why didn’t you mend it?”

On hearing this, his siblings – all three of them – said, “Don’t tell him, we don’t want to hear, we don’t want to know, if it means us not getting the other, the new rocking horse!”

Thus ends my story. The children from next door received a shiny new rocking horse courtesy of Jeremiah (it took him all the way up to Christmas Eve, to finish it). Jeremiah received a brand-new pillow courtesy of Bethany, and slept soundly thereafter. Bethany – what did she get? I will tell you what she got, Bethany got the best Christmas present possible, a brandnew baby girl to love forever and ever and ever.

THE END

A Note: There was a time, an interlude, during my long, happy years driving Volkswagen Beetles, when I strayed from the fold, when I purchased a Skoda 110R...

Your Car is a Slug!

Your car is a slug, said Robbie one day, Your car is a slug; I do have to say, It’s so small and rotund; pardon my tact, But your car is a slug and that is a fact!

My car is a slug? I asked him that day, You say my car is a SLUG, and that is your say?

To insult my poor car, a Skoda, boo hoo, You called it a slug; I am so finished with you!

But, said poor Robbie, all in a tiz, That’s how I can see it, you car’s not the biz, It’s so ugly and dumpy, like a bowl of squashed fruit,

You car is a slug, don’t blame me, blame you!

Blame myself, surely you jest?

You are a horrible cur, or haven’t you guessed?

You are no longer my friend – be away with you, It may be a slug but for me it will do.

I am sorry, so sorry you bought that gong, Said Robbie to me; he still looking on, If it makes you any happier, I will not say it again, My lips are sealed; I will not mention that thing.

If you think that an apology, said I to him, You can go jump in a lake, you nasty person, You are so full of yourself, you cannot even see, That the car you dive is a rusty jalopy.

What do you mean? he asked, all agog, My car it is German, and it cost a few bob!

If it did, I replied, they saw a fool in their midst, And sold you a dud, an NSU Prinz!

The Tales of Beetle, About The Car Behind Me (Where did it come from? Who is driving it?)

A funny thing happened to me the other day... At the time, mind you, it was anything but funny; the car, the car-thing that was following us, my trusty old beetle and me, along that lonely country road.

The day started out like so many others, this spring, with a gloriously bright sun streaming through my bedroom window, awakening me to yet another wonderful day. It really was a wonderful day, the sky was blue, the birds were singing their hearts out, and the trees and shrubs in my garden in full blossoming splendour. It was, like a said, a wonderful, wonderful day.

Having finished my ablutions I made my way downstairs, to the kitchen, where I plugged in the kettle and poured out some muesli into a bowl, After soaking it with lashings of milk, and

then popping it into the microwave, for a good cook (people are always amazed when I tell them that I cook muesli. I have no idea what they see so strange about it. Am I the only person who does this? Any comments?), I spooned two heaped teaspoonfuls of coffee into my favourite mug and poured the piping hot water over it, fresh milk following closely behind.

After giving the mixture an energetically good stir my coffee was ready for tasting. It tasted so good. Leaving the microwave to its own devices, I made my way into the sitting room, where I turned on the TV and waited for the picture to appear. It didn’t. “Drats!” I hissed. Getting up from my chair, I checked to see it was plugged in. It was. “”Drats!” I hissed again, annoyed that it had failed so soon (you see, my television set was only six months old).

VW Abandoning the TV, I returned to the kitchen at the very same moment the bell in the microwave rang, informing me that my muesli was cooked. Opening the door of the microwave, I took hold of the plate (it was hot) and trotted across to the table where I deposited it. “Phew!” I gasped. “I should have used a

cloth!” After making myself comfortable on one of the chairs I began eating my breakfast that, like my coffee, tasted so good.

Having finished my muesli I gulped down the last vestiges of coffee. Having abandoned mug, plate and spoons to the innermost workings of the dishwasher, I decided to take a stroll in the back garden.

Sauntering down the garden path, I marvelled at the glorious day. The sun, warm on my back, filled my spirit with happiness. Just then, the sound of the refuse cart, making its way down our road, on its weekly visit, grating, groaning, snapping, snarling – and smelling – made me wish that I was anywhere but home. “I’m going for a drive in the county!” I said above the rapidly growing din, “As far away from this terrible noise as I can possibly get!”

Dashing inside, I grabbed hold of my jacket and searched frantically for my car keys. “Where are they?” I groaned almost as loud as the refuse cart. “They must be here somewhere!” It took me a full ten minutes to find them. And do you know where they were? I will tell you where, they were inside the biscuit barrel, underneath the digestive biscuits (my favourites). Heaven knows how they got there,

Unlocking the garage door, I turned the handle and then yanked it up, gazing in at my beloved old beetle. “We’re going for a drive, Betsy,” I said, patting her roof and inserting the key into the door lock. With a reassuring click the mechanism turned. Opening the door, I stepped inside. In there, cocooned within my bug, I was in another world, another time, where the worries and cares of the outside world never entered. I was in world of air-cooled engines, antiquated ideas – and fun.

Turning the key in the ignition switch, the rear-mounted engine roared into life, propelling me out from the garage and onto the driveway. Jumping out from my car, I closed the garage door dived back in again. Depressing the clutch pedal, shifting into first gear and then pressing down hard on the throttle pedal, the engine propelled us down the road, past that smelly old refuse cart.

The sky was still blue and the sun bright when I got out there, far into the countryside. The hustle and bustle of town was now but a memory. Easing back on the throttle, I breathed deeply, slowly; it felt so good to be there, to be alive – and on so wonderful a day. I had no idea where I was going. It didn’t matter. I was out in the country. I was happy.

VW The road, the twisting, turning country road was deserted of traffic. There had been some, earlier, but it was now all gone.

“I haven’t seen another car – for ages.” I whispered, confused.

Putting the matter of cars – the lack of them – to the back of my mind, I determined to enjoy the unexpected freedom the deserted road offered. I pressed down hard on the throttle; our speed increased. Although my old beetle is thirty-seven years old, she never misses a beat. She is just as powerful as the day she was made. I love her. We sped faster and faster, enjoying our drive.

Although I was travelling at fifty miles per hour it didn’t seem like it, for the noise of the engine fades at this speed. Even though she has no power steering or any such other fanciful extras, my old bug can whisk me along as fast as modern cars.

“Where are the cars?” I asked, remembering them. “There must be some, somewhere along this road?” Gazing into the rearview mirror, for a second, a split second, I thought I saw something, a shape far behind me, but a bend in the road cut off my view. “Was that a car?” I mused. “To be sure, some people must use this road, sometime!” As the road twisted and

turned before me, I concentrated on my driving, forgetting about the car that I thought I saw.

When the road straightened out again, I was tempted, so tempted to press hard on the throttle, to see what speed my old bug was still capable of achieving. “Shall I or shan’t I?” I whispered, beguiled by the straight ribbon of asphalt before me. “What do you think, Betsy? Shall we go for it, and see what you can achieve?” Suddenly we hit a bump in the road. A humpback bridge might better describe it, so severe an incline that it was. All four wheels rose from the ground and I found myself weightless. Returning to earth with a bang, my trusty old car never missed a beat. The bump in the road settled it; if Betsy was able to survive that, a burn down the road would be as nothing to her. I was going for it.

Checking the rear-view mirror, to be sure no one was behind me, wanting to overtake, before I set off; I noticed it again, the car far away in the distance. Slowing my speed, I stared in the mirror, allowing whoever it was the time to catch up and overtake, if he so wished. But he didn’t, no; he just continued to drive at the same speed, maintaining the distance between us. I was perplexed that anyone might want to stay so far

behind another car. Staring harder, I tried to make out what type of car it actually was. I could see that it was black, jetblack in colour, but I was unable to see any more detail than that. “Come on,” I grumbled, “what’s holding you up?” The car, little more than a speck in my imagination, both intrigued and fascinated me. ”What is it with him,” I grumbled, “staying so far behind?”

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I gave up on the car (was is it really a car?) and the idea of letting it pass, so patting Betsy on the dashboard, I said, “Never mind about him, let’s get back to our plan – seeing how fast you can go.” After patting the dashboard for a second time, I knocked back a gear, pressed hard on the throttle and stared at the road ahead. The boxter engine roared and the needle climbed on the speedometer. Faster, faster, we travelled, ever faster. Fifty miles per hour, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four....

Fifty-five miles per hour... “Come on, Betsy,” I urged her encouragingly, “you can do better than that.” And she did; the needle on the speedometer began climbing again, Fifty-six miles per hour, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine – sixty miles per hour. “Good on you, old girl,” I sang out, “we are now

doing sixty miles per hour!”

And the speedometer needle

continued to rise.

VW I was really enjoying the drive. Singing out I said, “Who needs a new car when there are so many old beetles to enjoy?” That was when I saw it, when, in my rear-view mirror, I saw the black coloured car fast approaching...

“It is a car,” I gasped, quite in surprise, “and an old beetle at that!” The car was indeed an old beetle, and it was catching up fast.

When I say it was black, I mean exactly that; everything upon it was black, inky black, jet-black. The paint work was black, so too were the bumpers, the hubcaps and the door handles, it had black – everything. Within a matter of minutes it was so close behind me I could see the face of the driver; a face that looked somehow familiar. “Who is that?” I said, scratching my head, trying to work out who it might be. As well as looking familiar, the driver was smiling; he was smiling most peculiarly as if he was mad! Yes, I said mad, very mad. This person, as far as I was concerned was as mad as a hatter, and

then some. In addition to smiling madly, he began honking his horn, flashing his lights and doing his utmost to overtake me, but he was unable to do so. You see, the road had returned to its earlier state, twisting and turning so much it was impossible to do anything other than follow.

Undeterred, the driver of the black beetle continued to honk his horn and flash his lights, getting closer and closer by the second. Shaking his fist up close to the windscreen he had no intention of letting a winding, country road – or another old beetle – get the better of him.

“What has gotten into him?” I asked, “One minute he’s so far behind I can hardly see him, and the next he’s so close he might easily crash into me!” Crash; no sooner had I mouthed those last words did the black beetle smash into the rear of my beloved old car.

“Slamming hard on the brakes, I had every intention of stopping, of getting out and telling that madman (whoever he was) what I thought of him. Crash, smash, having no intention of slowing, let alone stopping and listening to the likes of me, he rammed Betsy again. Increasing my speed, I tried to outrun him, to gain time, to get my head around the situation, the

predicament that I found myself in. Smash, crash, he rammed us again. I had to go faster; Betsy was old and ever so reliable but not indestructible.

Just then, as I was thinking that I had seen it all, that the situation could not get any more strange or bizarre than it already was, I got a glimpse, a very good glimpse of the driver behind me, and I knew, I knew without a shadow of a doubt who he really was – HE WAS ME! “How can that be?” I bemoaned staring at the reflection in my rear-view mirror.

But it was him – me – driving like a lunatic so closely behind. I wanted; I needed to think about the seemingly impossible situation that I found myself in. I had to work out what it meant, but my crazy-mad double did not intend to allow me such luxury. His indicator flashing informed me that he was about to overtake us. “You can’t do that, not here!” I yelled, yet knowing only too well that he had no hope of hearing me.

I – the madman facsimile of me, that is, pulling out hard and fast into the centre of the road, gunning the throttle like the lunatic that he truly was, attempted to pass. For a short while

this crazy-mad tactic appeared to be working. I watched in crazed fascination as he pulled alongside me. “He’s going to make it,” I laughed, curiously happy for the impending success of my double. “Yep, he sure is.” Then he saw it, I saw a truck rising over the brow of the incline ahead of us. “Get back!” I yelled, “Get back or you’ll be killed!”

He got back, I have no idea how he managed to avoid the truck speeding towards him, but he did. Shaking with fright, I said, “Phew!” that was close,” Looking into my rear-view mirror I saw him behind me again, and he was laughing. “Has he got no fear?” I grumbled.

Over the following fifteen minutes, the crazy-mad version of me attempted to overtake on no fewer than twenty-three different occasions. It was on his twenty-third and final attempt that the most bizarre aspect of this whole episode unfolded.

You see, pulling out into the centre of road, coming alongside, the madman version of me, in that ever so black beetle, wound down his window.

You’re wondering what’s so bizarre about that, aren’t you? Let me continue, I promise that all will be soon revealed...

VW When his window was fully open, the crazy-mad version of me began speaking. Above the roar of the wind and the road noise, he shouted, “Hah, you think you’re so clever in that car of yours!”

Confused, having absolutely no idea what he was on about, I replied, “What do you mean?”

Pointing at Betsy, shouting all the louder, he said, “That crock, with its ever so clean paintwork and shiny bright chrome, hah!

I feel sick just looking at it!”

Having absolutely no idea what he was getting at, I shrugged and returned my attention to the road ahead.

Smiling insanely, the other version of me – the crazy-mad version – smiled; he smiled displaying his bony white teeth.

My jaw dropping in sheer disbelief, I watched as each one of his teeth turned black and then fell out. I could almost hear them going clink, clink, clink as they fell onto the floor of his car. Then, with an ear-shattering roar, shaking the very ground beneath us, the powerful engine of my facsimile’s beetle propelled its crazy-mad occupant past me like a bolt of black

lightning. Smoke, exhaust as black as its ebony coloured bodywork belched out from the tailpipes of my rival’s car, towards me. I became thinker and thinker and thicker, until it was so thick I was unable to see anything other than the sooty blackness engulfing my bug and I. Bats, hundreds and hundreds of raucous wild bats emerged, screaming and flapping, flying from out of the depravity that was this exhaust; smoke as black as the lowest depths of hell itself. Banging, thumping, careering into my beloved bug, dinting its panels and splattering her bodywork with blood, the crazy wild bats struck Betsy with a vengeance. For a moment, a split second, I wondered if they were doing it deliberately – hari-kari style – or, confused by the billowing exhaust, by accident. But as they became more organised, every last one of them aiming directly at me and my bug, smashing hard against the windscreen, whatever doubts I might have harboured before faded into nothingness, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that they wanted my life!

Suddenly, with a loud crack, the windscreen shattered, allowing free access to the crazy-mad bats. And, boy did they take advantage of it. They swarmed into my car; they were

everywhere, in my hair, my face, they even managed to get inside my pullover. “Stop it!” I cried out. “Get away from me!

I can’t see where I’m going! Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!” I screamed ever louder.

Swathed in white cloth, I am hurting. I can’t see a thing. What is all this cloth, anyway? And where am I? Fighting, clawing my way through the cloth – there seems to be so much of it – I can see a speck of light burning through to my senses. “Is that my bedroom door?” I ask uncertainly. Casting off the last vestiges of cloth, I realise that it is one of the sheets from my bed. I am beside it, on the floor. “I must have fallen out of bed,” I whisper. Rubbing my soreness (my shoulder really hurts), I get up from the floor and sit, resting on the side my bed, and I wonder...

“Is that all that it was,” I mumble, “a dream?”

Standing up, scratching my head, yawning, I stroll across to the window, where I pull back the net curtain and gaze into the garden. Like in my dream, it is a wonderful spring morning.

Gazing further afield, to the street outside, I watch the hustle and bustle of the morning rush hour. Then I see it, I see my reflection in the windowpane – and I panic. Reeling with fright, I stagger away from the window. Running out of my bedroom,

I dart across the landing and into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, staring at my reflection, my worst fears are realised.

My teeth, like those of my facsimile within my dream, are turning black and beginning to fall out, and I scream and I scream and I scream...

THE END

The Tales of Beetle, About The Amulet of Oxmosis Whilst out on a drive in my beetle, one day, We put-putted along quite happily away, Down streets so crowded with people, that’s right, I was slap-bang in the centre of London, so bright.

As I drove my love bug through old London town, Watching the people all milling around, Something caught my attention within this mad rush, An item, in the gutter, all covered in dust.

Applying the brakes, I screeched to a halt, Then opened my door despite the retort,

From drivers not happy all with my tack, You’re blocking our way, they shouted, quite hacked.

I won’t be a tick, I said smiling at them, As leaning down low, I inspected this thing, That although almost totally covered in dust, Glistened so brightly, like gold; it’s a fact.

Wiping it clean, the gold sparkled, and how!

It’s an amulet and chain, I spluttered out loud, Then apologising again, for the jam I had caused, I returned to my bug amidst facetious applause.

Slamming into gear, I tore down that street, Away from old London, and all of those feet,

Where people could see me, and what I had found, An amulet, my amulet; I left London town.

Far out in the sticks, I slowed to a halt, Away from all eyes, or so I had thought, Inspecting my prize; an amulet, so dazzling, With diamonds and rubies and garnets, enticing.

It’s mine, all mine, I cried out, with joy.

I’ll be rich, I’ll sell it, I’ll sell it today, Then a hand dove through the window, into my car, And took it, it took it, my amulet so rare.

What are you doing? I gasped, trying to see, Who was taking, stealing the amulet from me,

Then I saw him, a man, bald-headed and robed, With eyes so black, as black as coal.

I am Miafra, he said, in a slow, haughty tone, With this power, of Oxmosis, I will crush all my foes.

Wot, Nott and Kakuri will cease to be, They will crumble and die, in ignominious defeat.

The Amulet of Oxmosis, is that what it is?

That’s what I asked him, my brain in a tizz, But Miafra, already chanting his spell, Made ready to dispatch me downwards to Hell.

Wait, WAIT! I pleaded, stalling for time, I have some information, of the magical kind,

With that his ears perked, and he listened for more, But all that I did was slam shut the door.

Turning the key, the engine burst into life, Put-putting away; it didn’t think twice, With pedal to the metal, I swiftly sped off, Forgetting all about the magical amulet.

Yes, yes, I know, Miafra still had it, clear, As he hastened away to Onisha, I fear.

To crush his opponents, Wot, Nott and Kakuri, But that was their problem, for I had to hurry.

If you are thinking of me as cold and aloof, Leaving folks to their fate, not giving a hoot,

Then open that story at chapter, first one, To see what will happen, and what can be done...

The Tales of Beetle, About The Crazymad Mallard I drove my old beetle, one wonderful day, Out into the country, and so far away, From noises of traffic, and other cars, bleak, Unlike my old carriage, put-putting so sweet.

Ambling past meadows and little duck ponds, I soaked up the ambience, where I felt I belonged.

Admiring small cottages perched high upon hills, I knew I’d enjoy this rural idyll.

Then turning a corner, and a sharp one at that, I slammed on the brakes, and I stared at a track, A rail crossing before me, with bells clanging loud, Warned of a train coming; I listened for its sound.

But I heard nothing; not one hint of the roar, From the motor propelling, be it diesel or more.

So I turned off my engine and got out from my car, And I went to the barrier, to gander some more.

Looking left and then right, along the track deathly quiet, I was no more enlightened, not a thing was in sight.

Then all of a sudden, in a flash of bright light, The Mallard appeared, and oh what a sight!

The world’s fastest steam engine hurled past me so fast, I stood there agog; I stood there aghast.

And as for that nameplate, on the front of her frame, It said ‘Crazy-mad Mallard’, was it truly THAT train?

Was it really the train from my youth, from my verse, When my socks changed colour, bathed in its steam burst?

The train Harry Rotter and her cousin, Box, journeyed on, To Hagswords special school, to secure those Marbles, anon?

If you think this confusing, this account somewhat strange, Just read my, here, stories: you’ll see what I mean, In my crazy-mad world of Alice and Rotter, Jimmy and Fle, Bolf and so many others.

Now it’s goodbye from me, perhaps I’ll see you one day, Now that my works are published, and I’m having my way.

Until that time comes I’ll keep on writing – I will, Of trolls, bats and dragonflies, in my crazy-mad tales.

Adios, adieu, farewell my dear child, the Crazy-mad writer needs to sleep for a while.ZZZZZZ...

The Tales of Beetle, About

Bertie the Beetle Chapter MOUSE! Bertie the beetle was a happy fellow, contentedly gnawing away, for hours on end, on plants, flowers and all kinds of vegetables, just about anything he came across that was edible, he was in a world of his own. When I call him Bertie, it is perhaps doing him an injustice, for, in truth, he was a king, Bertie the king of the shiny black beetles, the master of all he surveyed. Being master of all he surveyed, he ruled with an iron fist...

One day, while he was happily munching his way through breakfast, a particularly tasty Brussels Sprout, Bertie thought heard something, a noise.

“Who’s there?” he asked, lifting his gaze from the tasty delight.

However, he received no reply. “I said who is there?” he asked impatiently, wondering who it might be.

Thinking he had perhaps been imagining it, Bertie returned his attention to the tasty delight, his sprout. “This is the best tasting sprout, ever,” he said, taking a bite of green goodness from out of the humblest of vegetables.

When he had finished eating breakfast, Bertie sank back into his throne, relaxing, resting after his truly wonderful meal.

“Because that sprout tasted so good,” he said, licking his lips most satisfactorily, “I am going to have another one for lunch.”

“Not if I can help it,” said a strange sounding voice, from somewhere.

“Who said that?” Bertie asked, hopping down from his throne, trying to find the culprit, the person who had dared address him, without someone presenting him, first.

Despite looking all over the place, under his throne, over his throne, next to his throne and even behind his throne, Bertie, King Bertie, was unable to find the person who had spoken to him.

Finally, tired and utterly exhausted, Bertie, clapping his hands, summoned the guards.

The doors of the room opening, heralded two guards, beetles of burley stature.

“What took you so long,” the king asked, eyeballing the guards, unfavourably.

“We came as fast as we could, sire” said the first guard. He was shivering with fright (you see, King Bertie had a terrible temper, it was famous throughout the land).

“We, we ran all the way down the corridor, your royal highness,” said the second guard. He was sweating profusely.

Alright, alright,” Bertie snapped. “I will forget it this time, but if it happens again, if you, either of you are ever again late, by even one second, it’s the chop for you both, do I make myself clear?”

On hearing this, the second guard began shaking and shivering as fast as his compatriot was doing.

“Well, why are you still standing there?” asked the king, tapping three of feet upon the white marble floor, threateningly.

“You called us,” said the first guard, timidly and shyly.

“Yes, sire, your majesty,” said the second guard, “Your wish is my command.”

“Who do you think you are,” asked Bertie, the genie from out of the Aladdin’s lamp?” Having cracked one of his famous jokes (famous for not being funny, that is), he awaited the expected response – peals of laughter.

The two beetles, guards of the royal chamber, began laughing.

It was hard, so hard for them to do this, because in all truthfulness they had heard every one of the king’s (unfunny) jokes a hundred times over.

Satisfied that his jollification had received its due recognition, the king, clambering onto his throne, clapping his hands, said, “Enough; we don’t want to be overdoing it, now, do we?”

The two mean instantly stopped laughing.

Opening his mouth, ready to begin telling the guards just why he had called them into the royal chamber, the king – Bertie – was interrupted midsentence.

“I have called you here to–” “I don’t think it’s funny,” said the same strange sounding voice as before.

Barking down from his throne, his six legs flailing about wildly in all directions, fuming that someone – whoever it was – had invaded his sanctum sanctorum, the king, rollicking the guards for just standing there instead of trying to find the

perpetrator, reminded them of the block that was waiting its next occupants.

“If you don’t find him, it’s the chop for you both!” the king hollered. “Or my name’s not Jack Robinson.”

The two frightened guards offered the king no reply to his absurd comment. Would YOU have done any different?

Searching the royal chamber, the guards tried to find the one who had invaded the king’s sanctum sanctorum, who had dared address him without a proper introduction, first.

“Sire,” said the first guard, “we have searched your entire chamber, but cannot find the person you spoke of.”

“Your royal highness,” said the second guard, “we have searched your chamber from top to bottom, but the person who addressed you is not here.”

“On hearing this, one of his guards daring to say that he was wrong, that there was not someone lurking somewhere inside his chambers, when he had said there was, the king roared with anger, “Executioner! I want the executioner! Bring the executioner to my royal chamber!”

The poor, frightened guards were all in a quandary, for if they fetched the executioner, the king would most surely tell him to

behead them, but if they disobeyed him, he would order their beheading, for insubordination.

Making their way out from the royal chamber, the first guard, whispering to the second, said, “What shall we do, Billy?”

“The second guard, still shivering and shaking with fright, shrugging his shoulders, said, “I, I don’t know what we can do, Biffy, for it seems all is lost whatever course we choose follow.”

Nodding his agreement, Biffy made his way silently down the royal corridor. Billy followed closely behind.

“Psst!” the same strange sounding voice as before, called.

“Did you hear that, Billy?” asked the first guard, turning his head crooked ways, hoping to hear it again. ”Hear what?” Billy replied, rubbing his nose in the sleeve of his jacket.

“If the king sees you doing that!” the first guard warned, “dirtying your royal jacket, so, he will have your head!”

“Off with my head, off with your head, is that all he can say, off with your head?” Billy grumbled hopelessly.

“Psst!”

“Surely you heard THAT,” said the first guard, his eyes darting from side to side, trying to see where the mysterious person was located.

“Yes,” Billy replied, his ears cocking, “I heard it that time.”

“Psst!” the same, mysterious voice called.

It’s coming from over there,” said Biffy, pointing to the end of the royal corridor.

Approaching the end of the corridor, each guard searched for the interloper, the one who had dared speak to the king unintroduced, risking their heads in the process.

“Psst,” the mysterious voice called out again.

Taking off his royal helmet, giving his head a thorough scratch, and then donning it again, Biffy admitted that he was stumped, lost as to where the person could actually be.

“Look!” said Billy, pointing to a hole in the skirting board, deep in the corner.

“Well I never...” said Biffy, scratching his helmet, instead of his head, “...it’s a mouse!”

“I might be a mouse,” said the mouse (it was a particularly drab looking rodent), “but I am better then you!”

Laughing that a mouse, and such a small one at that, could talk let alone think it was better than he, Biffy asked it to prove it.

“Be careful what you wish for,” warned Billy (he was an altogether more cautious individual).

Paying no heed to his compatriot’s warning, guard Biffy said, “Go on, then, little mouse, show me how you are better them me!”

“I,” said the mouse.

“What?”

“Pardon,” said the mouse.

“Scratching his helmet, Biffy was bamboozled, puzzled, totally perplexed by the smart talking rodent before him.

Speaking again, the mouse explained what it had meant, “You should have said ‘I’ instead of me,” it explained. “And ‘pardon’ instead of what.”

“Don’t you be trying to get out of the deal,” guard Biffy warned, missing the point entirely. “C’mon, show me how you are better than me.”

“I did,” the rodent replied, folding his arms, thereby resting his case.

“You did?” he asked, feeling that it was all too much for him, having a conversation with a smart-alecky mouse.

Cutting in, wanting to hear why the mouse had gone to such great lengths to attract their attention, guard Billy asked, “What do you want, anyhow?”

“My, how you cut to the chase,” said the mouse who, unfolding his arms, bid the guards to come closer...

When they had finished listening to the Mouse, the two guards began laughing and giggling excitedly.

“Do you really think it will work?” asked Biffy, to new best friend (the mouse).

“Of course it will,” the mouse boldly replied.

“But, but,” said guard Billy, giggling mischievously. “Will he – the king – not realise what we are doing, what we are up to?”

“He won’t have an inkling of what you are doing,” the mouse answered confidently.

“In that case,” said Biffy, “let’s get on with it. The king, Bertie the Bounder, as I like to call him, has been asking for this, his comeuppance, for a very long time.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Billy to the Mouse. “Why are you telling us this? What’s in it for you?”

“The Mouse, without any hesitation at all, said, “He – the king – killed my wife and twenty-three kids. Is that good enough reason?”

“He killed your wife and children?” the two beetles asked, shocked to the core that even the king could do something as despicable as that.

“Yes,” explained the Mouse. “When he ordered the exterminators into the castle, the king as good as killed them himself.”

“Oh, I see,” said the first guard.

“Exterminators,” mumbled the second guard. “I heard there was an infestation...”

His ears cocking inquisitively, the Mouse said, “What?”

“I, I had nothing to do with it, though,” Billy replied, defending himself from dishonour in the small rodent’s eyes.

Leaving the mouse to his own devices, thanking him for what it had told them, Biffy and Billy made their way round the corner, disappearing from sight.

“Where is my tea?” roared the king, calling his guards once again to his royal chamber.

The doors of the chamber opening, revealed the king’s guards, Billy and Biffy. Puffing and panting from their exertions, after running all the way down the royal corridor, they asked the king what he wanted.

“Your royal highness,” said Biffy, “what can we do for you?”

“Yes, sire,” said Billy, “Your wish is my command.”

His eyebrows creasing, the king said, “If you start that again, it will be off with you head!”

In silence, the guards, Biffy and Billy, waited to see what their king wanted.

The king, roaring like a crazy-madman, said, “Well, what are you waiting for? I want my tea, and I want it NOW!” Tearing out of the royal chamber, fearing for their heads, the guards ran like never before.

Outside, the guards, Billy and Biffy, struggled, trying to catch their breath.

“That’s not how it was supposed to go,” said Billy.

“No,” Biffy replied, “Bertie the Bounder has done it again.”

“Done it again?”

“Got the upper hand again, by sheer pig headiness.”

“You said it, Biffy. The king is a bully.”

A smile creeping onto his face, Biffy said, “And we all know what happens to bullies, don’t we?”

With just as big a smile creeping onto his face, Billy replied, “They get their comeuppance.” Come on, we have some Brussels sprouts to fetch.”

With that, Biffy and Billy made their way down the royal corridor, heading for the royal kitchens.

Chapter SPROUTS! Knock, knock.

“Enter,” said the king. He was by now ever so hungry.

The doors slowly opening revealed the king’s guards, Buffy and Billy.

On seeing them, Bertie snapped, “You had better have my tea of fine spouts, or it’s off with your heads!”

Entering the king’s chambers, his guards, each carrying a silver tray piled high with Brussels sprouts, approached the king.

“Sire, said Biffy, “we have your fine sprouts.”

“Yes, your majesty,” said Billy, “they are as fine as can be...”

“But,” said the king, eyeballing the guards and the trays they were carrying with equal amounts of curiously and hunger, “I can feel a but coming on.”

Feigning innocence, ignorance on what he was saying, Biffy said, “It’s nothing really, sire,” “It’s just something we heard, gossip, a rumour, your majesty,” said Billy.

His curiosity aroused, the king, speaking in his friendliest tone of voice, said, “Come, place your trays onto my royal table, then sit down and tell me all about it.”

Still feigning innocence, Biffy said, “Where do you want us to begin, sire?”

Sweetly, sickly sweetly, the kind said, “At the beginning, of course. And when you have finished, I might have a nice surprise in store for you both.”

“A nice surprise?” the guards asked, curious to the extreme (you see, the king had never before offered anyone anything nice).

“Yes,” he promised. “You can begin whenever you like.”

The king having taken the bait, the guards began reeling him in.

“Well, sire, it’s like this,” said Biffy, beginning their story.

“We heard about this place...where Brussels sprouts grow as big as cannonballs.”

Getting very excited, the king asked, “As big as cannonballs, you say?”

“Yes, sire, as big as cannonballs, and then some.”

“Where is this place?” asked the king, barely able to contain his growing excitement.

“It’s far, far away and then over the hills,” said Billy.

“It’s so far away most people have never even heard of it, let alone know where it is,” said Biffy.

“That far away?” asked the king, excited and disappointed all at the same time.

“Apart from one man, that is.”

“A very old man...”

An ancient old man.”

Yes, yes,” I heard you the first time,” the king snapped. “He is an old man. But who is he? And more importantly where is he?”

Pointing downwards, Buffy and Billy cast their eyes to the floor.

“What? What do you mean?” the king asked, also looking downwards, but having absolutely no idea why they were doing it.

“He told us,” the guards replied simultaneously, still pointing downwards.

“He told you? He – who?”

Returning their gaze to the king, the two guards, beetles of the royal chamber, said, “The wizard, the wizard beetle, of course.”

“Wizard beetle, surely you jest? The last wizard beetle died over thirty years ago,” the king insisted. “And if you are jesting about such a serious matter it will be off with your heads!”

“Sire,” we do not jest,” said Biffy. “The wizard, Cornelius, did not die thirty years ago, like you had it reported. He has been a ‘guest’ of this castle, incarcerated in the deepest of dudgeons at your royal highness’s request – and pleasure, for all these long years since then.”

“He was?”

“Yes, sire. Do you not remember casting him there, so far below?”

Despite having no recollection of this (how could he, when it was just a made up story?), the king did not intend to admit this was so. He was the king. Why should he? “Yes, of course I do,” he replied. Waving his hand regally, he ordered, “Bring him up to me.”

Turning their heads from side to side, Biffy and Billy told the king that this was impossible.

“Why?” the king asked. “Is he not there anymore? Has he served his time?”

“He is still down there, sire,” Biffy answered.

“Then why do you defy me, my wishes?”

“He is dead, sire, Billy explained. The wizard Cornelius died and they buried him beneath the very flagstones of his cell.

You ordered it.”

“Yes, yes, I knew that!” the king lied, bitterly disappointed at hearing this news, not for the wizard, but for himself and his glutinous stomach.

“We spoke to him on a number of occasions, though,” Biffy said, temptingly.

“You did?” asked the king, his eyes widening.

“Yes, sire,” said Billy. We – both of us – spoke to him, and...”

“And? And what?” the king asked, absolutely intrigued what he was hearing.

“He talked about Brussels sprouts, giant ones...on plants as big as trees – like we told you, sire!”

Having reeled in the king, the guards went for the jugular, “But he swore us to secrecy!”

“He’s dead,” the king screamed. “It doesn’t count now that he’s dead! Tell me! Tell me about those wonderful, giant sprouts!” he demanded.

After the two guards, Biffy and Billy, had finished telling the king all they knew about the cannonball-sized sprouts, including where to find them – and how dangerous a place it

was, he looked at his tea of fine sprouts as if they were nothing, less than nothing. Pushing them away, he said, “I don’t want these! I want giant sprouts as big a cannonballs, from plants as big as trees!”

“But, but we don’t have any,” said Biffy.

“No,” said Billy, “not even one.”

“No ifs or buts,” the king roared. “The finest Brussels sprouts in the entire world are within reach of my delicate taste buds! I want them! I must have them, even if it entails me travelling to that faraway land where they are growing!”

“But it’s so dangerous a place, sire,” said Biffy.

“Yes, too dangerous to be travelling there, alone,” said Billy.

“I will not be travelling alone,” said the king. “Guards, guards of the royal stables, attend to my horses. Hitch up my coach.

Tell the royal army, every last one of them, that we have some travelling to do, an awful lot of travelling to do!” Turning to Biffy and Billy, the king said, “You must stay here, I trust you.

That is your rewards for telling me about these sprouts. With all of my army gone, opportunists might surface...”

Disappointed with the reward offered, Biffy, playing it cool, asked, “Opportunists?”

“Yes,” said the king. “Those who might take advantage of such a situation...”

“And you trust us?” Billy asked beguilingly.

Of course!” the king replied. “After all, it was you who told me about the giant sized sprouts!”

“We did,” Biffy replied, feeling like a cad.

“Yes, we did,” said Billy, remembering how rotten the king could be, when it suited.

Three hours later, the king and his army marched through the gate of the castle, under the portcullis, across the drawbridge and over the moat. From within his carriage, the king, calling to Biffy and Billy, said, “Mind my castle until I return, or it’s off with your heads!”

Watching the king and his army march further and further away, until they were so small, they were just dots in the distance, the two guards of the royal chamber, Biffy and Billy, breathed a sigh of relief.

Many days later, the king and his army returned from their travels. Having searched the entire faraway land, without finding even one of the giant, cannonball-sized Brussels sprouts, he was fuming. “When I get me hand on those two guards,” he grumbled, it will be off with their heads.”

Approaching the castle, the king was dumfounded by what he saw. The drawbridge was up, barring his way in.

“Go see what the problem is!” the king backed at his general.

“Or it will be off with your head, also!”

The general being quite fond of his head galloped up to the moat as fast as he could. Calling up to the ramparts, above, he said, “I say, guards inside the castle, can you hear me?”

The guards, Biffy and Billy, however, offered him no reply.

After trying to attract their attention for fifteen minutes, but having absolutely no success, the general finally gave up.

Returning to the king, he said, “I am sorry, sire, no one appears to be in.”

His blood pressure rising dangerously high, on hearing so stupid a remark, the king barked, “Then who pulled up the drawbridge, if there is no one inside?” Without allowing his general time to reply, he said, “The moment we get inside, I will have your head in a basket!”

Stepping down from his carriage, the king stormed across to the castle moat. Standing opposite the drawbridge, he roared, “Guards, Biffy and Billy or whatever it is that you call yourselves, it is I, the king, your lord and master! Open up this castle and let us all in!”

This time, they did reply; their heads peering over the ramparts, Biffy and Billy (accompanied by the Mouse) said, “We are sorry, ‘lord and master,’ but you cannot come in.”

Confounded by what he had just heard (you see, nobody had ever before spoken to the king, so), Bertie asked, “What do you mean, I cannot come in? It’s my castle!”

“You cannot come in, not ever again,” Billy asserted, from above.

“You are a cad, a bounder and a tyrant,” said Biffy, in a verbal strike of his own.

“And a madman, err, mad beetle to boot,” Billy added, just for good measure.

“I will have your heads on a plate!” the king screamed, Bertie most mad. “Guards, guards!” he barked. “Swim across the moat, tear down the drawbridge, smash through the portcullis and let us all in, and then fetch me those traitors and the executioner!”

His guards, however, did not obey him. No one, private all the way up to general, paid the slightest heed to the king’s orders, what he was saying.

Seeing this, insubordination within the ranks, the king barked even louder, “I will have your heads, so I will! The entire army if need be!”

The guards, in fact the entire army, seizing the opportunity to be rid of their king, their horrible, terrible, dreadful, tyrant of king, paid absolutely no attention to his threats.

After a meeting with his officers, the general, (a tall, thin beetle) approaching the king, said, “Bertie, we have talked over the situation, and have decided we want a socialist government.”

“Socialist?” the king asked, afraid.

“Yes,” the general replied, his confidence growing by the second. “We want a socialist government where every man is of equal importance.”

“Equal importance?” asked the king, sweating profusely.

“Yes,” said the general. “And that unfortunately means you are not needed.”

“Not needed,” the king squeaked.

“That is so,” said the general. “And you know what that means, don’t you?” he asked.

“My head will be removed?” the king whispered, barely audible.

Laughing, the general replied, “No, not at all. You can keep your head, Bertie. It means that you are one of us, an equal.”

“Equal?” asked the king. He was finding it incredibly hard to understand such alien terminology.

“Yes,” said the general. “Like us, you will have to work for a living, instead of ruling and eating fanciful foods such as brussels sprouts.”

“Work, as in manual labour?” the king asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” the general replied.

“No sprouts?”

“No, not even one.”

The king was shocked to the core by so repulsive a notion as having to work for a living, but when was told that he could never again indulge in his favourite food, Brussels Sprouts, it was just all too much for him. Moaning, crying, babbling, hollering at the top of his voice, he said, “Executioner!

Executioner! I do not want to live anymore! Off with my head!”

THE END

. The

Tales of Beetle, About We Three Beetles

We three beetles, so hungry we are, Bearing six legs, we travel so far, Hedge and garden Field and grassland, Searching for caterpillars.

Oh, Caterpillars so juicy, caterpillars so nice, Tempting us beetles through the night, Creeping, seeking, still proceeding, Searching for that perfect bite.

Beetles are king of insects, we are Black on black, our royal charter, Eating ever, ceasing never,

Searching for caterpillars.

The Tales of Beetle, About Run, Run For Your Lives!

A family of shiny black beetles were living a happy, peaceful and contented life, underground in their burrow. Their wonderful life, however, came to an abrupt and untimely end one wild, stormy and exceptionally wet night, when a tremendously loud noise – a roaring, rushing, gushing watery types of sound – awoke them from their slumbers.

Getting up from her bed – a comfortable dry leaf – the mother beetle, rubbing her sleepy eyes, said, “I wonder what that can be?”

The father beetle, rolling over on the leaf, mumbled, “It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”

The mother beetle, believing his words, returned to their leaf and settled down beside him.

The noise, however, did not go away.

Sitting up on the leaf, the mother beetle, pushing and poking at her husband, trying to get his full attention, said, “Dear, that noise is still there... in fact it’s getting louder.”

The father beetle, rolling over again, trying to get himself comfortable, mumbled the same words as before. “It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”

The noise, however, like before, did not go away. It grew progressively louder and louder and louder.

Covering his ears with four of his legs, the father beetle grumbled, “Will you tell the children to be quiet?”

Giving her husband a most disapproving look, the mother beetle replied, “It’s not the children who are making the noise, it’s something altogether stranger than them.”

“Sitting up on his leaf, finally fully awake, the father beetle said, “If it’s not them, pray tell me what it is?”

“It...” she replied, “...it sounds like water.”

“Scratching his head with three of his legs, he asked, “What do you mean water?”

Before his wife was able to answer, to tell him that she feared their burrow was about to be flooded, a torrent of icy cold water, exiting the tunnel leading to the surface, gushed into their home.

“Help!” the father beetle cried out. “It’s a deluge! The dam must have burst! Help! Help!”

The mother beetle, although taken aback just as much as her husband by the fast invading waters, was in no way as alarmist as he. Having picked up her handbag that she never went anywhere without, then making her way across to the highest part of their burrow, where her children were still sleeping, she called out to them, “Children, wake up, we have a situation.”

“A situation?” her husband harked, from his watery position below. “This water,” he said, suddenly losing his footing, disappearing beneath the rapidly rising waters. Reappearing a few seconds later, coughing, spluttering and spitting out water, he continued, “Is a tad more than a situation!”

Ignoring her husband, the mother beetle said, “There is no need to be alarmed, children. Please get up from your leaves. We must vacate our home.”

“No need to be alarmed?” coughed her husband, spitting out yet more water. “You make this, this – whatever it is – sound like a tea party!”

The child beetles, two male and six female, though scared by what they were seeing, obediently followed their mothers instructions.

The father beetle, however, panicking like there was no tomorrow, was not finished, “Where are you going?” he asked, watching them exit the burrow.

Turning to face him, his wife replied, “We are going upstairs, outside, lest we are all drowned down here. Are you coming?”

Wading through the rapidly rising waters, the father beetle was going to tell her to wait for him, that he was coming across to join them, when the deluge of icy cold water engulfed their burrow, immersing the entire family within its deadly embrace.

Up, up, the icy cold waters gushing into the burrow lifted the father beetle from the wet, sodden floor. “Watch out!” he warned, when he saw his wife and eight children, ahead of him.

“Watch out!” he warned them again, “Lest you are swept up into this water along with me!” Too late, the deeply turbulent waters had engulfed his wife and children along with him.

Higher, higher, the freezing cold waters transported the family of beetles along the tunnel leading down, from above. Further, further, the bitter cold waters transported them along the dark tunnel. Faster, faster, the icy cold water passed along the tunnel, carrying its cargo of beetles ever higher. Gushing, rushing, flushing, the waters exiting the tunnel deposited the family of beetles upon the ground’s surface.

Gone, gone, the family of beetles were now so far away from their sweet home.

“Where are we?” asked the mother beetle.

Looking around him, trying to spot something – anything – that looked familiar, but with no success, the father beetle replied, “Lost, we are far away from home, lost.”

Pointing at the tunnel entrance, spouting gallons and gallons of icy cold water onto the slope upon which had been deposited on, he added, “We can’t go back that way, and even if we could it would be nigh on impossible to find our way home, so far have we gone.”

Crying, lamenting the loss of their wonderful burrow, his wife said, “What shall we do, out here in the wilderness, with no snug burrow in which we can live?”

On hearing these words, her children – all eight of them – began crying, wailing for the loss of their home.

Edging away, down the sandy slope, to what he considered was a safe distance from the gushing waters; the father beetle told his family to join him. “We are a long way from home,” he said. “In fact we are so far away we have no other option other than beginning a new life, here.”

“Here?” asked his wife, pointing with two of her legs at the wilderness around them.

It was true; they were in a wilderness, surrounded by trees, bushes and high grasses, and a huge, slow moving river stretching out before them.

Having decided to make the base of sandy slope leading down to the river their new home, the father beetle was abruptly reminded of what time it was.

“I’m starving!” said his eldest child.

“So am I!” said the next eldest.

“And me!” said the third in line. Thus, it went on until each of his children had told him how hungry they were.

“Alright, alright,” he replied, giving in to them. “I know its breakfast time – I am hungry as well, you know!”

Calling her husband to come over, his wife, sitting him upon a moss covered stone, said, “Hunger is a tricky bedfellow, dear.

We are all hungry – that goes without question, but having said that, please do not take their complaints as a personal attack upon your fathering abilities. You are a good father, have always been.”

“Thanks,” he replied, patting her tenderly on the foot.

“Is there anything that I can do to help us secure some food?” she asked.

Getting up from his stone, looking up to the tree canopy far above, he replied, “There is something you can do – all of you.”

“Yes, what is it?” she asked. Their children’s ears cocked, listening.

“See this tree?” he asked, patting its trunk with two of his legs.

“Tree?”

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s a sycamore – so also are all the other trees around here. And we all know what live in sycamores, don’t we?”

“Caterpillars?” his wife asked, unsure (you see, up until then it had always been her husband who had secured their food).

Pointing three legs skyward, he said, “Yes, indeed. There are caterpillars aplenty in these trees, and all of them ripe for the picking. Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked. “Tell the children to get their climbing boots on!”

His wife, however, did not do this.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “I thought you were hungry, all of you!”

“We are,” she answered, “but haven’t you forgotten something?”

“Forgotten something?”

“Boots,” she replied.

“Boots?”

“Boots; we don’t have our climbing boots,” she explained as gently as she was able, considering how foolish he appeared, forgetting such a thing.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, remembering. Moving on quickly from his forgetfulness, he said, “That being as it is leaves us with no other option other than doing it the old way.”

“The old way?” his children asked.

“Climbing barefoot!” he explained.

“Barefoot!” they cried out, thinking their father had water on the brain, for daring to suggest such a absurd thing.

“Yes!” he insisted. “They – our ancestors – climbed trees barefoot in the old days.” Realising that he was not winning them over, he suggested, “To show you how easy it is, I will climb the first tree.”

Making his way along the riverbank, the father beetle inspected the trees growing along it, trying to choose the best candidate

to climb. “Ah, there’s one,” he said, pointing to a tall, straight specimen, with a considerable canopy of leaves atop.

“That one?” asked his wife, concerned for his wellbeing.

“Yes,” he replied. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

“Well, now that you’ve asked,” she said, “it is rather tall.”

“Tall?”

“Pointing to the top of the tree, his wife said, “It’s an awfully long way to fall.”

“Fall?” her husband replied. “I have no intention of falling!”

With that, he sauntered up to the tree, where he began inspecting it in fine detail. From this position, standing up close and personal with so tall a specimen, the father beetle’s bravado took a sudden nosedive. “Well,” he said quietly, humbly, “I can choose a smaller one, to allay you fears, dear.”

“What’s wrong?” asked one of his children.

“Is it too high for you?” asked another.

The youngest child beetle said, “Do be careful, dad. It looks terribly slippery, up there.”

Agreeing with her youngest child, the mother beetle, said, “Forget that tree, dear. There are smaller, easier ones you can climb over there.” She pointed to a stand of trees, to her left.

The father beetle, however, did not intend to let a tree get the better of him, no matter how tall it happened to be. Raising one of his legs, placing his foot against the tree, he said, “Danger is my middle name. I will be up there and back, with loads of juicy fat caterpillars for us to eat, before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“Jack Robinson,” one of his children whispered mockingly.

Casting her errant child a look so sharp it could have cut its way through a steel bank vault as easily as if it were butter, the mother beetle silenced it, hoping her husband had not heard what it said.

“What was that?” asked the father beetle, turning his face away from the tree. “Did someone say something?”

“Nothing,” his wife lied. “It was nothing.”

“In that case,” he said, returning his attention to the tree, “I had better get climbing. There are caterpillars,” he pointed skyward, “waiting to be eaten.”

Saying you are going to do a thing and then actually doing it can sometimes be miles apart, this was to prove such an occasion.

After several minutes, trying to get a foothold on the slippery tree trunk, the father beetle was still at ground level. Frustrated

that a mere tree could thwart his best efforts to feed his family, he groaned, “Come on tree! Give me a break.”

The child beetles who had been watching their father’s antics with a bemused curiosity began to lose interest.

The mother, no longer worried for the safety of her husband, trying to reassure his battered ago, said, “Dear, we are not really that hungry. Perhaps, further along the riverbank, out of this shade, we can find trees that are less slippery than the ones growing around here.”

Although the father beetle’s ego was dented, it was in no way defeated. Thumping the tree, he said, “I will climb this tree, even if it is the last thing I do, I will climb it!”

“If you climb that tree,” a voice suddenly spoke out, “it will most certainly be the last thing you do, I promise it.”

“Who said that?” asked the father beetle, turning away from the tree and all thoughts about climbing it.

From within the darks depths of shadowy forest, an enormous stag beetle appeared, his huge shiny black mandibles snap, snapping in a most threatening manner.

“Dear!” said the mother beetle, once again afraid for the safety of her husband.

“Go on, punch him, dad!” said one of the child beetles.

Hushing her child, the same one that had spoke mockingly, before, the mother beetle gathered her children protectively close to her.

“This is my turf,” said the stag beetle, stomping hard upon the soft ground, for added emphasis. “And everything within it is mine, including the caterpillars at the top of that tree.”

Knowing he had no hope of beating such a powerful insect, the father beetle said – and ever so humbly, “I was only trying to secure a few caterpillars – no more than three, I promise – to feed my hungry family.”

“Your family and their hunger are of no concern to me,” the stag beetle tersely replied, its mandibles snap, snapping the air as it spoke.

Stepping away from the tree, the father beetle, trying for compromise, said, “If it’s the caterpillars you are after, we can eat other things, like worms, slugs – even leatherjackets!”

The child beetles balked at the thought of eating leatherjackets.

The stag beetle, edging ever closer, its mandibles snap, snapping, dripping saliva, said, “Are you deaf? Have you not listened, heard what I have been telling you? Or are you just plain stupid?”

One of the child beetles giggled when it heard this. The mother beetle hastily chastised it.

“Stupid?” the father beetle asked, pointing to himself with three of his legs.

“You must be,” the stag beetle insisted, “for not running away, you and your puny family, before I cut you all up with my pointy sharp mandibles!”

The father beetle might well have been stupid, for not running away from the stag beetle, but his blood being up, he said, “I’ll knock your block off, you, you beetle, you!”

The mother beetle pulling at her husband said, “Dear, let us be away from this place. I am sure there are trees and caterpillars aplenty further along the riverbank.” With that, she whisked her husband away from the stag beetle, and certain death.

Watching the family of beetles running away from him, the stag beetle boomed, “If you ever again return to this place – or anyway near it – I will cut you all up and throw away the tiny small pieces, hah!” Turning his back on them, he began climbing the slippery tree with the dexterity of a circus performer. “Looking up to the canopy, he said, “I am coming, little caterpillars, for my juicy sweet breakfast. Say your prayers, for soon you will die.”

An hour later, the family of beetles had finally stopped running. Panting from his exertions, the father beetle said, “Why did you do that, yank me away from him, just as I was about to-” Slapping her head with one of her legs, gobsmacked by his foolishness, his wife said, “You were going to be killed!

Imagine, thinking you had a chance against such a powerful creature!”

Sheepishly glancing across to his children, her husband said, “But, but what will they think of me, you having to save me, their father?”

Changing the subject, she said, “I have an idea.”

“An idea?”

“Yes,” she answered. “A little plan, to give that nasty stag beetle the comeuppance he truly deserves, or your name is not-“ “What are you talking about?” asked one of their children, cutting in.

“I’m still hungry,” said another.

“That stag beetle’s not going to come after us – is it?” asked the youngest child beetle, afraid.

“No,” said its mother, “that nasty stag beetle is not going to get anyway near you, or any of us, I promise.”

Inspired by his wife’s words, the father beetle began climbing one of the trees, searching for breakfast. Being dry, the tree posed no problem for him to ascend, even without his climbing boots on. Having reached the top of the tree, the father beetle shouting down to his family, said, “Are you ready, because here they come.” With that, he began throwing down caterpillar after caterpillar to his hungry family.

Next morning, retracing their steps along the riverbank, to where they had met the stag beetle the previous day, the mother and father beetle spoke quietly to each other.

“I still don’t get it,” said the father beetle.

“You don’t have to get it, the plan,” she told him. “But he will.

That big ugly brute of an insect won’t know which way to look, so shocked will he be!”

“Are you sure the children will be alright?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“Yes, they will be fine,” she replied, “in that new burrow, you dug for them.”

“It’s very small!”

“It’s only for a few hours,” she said. “Come on,” she said, pointing the way forward with her handbag, “smarten up; we still have a good way to go!”

Arriving at the spot from which they had been scared from the previous day, the two beetles set about preparing the trap, the ploy, the little plan that would (according to the mother beetle) rid them of the stag beetle, and in so doing give the big bully the comeuppance he truly deserved.

“So, all that I must do,” said the father beetle, still uncertain as to the merits of his wife’s little plan, “is stand out here, waiting for the stag beetle to find me.”

“No!” she replied.

“No?” “No! You cannot just stand there as if you are waiting for him to arrive. He might suspect something, and be on to us!”

That’s another thing I’m not happy about,” her husband grumbled.

“What now?” she asked, raising four of her legs, annoyed by his lacklustre attitude.

“The trap,” he replied. “It sure doesn’t seem like a trap! Surely there should be a hole somewhere...for him to fall into?”

“Hole or no hole, it still is a trap,” she assured him, waving her handbag like mad. “Now get moving, for I have to go hide.”

Later, after the mother beetle had concealed herself amongst the dense foliage of the forest, and the father beetle had place himself standing in front of the tree he had intended to climb, the day before, they waited patiently, furtively, fearfully, for the big brute of a stag beetle to return. However, after waiting for well over an hour there was still no sign of him.

Calling, whispering across to his wife, the father beetle said, “Dear, are you still there?”

No reply.

“Dear,” he said louder. “I said, are you still there?”

Yet again, he received no reply.

“DEAR! CAN YOU HEAR ME? ARE YOU THERE AT ALL?” “I am here!” a voice suddenly boomed.

Turning round, the father beetle saw the huge stag beetle standing menacingly before him.

“How, how did you get here?” he asked. “Without me hearing you?”

Laughing as his stupidity, the stag beetle replied, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Screwing up his eyes, thinking the stag beetle was a few pennies short of a dozen, he said, “What does that mean when it’s at home?”

Taking absolutely no notice of his question, the stag beetle said, “Have you a death wish?”

“Death wish? No, I certainly do not!” he insisted.

“Then why have you returned?” he asked, glancing up the tree in front of which they were standing.

Also looking up, remembering the caterpillars he had wanted to secure at its top, the father beetle, gulping hard, said, “I haven’t come back for them! No! I have already eaten! I am full to the brim.”

“Then why have you returned?” the stag beetle asked, its sharp, powerful mandibles beginning to move.

“I, I came for a walk,” he replied. “That’s it, a good healthy walk after breakfast...I always take a walk after breakfast!”

Speaking slowly, menacingly, the stag beetle said, “That walk, like your breakfast, is going to be your last.”

“But, but...” he spluttered, unable to think of anything more meaningful to say.

“No ifs or buts!” the stag beetle bellowed. “Because now you going to die!” With that, his razor sharp mandibles snapped faster and faster and faster.

“But...” the father beetle mumbled, stepping backwards, retreating, hoping to find safely and shelter within the dense foliage of the forest.

Speaking loudly, confidently, the stag beetle said, “So, you think you can find shelter behind a few branches and twigs, hiding amongst them like a scared cat?”

Disappearing into the undergrowth, the father beetle did not answer him.

Poking his head into the undergrowth, trying to see where he had gone, the stag beetle said, “Has the cat got your tongue, you stupid beetle? When I get my mandibles on you, I will rip it out, along with your heart, lungs and everything else I can find inside your puny scared body.”

Seeing something lurking within the shadows, a short distance ahead of him, the stag beetle whispered with delight, “I can see him, the beetle who dared take my food.” Creeping slowly

forward, he thought to surprise him. The surprise, however, was upon him.

Jumping out of the undergrowth, the mother beetle surprised not only the stag beetle, but also her husband and even herself, so fast had she moved. Barring the way, eyeballing the stag beetle so close in front of her, she said, “Whose tongue has the cat got now?”

His mandibles snap, snapping in a most threatening manner, the stag beetle, having recovered from his initial shock at her sudden appearance, was in no mood for talking. Edging closer, closer, he leant down, ready to snip the mother beetle in two.

The mother beetle, her hands moving fast and furious, opening her handbag, removed something from within it – a mirror.

Holding it at arm’s length, its shiny surface facing the stag beetle, she goaded him, “Look! Look into the mirror and see what a puny creature you really and truly are!”

“Puny?” he asked. “I am not puny! If I were puny would I be able to do this?”With that, he leaned across to one of the trees, securing it between his razor sharp mandibles. Tightening his grip upon it, he cut through the tree as easily as if it had been made of paper.

Unmoved by what she had just witnessed, the mother beetle held doggedly onto her mirror. “I am not afraid of you,” she said, pushing it forward, closer to the stag beetle’s fearsome face. “You are a bully, and we all know what happens to bullies!”

Feigning stupidly, thinking she was at nothing against him, the stag beetle said, “I don’t! Tell me; tell me, mother beetle, what happens to bullies?”

“This!” she yelled, pushing the mirror even closer to his face.

“They see their own reflection!”

Thinking he was fully in control of the situation, that a mirror could not possibly do him any harm, the stag beetle said, “You want me to look into that mirror, at my reflection?”

“Yes!” she replied, pushing it even closer to his face.

“Very well,” he replied yawning, bored with her silliness. “I will look into your mirror, for all the good it will do, and then I will cut you in two with my mandibles!”

Looking into the mirror, the stag beetle reeled back, shocked to the core by what he had seen, the image reflected back at him.

“No!” he protested, pushing the mirror away from him. “This cannot be!”

However, it was, the stag beetle, shocked to the core by his own reflection, the image that he had always assumed portrayed strength, might, bullishness and, above all, superiority, recoiled from it, traumatized.

“What’s wrong?” asked the mother beetle. “Or has that cat got YOUR tongue, now?”

Barging his way past the mother beetle and the instrument of shame she was pushing into his face, the stag beetle, entering the undergrowth, said, “I am away! I cannot bear to think, to see, to look at the small, bland, whimsical, puny creature that I really am!” With that, he disappeared from sight.

Coming out from his place of concealment, the father beetle, approaching his wife, hugged her as if he might never let go.

Then kissing her on the lips, to show how much he truly loved her, he said, “Dear, if I had not seen it with my own two eyes, I would never have believed it! Imagine, that brute of a beetle was scared of his own reflection! Who’d have guessed it?”

Laughing mischievously, his wife replied, “Well, strictly speaking that is not correct.”

“Pardon?” he asked, confused by what she was saying, hinting at.

Handing her husband the mirror, she said, “Here, look into it; take a look at your own reflection, to see what I mean.”

Accepting the mirror, the father beetle lifted it to his face.

Handing her back the mirror, horrified by what he had seen, he said, “Am I really THAT bad looking?”

“Laughing again, she replied, “No, not at all. You are still the best-looking beetle in the entire forest, perhaps even the world.”

“Then...then why did I see myself all, all distorted and skinny and ever so miserable looking?”

“Because,” she explained, “it’s not really a mirror.”

“Not really a mirror?”

“No, silly!”

“If it’s not a mirror,” he said, scratching his bald, shiny black head, confused, “then what is it?”

Here, take it,” she answered. “Take a look, not at the reflected image, mind you, but at the mirror itself.”

Accepting the mirror, inspecting it with new eyes, her husband began laughing. “This isn’t a mirror!” he gasped. “It’s a lid, a shiny metal lid! Where did it come from?”

“It’s the lid to a spice canister,” she told him. “The sort of ones the HU-MAN THEINGS buy in their supermarkets.”

“And because of its shape,” he continued, “so concave and curved in, my reflected image–” “And also that of the stag beetle,” she reminded him.

“Were distorted,” “And ugly,” “And whimsical.”

“And puny,” she said, laughing at the good of it.

Scratching his shiny baldhead, the father beetle said, “It’s a good thing I’m not a stag beetle.”

“Why?”

his

wife

asked,

perplexed

by

this

sudden

announcement.

“If I was,” he explained, “I’d be half way to Timbuktu by now, and I so hate the hot weather!”

Arm in arm, the two beetles, husband and wife, made their way along the riverbank, to their children who were still sleeping peacefully in their small burrow; child beetles who had no idea how close they had been to becoming orphans.

THE END

I’m the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer today.

I’m the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer, hey hey!

You may think that I’m not serious, And I might even agree.

But I’m still the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer, hee hee.

That’s it for now, all the best from the crazy-mad writer.

www.crazymadwriter.com