All stories

The goose death from Blackberries

by unknown....

Brad was reading this book about a disturbance in the forest.

Long story short; a family of four was walking through the sunny forest on a lovely Sunday. The children were frantically running around when they caught glimpse of a sleeping goose. Being naughty children, they wanted to scare it and started poking it. The goose didn’t even flinch. The plan failed. They poked it again. What? It should have flown by now. The parents catch up with their energetic offspring’s. The children were screaming, asking questions, disturbing the place around. In their attempt to clam the children, the mom, very confidently tried to explain what might have happened. “Look children, we believe the goose might have eaten some of the blackberries from the bush just there. But these fruits, in a significant amount, can be dangerous to birds, so it probably just had a few to many and passed away.”

At this point Brad started laughing. “Seriously? That’s just pure nonsense. Such a dull tale. Geese don’t even die from nightshades, how is that one dead from some blackberries?”. He was very disappointed with the story line. He expected something completely different from a book whose main selling point is ‘disturbance in the forest’. You know, he was looking for something more thrilling, a twist, a resurrection, or maybe just a more significant death, anything but a goose dead from blackberries. With the disappointment on his face he goes into the kitchen.

The Kitchen, all white and shiny, like a neoclassical marble palace. Such an eerie place. Not what you would expect to find in a house in former mine town. It might seem strange but, Brad found comfort walking through that kitchen. It made him feel like he had some kind of mysterious power that only he was aware of. The master of his universe, nobody to boss him around, total freedom. Little did he knew.

Outside the sky was glooming. The clouds were all floating, covered in fire, the sunset kind of orange. This gave life to all sorts of fantasies, it’s like a movie developing itself. A movie where you are the direct, actor, the story itself. Brad looked outside, but all he could see with his little imagination, was a sleeping goose. For a second it reminded him of a funny occurrence form his childhood. You know that one. The one where a sleeping goose caused a disturbance in the forest because as it turns out the goose was actually dead. He shook his head and got away from the window, he wished he never remembered that.

He is back into his safe place. The shining kitchen, which he decides to put to good use. He wants to surprise his wife when she come from work by trying to bake her something, make her fell appreciated. He gets all the ingredients together to make the base. He wants it to be a fluffy soft one, more like a sponge cake. “What should I use as a filling? Hmm… there are some strawberries in the fridge, but I would like some fresh fruits”. He goes to picks up some blackberries from the forest nearby. How could he had forgotten that his wife was allergic to them. Let’s just hope she doesn’t eat the tart.

Goose

by James

Todd could not understand why I had a thing for Goose. Obviously, she was well boobed, but come on, that hair? I knew it was fake, right? She wasn’t naturally that curly, which meant that she had woke up one day and made a conscious decision to top her ruddy cheeked natural glow with nuclear white nylon fuzz.

The three of us were driving to Wales to see an old uni mate. We’d made it about ten miles before Goose insisted we stop so she could take a pee. In the age until she returned Todd speculated as to why she hadn’t seen someone about her horse teeth by now, and why not a bit of speech therapy while she was at it?

Goose had bought a drink and a flake in the petrol station shop. As she reached for the door handle Todd locked the doors and then rolled his window down a touch. Like he’d told her when she’d tried to get inside with a punnet of extra juicy overripe blackberries, it was not gonna happen. Eat the chocolate outside, she wasn’t going to make a mess of his real leather seats. He rolled up his window and then nudged me with his elbow as waggled his eyebrows – Goose nibbling on the world’s sexiest chocolate bar, that had to be giving me some sort of disturbance in the forest.

We were driving down after work so it was almost dark when we had left. Twenty minutes more on the road and it was fully dark, and not long after a low rumble started which had Todd panicking until he started to laugh – Goose was asleep. He found it so funny, the noise she was making, and even funnier still – what if I got my wish and one day woke up next to that? Though what was he saying? I would never get any sleep lying next to Goose, there were probably seismologists panicking somewhere at the noise of it.

What did I see in her? Kid she was, hadn’t I clocked her can of pop? Bubble gum flavour.

Goose was still sleeping when we pulled into the last services before we crossed the river into Wales. We left her sleeping when we went inside to use the toilets. I went mad and bought two flakes at their motorway rip off prices and then hurried to beat Todd back to the car. I was definitely going to wake Goose, and it would be the two of us sitting in Todd’s car getting chocolate everywhere as he pulled his hair out.

But no car. I turned slowly on the spot – wrong place? A squeal of rubber Todd’s car lurched to halt beside me. Goose was gripping the steering wheel tightly, barely able to see over the top of it. She was grinning, and every glorious frizzy lock of her hair was quivering with excitement. I jumped in, but I couldn’t quite believe it – she was stealing Todd’s car?

Goose sang the opening bars to Dancing Queen and grinned again. Not stealing. Kid she was, wasn’t she? So this was a joyride. Mind you, Todd’s phone and wallet he’d left in the car, who could say.

The Sleeping Goose

by Dan

I am David, the Miller’s son. I am 9 or 11 years old and must do the work of a grown man. I cannot lift the heavy grinding stone and if I do not lift it I get a beating from my brother Harry, who is 13 or maybe 15.

Beyond the millpond is the dark forest I’m not allowed into.

My father, brother and mother are frightened by the forest but I am not, I like the way the light plays on the ground and the birdsong at dawn.

I don’t fear the creatures my mother warns of.

It’s still warm but the days get shorter, the fields are thick for harvest.

Yesterday after a beating, I ran into the forest.

On spiky briars by the path I ate the fruit that colours your face purple, hard to pick but delicious.

Behind me I heard Harry hanging back at the forest edge.

“Come back or I’ll I’ll beat you black and blue!”

But I was already purple so I walked on carrying 500 blackberries in my cloth hat. In the distance by the river crossing I saw a strange light shining.

Behind me was Harry, following with every ounce of bravery he had. I heard his clumsy tread on the path so I climbed an oak tree, up there I can be unknown and still.

Harry walked on nervously towards the river crossing.

The light I’d seen was still shining. I looked at it from my tree and saw it was a golden goose as I have heard of in many forests.

Harry walked straight towards the goose, crackling acorns, snapping twigs, loud as men.

He saw the creature sleeping by the riverbank, saw on her that metal that makes men greedy and having learned this greed already, picked up a sharp stick. He saw only riches and those princesses who live in towers, the kind who can’t sleep if a pea is in their bed and who set men impossible tasks, princesses as worthless as shiny metal.

Harry the hero would kill the Golden Goose.

He stabbed at the goose but she awoke, honked loudly and rose to her full height tall as a soldier’s horse. She was emaciated, starving. She eyed Harry hungrily.

Harry shrieked. The golden goose beat two mighty wings and readied herself for the kill.

I came down from my tree, ran to the goose and lay before her my hatful of blackberries.

She looked upon them and then, timidly at first, tried one.

Soon she had consumed all 500 blackberries and had a purple beak.

Then she retook her place on the riverbank and returned to sleep,

I took Harry, with his wounded pride, back to the house.

Now it’s the next day and the Golden goose has worked her magic, for now Harry looks at me with respect and helps move the grindstone. I will keep our secret while he continues to treat me well.

I took the goose another 500 blackberries and an apple from the dinner table.

In return she pointed her wing towards a small nest, inside were 4 eggs, one for each of my family. I understand that as long as I feed her she will provide eggs. Not useless golden ones, but ones you can actually eat.

Local kids

by Jenny

Fucking Billy Goat bastards. Everyone knows about those three, they take the fucking piss.

Our area is pretty chilled most of the time, everyone’s just trying to get by, you know? We don’t all always see eye to eye, but we do our best to rub along together as best we can, and we do alright with a few basic ground rules: don’t make too much noise after nine; don’t eat your neighbours’ family members, don’t fuck with someone else’s enchantments, just stuff like that. Everyone gets it.

Except them. If there’s a disturbance or any trouble in the forest you can bet your arse they’re involved. Major troublemakers. Most folks just try to stay out of their way, you know? No-one wants to draw trouble to their door so these guys get away with a lot of stuff, it drives me crazy.

And of course, with me, they have something to prove, especially that little fucker. It’s always the way when you’re a big guy, so they’re always over here giving it all that trip trap bullshit. They know exactly how to get my goat.

Letting that little one go was my first mistake, but they were new here then, they didn’t know the rules, so I thought what the hell, give them a break, he didn’t seem like such a bad kid.

But the next one? He was fair game; a troll’s gotta eat and how was I meant to know they were brothers? Like I said, they were new to the area and all goats do look alike to me. I don’t know why they got so upset - he got away didn’t he? And they had fair warning, there’s a sign - in both languages. I’m not a monster.

But it seems they’re the sort to hold a grudge and since then the little fuckers haven’t left me alone, trip trapping at all hours of the night. It’s harassment is what it is.

But Goose from the next glade over? He heard Old Foxy tell the Rusalka while he was pretending to sleep on the other side of the blackberry patch that there’s another one coming. Apparently he’s a big bastard with these massive horns and this great big fuckoff head and he’s got his eye on my bridge. Goose says he’s coming for me.

Now, I ain’t afraid of no goats, but I have to protect my property; this bridge is my home, it’s my livelihood. I need to stand up to them once and for all. Now, it seems extreme, but I think it has to happen if my bridge and our community is going to survive. I’ve spoken to Goose and he agrees, it’s the only way.

So I’ve contacted 101 and staged an intervention with the local CSOs. They’ve agreed to put me under police protection until he gets here. It could mean some time on the farm for the big one - I think he’s got form. The little ones might get taken into care, sent to a petting zoo for a bit to mellow, maybe show them the error of their ways. Those places aren’t so bad.

And I think I hear the trip trap of enormous hooves heading my way right now...

Alice & Chris

by Russ

Alice tipped her head back and dropped another blackberry from her stained fingers. She caught the fruit on the base of her tongue, curled it back towards her throat, and swallowed. She licked between her lips, and took a deep breath through her nose. Her chest rose, then held, as she kept the air inside, her body still against the shivering surrounds, as wind continued to disturb the forest. Eventually she breathed out, straightened her knees, and stretched her legs out in the grass. She let herself fall back and reflected the stretch with her arms. She closed her eyes to think, and became immediately distracted by the dancing shapes the sun made as it passed through her eyelids.

‘Ooooeeeeeee… that is gonna sting!’

Alice’s eyes shot open. The sun, much lower in the sky than she remembered, was now eclipsed by the silhouetted figure astride her legs. Her faculties reconnected just in time to see the flattened palm arcing at pace toward her bare and reddened thigh. Instinctively she raised her right leg in a snap, feeling the squash as two bags of skin crushed against each other under the impact of her shin. The body rolled off her projected limb with a groan, thudded into the floor beside her, and balled up in pain.

‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ the thwarted assailant gasped. Alice paused, listening to the stricken carcass groan and wheeze through each breath, like a snoring goose.

‘What time is it?’ she eventually asked.

‘Nearly seven,’ the vanquished replied. ‘Have you just laid here toasting all afternoon?’

‘I read my book,’ Alice lied.

There was a quiet while Chris regathered himself and eased out of his foetal coil. Once straightened, he rolled onto his side and bent the knee of his top leg, letting it rest across Alice’s thighs while he supported his upper body on an elbow. He let his face hover an inch over that of the lobster in the summer dress.

‘So, we going to this thing, or not?’

Alice screwed up her face, a gesture she knew annoyed Chris because ‘it’s not a proper answer’. He stuck his chin out and raised his eyebrows, exactly as she knew he would.

‘I know you don’t like crossing the river, but it’s only for a few hours…’ he paused, before a smile filled his eyes. ‘There’ll be pizza...’

Alice didn’t answer, just continued to look up at him, blankly, as if she hadn’t been listening at all. She knew if she smiled he’d take that as a yes, and probably kiss her to celebrate. Any other reaction, and she’d have to watch the disappointment flash across his face.

Alice narrowed her eyes as she looked into Chris’, and allowed the corners of her mouth to lift the faintest amount. She saw the spark in Chris and knew it was only a matter of moments before his mouth lowered to hers. In a flash she lifted slightly, pushed her tongue from her mouth, and ran a huge wet lick along his nose and forehead.

Now it was Chris’ time to screw up his face

‘You fucking horror,’ he laughed, with all the affection in the world.

Breakfast Stories

by unknown....

The story of the ferryman scared the crap out of me when I was growing up. You see my grandfather was a big western fan and I made the mistake of asking him as a child why the cowboys had coins on their eyes. Before you know it my Grandfather, Bill a survivor of world war 2, was all too pleased to tell me about the ferryman and how you had to pay him to take you across the river of souls into the afterlife. So, there you go as a child who didn't have two pennies to rub together been told he needed the pennies when he died, or he would be stuck in purgatory or worse go to hell.

Thoughts like that stick with you and hang around your neck like a dead weight. As a child we don't have the capacity to process these feelings correctly and we begin to obsess about them. The monster in the closet, the ghost in the well or the witch that is causing the disturbance in the forest these are all stories that a child can't reason with and that is why children fear them.

A child unable to process this new knowledge and without a true understanding of fiction and non-fiction takes their research where they can find it a black and white movie, an episode of the Twilight Zone or an urban legend book. Without the ability to distinguish truth from fantasy this information forms the foundations of beliefs that will be partially scrubbed clean by education and age.

The ferryman myth comes from Greek mythology, in the stories he is known as Kharon the ferryman of Hades whose job it is to take the newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron to deliver the souls from the world of living to the world of the dead. Although I suspect this isn't a luxury journey with bar service and nuts, more likely just a bowl of blackberries with oil to drink.

My point I suppose is that all knowledge is just stories handed down over time and the thing with stories is that we can’t comprehend what is real or fantasy because in our concept of time we are all still children. A hundred years is an exceptionally long time in human life but nothing in an eternity of all time. If age and time increases our knowledge yada yada yada you get the point, right?

So, this morning when my girlfriend came into the bedroom and used my pet name Goose, thinking I was just a sleeping goose, she expected a reply. I would have expected to reply. So you can only begin to understand my surprise when I found myself here standing at the edge of a river in my pyjamas with a tall hooded man standing over me and I don't have any change on me.

So, my question to you Kharon is “Will you take an IOU?”.