Daft Wee Stories

by Limmy

  Yet such a simple mistake.

  But he understood their concerns.

  BUTTERFLY

  Louise was walking through the park with her mate. What a day, sunny with a light breeze. And this bit of the park was lovely, a wee quiet bit, all peaceful and tranquil. She smiled, and was just about to say to her mate how beautiful everything was when she saw something that put the cherry on top.

  ‘Look, a butterfly!’ said Louise, as it landed on a leaf. She whipped out her phone to get a snap, but the thing flew off. ‘Awww,’ she said, ‘I think I scared it.’ She watched as it fluttered away, this way and that, before doubling back. ‘Where’s it going?’ she asked. She laughed as it hovered around her head for a while, before landing right on her nose.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ she said quietly, not wanting to scare it away a second time. She reached for her phone slowly; she didn’t want any sudden movements to fuck this up. This was definitely going to be her profile pic, for a very long time.

  ‘Don’t move. I’ve got it,’ said her mate, pulling out her phone instead.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Louise began breathing as slowly as she could to stay calm and still. She was almost more nervous than this tiny wee thing on the end of her nose. ‘This will probably make me sound really stupid,’ she whispered, ‘but butterflies don’t bite, do they?’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said her mate. ‘Anyway, it’s not a butterfly. It’s a moth.’

  Louise jerked her head away suddenly, like somebody had presented her with a teaspoon of shite. The moth fluttered away. She watched it, repulsed, and rubbed her nose with her hand.

  It was every bit as beautiful as the butterfly she thought it was, but not to her. Not any more. Because she was told it was a moth. And as it fluttered back towards her, she ducked and dived like a boxer, trying to smack the thing out of existence. Her mate had to grab her arm and pull her away. They left the park, with Louise still wiping her nose, her day ruined.

  What the fuck is her problem, man?

  STREET LIGHTS

  He’d looked it all up, how to do it. How to fuck with the traffic lights. From one place you could control the traffic lights for the whole city, turn them all off, turn them all red, amber, green. You could make them all flash like a disco if you wanted. But he didn’t.

  If he was a terrorist, he would have turned them all green. Drivers would speed through green light after green light, thinking it was their lucky day, until they turned their head to see another lucky driver heading in from the side. But he wasn’t a terrorist.

  He could have turned them all red. If he was some kind of anti-capitalist activist, he would have jumped at the chance. Right in the middle of rush hour, he could have stopped the rat race right in its tracks and dealt a crushing blow to the Man. But not him. Call him a bore or a fascist, but that wasn’t for him.

  He turned them all amber.

  The world was moving too fast. He didn’t want to put on the red lights, he didn’t want to cause a major disruption, he wasn’t against people earning a bit of money, he didn’t want anybody to lose their job. He just wanted everybody to slow down a bit, that’s all. They would slow down, and then stop, for a while. They’d stop long enough to look over to the other drivers in the other motors, to decide on what to do. Who’s to go first? Me? You? Their eyes would meet, they’d sit in their cars communicating with hand gestures, with shrugs, with smiles. People would step out their motors and talk. That’s all he wanted. He just wanted people to talk, to each other. To slow down and talk. They’d talk about what’s going on, they’d maybe laugh, and realise that they weren’t in such a hurry after all.

  That was the plan.

  What happened was in many ways worse than if he had just set all the lights to green. People got confused, they felt like idiots, they got defensive and angry. They got out their motors, not to chat and laugh, but to argue. People swore in front of other people’s children, people were told to watch their fucking language, people were told they could say whatever the fuck they wanted and you better get that fucking look off your face, mate, I’m warning you. People got battered, some got killed. Two guys started fighting with each other over a broken tail light, until some other guy tried to break it up, at which point the two guys put their differences aside to murder the do-gooder with a car jack – before all three of them were run over by a 70mph amber-gambler hoping to beat the camera, who himself died after being decapitated by his seatbelt.

  So the plan didn’t work out.

  But at least it got them talking.

  THE TEACUP

  Billy was about sixty. He was walking through some spare ground, walking back home from feeding the birds. And it was there he saw the teacup.

  It was a dainty wee thing, a white cup with flowers painted on it and a gold rim at the top, lying there in the grass next to some broken bottles and a used johnny bag. It looked old-fashioned, like something you’d see on the Antiques Roadshow. It looked like it might be worth something. He knew it wouldn’t be, otherwise it wouldn’t be lying here, but it was worth something to him anyway; it looked nice, simple as that, and he’d like to have it. It was probably cracked, though, knowing his luck, so he picked it up and had a look, bracing himself for disappointment. But there were no cracks to be found. No cracks, no scratches, not even a speck of dirt. After lying there in that tip, not one speck of dirt. That was strange. But good. He put it in his pocket and carried on walking home, a wee bit chirpier than before.

  When he got there, he took the cup out his pocket and went into the kitchen to see if he had any tea bags. He quite fancied the idea of sipping tea out of his new teacup. He was a whisky man, usually. Well, he used to be a whisky man, to be more accurate. He knocked the whole thing on the head six months ago. That’s partly why he was off feeding the birds. The folk at AA told him it would be good for him, to get out the house, get out the pub, just go for walks and breathe in the fresh air. He felt a bit daft feeding birds to begin with, a man like him, and he took some slagging for it. Eventually, though, he just thought the slagging was interesting. It was interesting to observe. They were fine with him queuing outside the pub at eight in the morning, they were all right with him having to get carried home at the end of the night. That was Billy for you. What a legend. But going for a walk in the park to feed the birds? What the fuck was he playing at? What a joke.

  He looked in the cupboard and picked up the box of tea bags. He was looking forward to this. He wondered how his old mates would feel if they saw him with his teacup, sipping tea in his living room, watching the Antiques Roadshow, his legs crossed, his pinky out, haha. But that would have to wait, because when he looked in the box, it was empty. No fucking tea bags, oh come on, man. There were the remnants of a burst tea bag along the edges of the cupboard shelf. If he was desperate enough, he could slide it all into the teacup, but the tea leaves would also come with year-old crumbs and hair and bits of dead flies, and he wasn’t that desperate.

  ‘Och, I really fancied a cuppa,’ he mumbled.

  And then something happened.

  First, he smelled it. Then he looked down and saw it. He rubbed his eyes, looked away, then looked back. But there it was, and as real as you like. The teacup had somehow been topped up with tea. Piping-hot tea.

  He reached for a kitchen knife, because there was only one conclusion you could come to here: somebody had broken in. He searched the kitchen, and found nobody. He searched around the house, opening each door slowly before bursting into the room, stabbing at nothing. After five minutes of checking and double-checking, he came back to the teacup and stared. He didn’t know who was behind all this, but he’d be fucked if he was drinking it. It was poisoned. Maybe. Or maybe after drinking it he’d conk out and wake up somewhere he didn’t want to be.

  He poured the tea into the sink, put the cup back down on the kitchen worktop, and stared at it some more. Somebody must have sneaked in right under his fucking nose and filled the cup with tea, fro
m a flask, then sneaked out. Or maybe he filled it himself, then blacked out. Or maybe …

  Could it be?

  Try it again. Go.

  He had another look around, in case this was some kind of wind-up. He looked around for people, he looked for hidden cameras and microphones. He found nothing. He closed the blinds in case they were filming from outside. He even pointed out to whoever was listening, if anybody was listening, that he knew that this was just a wind-up but he was going to go along with it. He looked back at the cup.

  ‘I fancy a cuppa,’ he said to the cup. And he discovered that this was no wind-up. He had seen some things in his time, including things that weren’t really there, but he’d never seen anything like this. The teacup began to fill up with tea. Some doubt still remained: perhaps there was a pipe underneath the cup feeding the tea into it, perhaps they had cut a wee hole in the worktop underneath in the exact position where he put the cup down, with some kind of silent saw, which also sawed through the bottom of the cup, and then they put a wee tube through the cup and pumped the tea in. Somehow. He knew the chances of pulling off a stunt like that were slim, but they weren’t as slim as the alternative explanation. He picked up the cup, not sure what he’d prefer to see.

  There was no tube. The tea continued to fill to the top of the cup, right there in his hand, right before his eyes. That was it decided then.

  It was a magic teacup.

  He brought the cup to his mouth, and sipped. He didn’t know what to expect. Maybe tea from a magic teacup was, in itself, magic. Maybe it would make him float. Maybe it would taste, I don’t know, twinkly. But as it turned out, it was better than that. It was quite simply the perfect cup of tea.

  When he was finished, he put the cup down on the worktop, stared at it for a while, and had a thought. What else could the teacup make?

  ‘I quite fancy a cup of that Earl Grey or whatever it’s called.’

  The magic teacup filled up with a cup of Earl Grey, as requested. He had a few gulps. It was nice, but it wasn’t his thing. He emptied it into the sink and thought of something else.

  ‘I’d like a herbal tea,’ he said, not quite sure what a herbal tea was. But he got one all the same. He had a sip then put it in the sink. ‘Can you give me a coffee?’ A coffee was served. ‘Hot chocolate!’ A delicious hot chocolate. This was brilliant!

  ‘Gie’s a triple whisky!’

  Oh dear.

  He didn’t mean it. It was just habit. Whenever he felt all jovial and in high spirits, he’d just bark it out – in the old days, that was. He was just about to cancel his order, but the teacup got in there first. Here you are, sir, a triple whisky in a teacup. Enjoy.

  He had no intention of drinking it, but he didn’t pour it out right away. He just stared. It looked like whisky, that’s for sure. He wasn’t used to seeing it within a white teacup, mind you, but that was whisky all right. He brought it up to his face – not to drink it, Jesus, not to drink it – just to smell it. And, aye, it smelled like whisky. A very nice whisky.

  He should have put it down. But he didn’t.

  Would it taste like whisky? The teacup could make the perfect cup of tea, but could it make the perfect cup of whisky? He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had a perfect whisky; he’d certainly never had a magic whisky. He wondered what it would taste like. Just one sip. Just one. It doesn’t really count, does it? A sip of whisky that came from a magic teacup? He didn’t think that was against the rules. They didn’t mention that in AA. Well, of course they didn’t, but, you know. It doesn’t really count, does it?

  He had a sip. Just a sip.

  Twenty cups later, he was blitzed, and fast asleep on the kitchen floor. As for the cup, it was smashed. He bumped the thing over when he went to the toilet, smashed it to pieces on the kitchen tiles. And that was that. The end.

  No, I mean it. That’s it. The end.

  Alky fucking bastard.

  I mean, for the love of fuck. No offence to those who have been affected by alcoholism, I’ve been affected myself. At the time of writing this I’ve been off the demon drink for ten years, so no offence intended. But this story was going somewhere. He could have filled the teacup with diamonds or gold or a cure for fucking cancer, but no. He didn’t even do that thing he wanted to do with the pinky and the crossed legs in the living room in front of the Antiques Roadshow, remember that? He said he was looking forward to it. Maybe you were as well. I know I was. But we can forget about that now.

  Alky bastard.

  Stupid, selfish, alky bastard.

  A VALUED MEMBER OF THE TEAM

  Gerry was sitting at his desk at work with nothing to do. That would be fine, normally; most people would love something like that. You could check your Twitter, Facebook, check the news to see if anything had happened. Not many people would complain about being in that position. But Gerry had been doing nothing since he started at the company. That was almost three years now.

  You might be thinking that I don’t really mean he was doing nothing, that I mean he was doing little. No, I mean he was doing nothing. When he started, he assumed that somebody would come along at some point and tell him what work he should do, but it hadn’t happened, nobody had spoken to him. It wasn’t that he was being given the silent treatment, it wasn’t that the rest of the office couldn’t stand him, far from it. He was very popular in the company, perhaps the most popular employee in the whole floor of over a hundred employees. That’s if you could call him an employee. Because, seriously, he did fuck all.

  Three years doing fuck all. Maybe it was time to say something. He didn’t want to be rude, but maybe it was time. His boss walked past. Now was the time.

  ‘Can I speak to you, Mags?’ he said.

  ‘Sure, Gerry! How are you today?’ said Mags.

  Gerry told her that he’d been doing nothing since he arrived at the company three years ago. She laughed it off, saying he should count himself lucky, she wished she had nothing to do. She was so busy!

  No, he’d really like something to do, he told her. Once he started being a bit adamant about it, his confidence grew, and Mags could tell that it was time to speak to him. Time to speak to him about the whole thing. Some heads were turning towards the conversation. It looked like it was time.

  ‘Gerry,’ she said. ‘You’re paid good money, I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘But what for?’ asked Gerry. ‘What do I actually do? I don’t do anything.’

  Some people around chipped in with support for Gerry, telling him he did plenty and was a valued member of the team. Gerry turned to see that pretty much the whole office had stopped working to see this conversation, like it was a long time coming. Gerry could see people craning their heads for a look. Some came over and stroked his head.

  ‘Gerry,’ said Mags. ‘You know how some offices have, like, maybe a cat or a dog?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You know, a dog or cat that belongs to somebody in the office and they bring it in and, you know, it’s supposed to reduce stress in the workplace and it’s good for productivity and so on?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Gerry. ‘But what’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mags, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tried to find the right words. Gerry looked around the office at all the sympathetic smiles directed towards him.

  ‘Nobody in the office has a dog or cat,’ Mags continued. ‘And it didn’t seem right to buy a pet just for the office, one that belonged to the company. What if we went bust? We’d have to throw the thing in the river. So we thought, well …’

  Gerry raised his palm and closed his eyes: he didn’t want to hear another word. Mags got the message, and stopped talking. This was strange and upsetting. Gerry didn’t know what to do. He opened his mouth to speak …

  Somebody kicked a ball; Gerry chased after it. He got it!

  He was going to say something. Or was he? He couldn’t remember.

  Anyway, the ball. He got it!<
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  THE CHIMNEY

  ‘The fucking state of these skirting boards,’ said Kenny. ‘I’m going to phone the solicitor.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid – phone them for what?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Well, they didn’t tell us the skirting boards were wonky when we bought the flat. We could get money from the last lot to fix it.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ said Julie again.

  ‘Well, what about that rattling sound when you flush the toilet?’ said Kenny. ‘They didn’t tell us about that.’

  ‘Kenny, it’s an old building. We knew that.’ Julie had a thought. ‘Here, I’ve got an idea: how d’you fancy trying out the fireplace?’

  She and Kenny had moved into the flat a few weeks ago: an old tenement, loads of character. It had done nothing but piss Kenny off, but Julie loved all its wee quirks. She especially loved that fireplace – it was almost half the reason why she had bought the place. Julie had only lived in new builds, so what a novelty it would be to go and get coal, actual real coal, stick it in the fireplace, an actual real fireplace, and get a fire on the go. Not some fake fire, not that cheesy projection thing you got inside electric fires, but an actual real fire. Kenny agreed, but didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic. If he couldn’t find coal in any of the cupboards, forget it. No way he was going to the shops and carrying a bag of coal up three flights of stairs like something out a fucking Charles Dickens novel. So he played it cool, he didn’t want to get her hopes up, he didn’t want anybody making assumptions.

  He had a look in the cupboard next to the living room, which was full of the previous owner’s unwanted stuff: a broken clothes horse; a child’s toy garage without the cars; one of those poles you can extend inside the top of a door frame to do pull-ups. Stuff like that. Rubbish like that. Kenny was about to moan for the millionth time about that last lot, all the wee things they didn’t tell him about, and all the wee things they said they were going to do which they didn’t, like when they said they would take all their shite with them. He was fucking itching to phone those solicitors, but he forgot all about it when he spotted the bag of coal. All was forgiven. For now.