Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  Good grief, I am gone. I have had it. That good-looking girl from next door has seen me pulling the hairs out of my nose. She thinks I am grotty. Now I will have to tell her the whole story because I can see by the look on her face that she is disgusted. I have already lost Tara, my girlfriend. I couldn’t stand it if Jill got the wrong idea too.

  ‘Listen, Jill. Don’t look like that. There is a very good reason why I do it. You don’t think I like pulling the hairs out of my nose, do you? It is very painful.’

  Jill is not saying anything. She is just staring at me so I go on with the story. ‘This little garden gnome business is only here because of my nose-hair pulling. You don’t believe me? Well look at this.’

  I take my hand off the new garden gnome’s head and show her the eye that has grown on the end of my finger. I have never shown anyone this little eye before. I can see with it, which is a fairly unusual thing. When I am not making gnomes, I keep a glove on so that no one can see the eye. Jill’s mouth is hanging open with surprise so I decide to tell her about the way the whole thing happened before she thinks I have gone crazy.

  2

  It all begins when my girlfriend Tara gives me a garden gnome for my fourteenth birthday. It is a horrible-looking garden gnome and it only has one eye. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say to Tara. ‘Just what I wanted. A little angry-looking garden gnome.’

  It is angry looking, too. Its one and only eye glares at everyone as if its toenails are being pulled out. And its mouth is wide open like someone yelling out swear words at the footy. It is made out of cement but it is very realistic.

  ‘I am so glad you like it,’ says Tara in a dangerous voice. ‘Because it cost me a lot of money.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I answer. ‘Anyone can tell that it is a very special garden gnome. I know just the spot for it – down behind the garden shed.’

  ‘Behind the garden shed,’ yells Tara. ‘You can’t put it out in the rain. I don’t think you like it.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ I say quickly. ‘I will put it on the shelf where I can see it all the time.’

  So that is how the garden gnome comes to be in my bedroom. Every morning and every night there it is, glaring at me. As the days go by it seems to look grumpier and grumpier.

  After a while I find that I can’t sleep at night. The angry gnome gets into my dreams. I wake up at night and find that I can’t stop staring at its horrible little face. I keep having a nightmare about being swallowed by it.

  I turn the gnome around so that it faces the wall but this does not work either. I keep imagining that it is pulling faces. Finally, I can stand it no more. I grab the gnome by its silly little red hat and am just about to smash it to smithereens when I notice something strange. Inside its mouth, right at the back, is a tiny little face about half the size of a pea. It is stuck on the gnome’s tonsils.

  I think that whoever made this garden gnome has a strange sense of humour. I decide to remove the little face from the gnome’s tonsils. I get a small hammer and a screwdriver and I start chipping away at the little face at the back of the gnome’s throat. I feel a bit like a dentist. The gnome’s mouth is wide open but I bet he would close it if he could.

  After a couple of hits the little face flies off the gnome’s tonsils and falls onto its tongue.

  The next bit is hard to believe but it really does happen. The little round face rolls along the garden gnome’s concrete tongue, onto its lips and flies through the air. It hits me full in the mouth. ‘Ouch,’ I yell at the top of my voice. ‘That hurt.’

  It is so painful that my eyes start to water. I am really mad now and I start searching around on the carpet for the little round face. It is nowhere to be seen. I search and search but I can’t find it anywhere. My lips are still hurting and I have a funny, tickling feeling somewhere at the back of my throat.

  ‘Right,’ I yell at the gnome. ‘You have had it.’ I pick up the screwdriver and throw it as hard as I can. The point of the screwdriver hits the gnome on his one and only eye and knocks it clean out of his face. Now the gnome has no eyes at all. It is lucky it is only made out of concrete or it would be a very unhappy gnome.

  I look around the floor for the eye but I can’t find that either. This is when I notice that one of my fingers on my right hand is feeling sore.

  3

  What happens next is really weird. I find myself looking up at my own face. It is just as if I am lying on the carpet looking up at myself. I am looking down and up at the same time. My head starts to swim. I feel I must be having a nightmare. I hope I am having a nightmare because if not I must be going nuts. There, on the end of one of my fingers, is a little eye. A real eye. It is staring and blinking and I can see with it.

  The gnome’s eye has somehow grown onto my finger.

  I give a scream of rage and fear and then I grab the gnome and run outside with it. I throw it down onto the path and smash it to pieces with the hammer. By the time I am finished all that is left is a small pile of dust and powder.

  The gnome is gone for good but the eye is not. No, the eye is still there, blinking and winking on the end of my finger. I shove my hand in my pocket because I can’t bear to look at my extra eye. Suddenly I can see what is in my pocket. There is a used tissue, two cents (which is all the money I have in the world) and a half-sucked licorice block. The eye is looking around inside my pocket.

  I grin. At first I think that maybe this is not too bad. An extra eye on the end of a finger might be useful. I go back to my bedroom and poke my finger into a little hole in the wall. There is a family of mice nesting there. They get a big fright when they see the finger-eye looking at them and they nick off as fast as they can go.

  Next I stick my finger into my earhole to see what is going on in there. My new eye seems to be able to see in the dark, but to be quite honest, there is not really much action inside an ear.

  This is when I get the idea to have a peek inside my own mouth. I have always wondered what it is like at the back of my throat and this is my big chance to find out. I poke my finger in and have a look around. It is quite interesting really, I have never seen behind that thing that dangles down at the back before. There are a lot of red, wet mountains back there.

  Suddenly I see something terrible. Horrible. A little face is staring back at me. It is the little, round face that I chipped off the gnome’s tonsils. It has taken up residence in my throat. It lives behind my tonsils.

  I start to cough and splutter. I have to get it out. Fancy having a little round face living in your throat. I try everything I can think of to get it out (including blowing my nose about a thousand times) but it just will not come out.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you will not come out by force I will get you out with brains.’ I go down to the kitchen to see what there is to eat. I notice a packet of Hundreds and Thousands that Mum uses to sprinkle on top of cakes.

  ‘Just the right size,’ I say to myself. I put three of the Hundreds and Thousands on my tongue and put my finger up to my mouth to see what happens. Sure enough, the little face rolls onto my tongue and eats two of them. It eats the red ones but doesn’t seem to like the blue one.

  ‘Right,’ I say. I pick out about fifteen red Hundreds and Thousands and put them on my tongue so that they form a little trail. The trail leads onto my lip and down my chin. I open my mouth and watch with the eye on my finger from a distance. The little face rolls out and starts eating. He reaches my lips and still he is not suspicious. A bit later he looks around outside and then moves down to my chin to eat the Hundreds and Thousands I have put there.

  As quick as a flash I close my mouth and leave him trapped on the outside. I have won. Or so I think.

  The little face tries to burrow back through my closed lips but I have my teeth clenched together. He can’t get in.

  I raise my hand to grab him, but before I can, he races upwards and disappears into my nose. In about two seconds I can feel him back behind my tonsils. I know that he will not fall f
or the Hundreds and Thousands trick again.

  Just then, there is a knock at the front door. I walk down the hall and put my finger up to the keyhole to see who it is. It is Tara, my girlfriend. I open the door and give her a weak smile. ‘G’day,’ I say. ‘How are you going?’

  ‘I have come to have a look at the garden gnome I gave you,’ she says. ‘I want to make sure that you haven’t put it down the backyard.’

  My heart sinks. Tara is standing next to a pile of powder and dust that is the remains of the gnome. She has not seen it yet.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ I say. I try to think of an explanation but I know that I can’t tell Tara. She won’t like the little face on my tonsils. She certainly won’t like my extra eye. Once she wouldn’t go out with me just because I had a pimple on my ear. If I tell her the truth she will drop me like a brick.

  I can feel the little face moving around at the back of my throat. I have to know what he is up to so I put my finger into my mouth to see what is going on.

  ‘What are you sucking your finger for?’ asks Tara.

  The little face is right on the end of the dangler thing in my throat. He is swinging on it, having fun.

  ‘Take your finger out of your mouth and answer me, you silly boy,’ Tara snaps.

  The little face is hanging on to the dangler by his teeth! It hurts like nothing.

  ‘Stop sucking your finger, you idiot,’ yells Tara.

  Now the face is out of sight. He is hiding up the back somewhere. I shove my finger in further to find out what is going on. This is a big mistake. I touch something that I shouldn’t with my finger and it makes me sick. I spew up all over the carpet. Some of it splashes on Tara’s shoes.

  I get down onto my hands and knees and start sifting through the spew. I hope that the little face has been swept out with the tide. But it hasn’t.

  ‘You revolting creep,’ yells Tara. ‘I am breaking it off. You’re dropped. I never want to see you again in my life.’ She stands up and charges out of the door.

  ‘Good riddance,’ I yell. ‘And take your rotten gnome with you. You will find what is left of it on the footpath.’

  I stagger out into the front garden and sit down. I feel terrible. My life is ruined. My girlfriend has dropped me. I have no money (except for two cents). I have an eye on my finger and a little face in my throat. I wish I was dead. I start to cry. Tears fall down my face. And down my finger. The eye on my finger is shedding tears too. Little teardrops fall onto the grass.

  Then something amazing starts to happen. Where the tears from my finger are falling, little concrete gnomes start to grow in the grass. I can’t believe it. They are sad little gnomes but they are very life-like. They look just as if they are alive.

  Ten little gnomes grow, one for each teardrop. The next day I sell the gnomes for ten dollars each. I make a hundred dollars profit.

  4

  Jill is listening to my story with wide-open eyes. I don’t suppose she will believe it.

  ‘Well,’ says Jill. ‘What a sad tale.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer. I can hardly believe my ears. Jill believes the whole thing. This is when I notice what a spunk she really is.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ she goes on, ‘is what all this had to do with pulling hairs out of your nose.’

  I feel a bit embarrassed but I decide to tell her the truth. ‘I am trying to grow more gnomes.’ I say. ‘But I can’t make any tears come. When you pull the hairs in your nose it makes your eyes water.’ I hold up my finger and show her my extra eye again.

  ‘Is the little face still there?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you got any more Hundreds and Thousands?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer again, handing over the packet.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘We can’t have you pulling hairs out of your nose. It’s not a nice habit. Open up your mouth and let me speak to the face.’

  I open my mouth and Jill looks inside and speaks to my guest. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘We don’t mind you living in there. But fair’s fair. You have to pay the rent. You help us and we will help you.’

  So this is how Jill becomes my girlfriend. And we both become very rich from selling garden gnomes. We have got the perfect system. I open up my mouth and Jill calls out instructions to my tenant.

  The little face goes up and pulls on a hair in my nose with his teeth. This makes my eye water and drop tears onto the lawn. More concrete gnomes grow out of the grass. Then we give the face his reward – red Hundreds and Thousands.

  The gnomes are so realistic that we get five hundred dollars each for them. This means I don’t have to have my hairs pulled very often.

  You don’t believe the story? Well, all I can say is this. If you are ever thinking of buying a garden gnome have a look in its mouth first. If there is a little face on its tonsils – don’t buy it.

  Think of honey.

  Think of rotten, stinking fish.

  Put them together and what have you got?

  DISGUSTING COD-LIVER OIL.

  That’s what.

  1

  The nonsense you have just read was not written by me. My grandson Anthony wrote it. Silly boy.

  I love cod-liver oil. I have been eating it for ninety-five years. It is good for you. It is delicious. In fact I would probably have died when I was only eighty if it weren’t for my daily dose of cod-liver oil. Wonderful stuff. Full of natural flavour and vitamins.

  Just because I am an old man doesn’t mean that I don’t know anything. But Anthony won’t take any notice. He only eats what he likes. Chocolates, hamburgers, ice-cream. Rubbish like that. Bad for you.

  We are great mates. We love each other – Anthony and I. We see eye to eye on everything. Except food.

  Anthony has been coming to my house every Christmas since he was born. He loves it. But not at meal times.

  I remember when he was only three. Everyone was there at the table. Gran was alive at the time, bless her heart.

  I put Anthony’s plate of vegetable mush in front of him. He closed his mouth and shook his head. He didn’t want vegetable mush. Not even after I had grown the carrots and brussels sprouts in my own backyard. The best carrots in town. I’ve won prizes for those carrots.

  And the little beggar wouldn’t eat them. What a nerve. It made my blood boil, I can tell you. He wanted roast beef and plum pudding like the rest of us. And he was only three.

  I looked across the table at him. Then I pounced and put him in a headlock. I forced open his jaw. I shoved a spoonful of vegetable mush between his lips and clamped his mouth shut. ‘Gotcha,’ I yelled.

  ‘Let him go, dear,’ said Gran, bless her heart. ‘He’s only three.’

  ‘Never,’ I said. ‘Not until he eats his vegetable mush.’

  Anthony never said a thing. Not that he could talk, what with me holding him in a headlock. But he didn’t fight.

  He didn’t squirm. He didn’t make a sound. He is a stubborn kid. Takes after his Gran, bless her heart.

  So that is how it went. I ate my soup with my left hand and kept Anthony in the headlock with my right one. ‘Give in,’ I said.

  No answer. He didn’t even shake his head. Not that he could even if he had wanted to.

  Next we had the roast beef. I had to ask Gran (bless her heart) to cut mine up so I could eat with one hand. It took me fifty minutes but I managed it.

  ‘Give in,’ I said.

  Anthony didn’t even blink. He just stared in front of him with a stubborn look in his eyes.

  Now I had a problem. Was the vegetable mush still in there? Or had he swallowed it? I dared not let go.

  Gran served up the plum pudding, bless her heart. It was delicious. Custard and cream too. Easy to eat with one hand.

  I kept the headlock on Anthony. ‘Have you swallowed your vegetable mush?’ I said. ‘If you have I’ll let you go.’

  No answer. So I didn’t let him go.

  We had coffee. We had jam tarts. But still
Anthony kept his mouth clamped closed. Or I should say I kept it clamped closed.

  Everyone left the table except Anthony and me. Hours passed. The afternoon drifted into the evening. But still he wouldn’t budge. So we just sat there. Him in his highchair and me putting on the stranglehold.

  ‘He must have swallowed it,’ I thought. My arm was getting pins and needles. I couldn’t last any longer. So I let go.

  Anthony spat the vegetable mush out onto the table.

  Disgusting.

  2

  So that is how it is every Christmas when Anthony comes to stay. We have hassles over his food. And now he won’t take his cod-liver oil. Even though he is thirteen years old.

  Take this year, for example.

  I was out in the hothouse when he arrived. I was trying to cross a Granny Smith apple with a Golden Delicious. I wanted to invent a new type of apple. A Golden Gran. Named after Gran. Bless her heart.

  Excuse me a minute. A tear is rolling down my cheek. I always start to cry a bit when I think of her. Now she is dead and all. It’s lonely without Gran. We were married for sixty years.

  Now there is just me. And old Cameo, my horse. I love Cameo but she’s not much company. Horses can love you but they can’t talk.

  She loves apples, does Cameo. She trots across the garden and pinches one out of your hand if you don’t watch out.

  I was mad about apples, too. If I could name a new type of apple after Gran, her memory would live forever. That’s what I wanted to do. I would call it Golden Gran. Just think of it.

  But it never worked. I just couldn’t manage to develop a new type no matter how hard I tried.

  Anyway, Anthony walked in while I was trying to fertilise my new species. ‘Grandpa,’ he said. ‘I am happy to be here. I am glad to see you again.’ He planted a kiss on my wrinkled old face. Then he said, ‘But I am not having cod-liver oil this year. I am too old for it. And I hate the stuff. It makes me spew.’

  I didn’t say anything. I just made my plans. I would get it into him somehow. For his own sake.