Recycling: a friday story for you

I was looking through my archives for various reasons (bored, mainly) and found this, which I decided I liked a lot, and which deserved yanking out of the archives and recycling. Because, lets face it, Im pretty sure most of you werent here the first time around (May 2003) so to you it is new! Hurrah! Also I am busy today and stuff. But thats not the point.

Here is a story. Illustrations may follow, if I can be keffed.



[Originally published May 4 2003] [At half past seven, if you care.]

In a state of complete blockedness, I have decided to change direction and become a bestselling childrens author like JK Rowling.

Francis the jolly blue biro

A story for children

Once upon a time there was a blue biro called Francis who lived on a desk in a bedroom with his friend Julian, who was a felt tip.

Francis spent his day basically lying around on the desktop, every now and again being picked up and used to write on pieces of paper.

Sometimes he lay next to Julian, and sometimes he didnt, but that didnt affect their relationship overly much as sometimes felt tips and biros need a bit of personal space, just like sometimes they need the company of other pens.

Francis and Julian, like many best friends, enjoyed a comfortable silence for many hours together. Mainly because they couldnt talk.

Because they were pens.

The God of Francis and Julians world was a big pink person, who every now and again would scoop them from their horizontal resting places, and prop them in a big white jar with a whole big multi-cultural community of pens, where they would nestle snugly with other biros and felt tip pens.

While it was always easy to tell Julian from the other felt tip pens because they were all different colours, once Francis was in the jar with all the other blue biros, it was very difficult to tell which one was

Hang on. Which one was he?

Oh, sod it, lets just say he was this one.

Francis had no discernable personality characteristics, being a biro, and couldnt even write upside down.

Which was rubbish.

He was used only now and again, and one day the God of his little pen-ny world left his lid somewhere, and didnt put it back on again, and his little rolly nose got all dry and he couldnt even write at all without a whole bunch of really vigourous scratching and scribbling first which was pretty sore for little Francis – or would have been apart from the fact that he wasnt, of course, a sentient being and had no capacity to register pain.

And then one day, the big mean God of his sad little desktop world left him on the floor, and someone stood on him, and he broke in the middle and all his insides leaked out all over the carpet.

And the last sounds that Francis heard, before he slipped out of this world, were angry voices cursing his very existence,

swearing, and cursing,

and shouting.

And that was the end of Francis, and no one cared.

Not even Julian.

The End

Oh, stop crying kid, it was only a fucking pen.

I have changed my mind, perhaps I wont be a childrens author.