Spooned (Furious Fiction Short Story)
- Your story must contain HUMOUR/COMEDY (see below).
- Your story must include the following five words: DIZZY, EXOTIC, LUMPY, TINY, TWISTED.
- Your story must include a sandwich.
by Russell McGilton
Harold Wiennerman woke one morning to find himself with his hands stiffly behind his head and feeling somewhat dizzy.
‘You’ve probably got some kind of exotic flu,’ said his wife, Estelle, who then bolted out the door for work, fearful of catching it. When she returned Harold was still locked in the same position.
‘What’s wrong with you? You’ve been like that for hours.’
‘Isn’t it obvious,’ he sighed. ‘I’m a spoon.’
‘I see.’ And with that, Estelle whisked him away to Dr Willard, the psychiatrist.
‘Lick him on the back of the head from time to time,’ he advised.
‘What will that do?’ she asked.
Estelle had a much better idea. When they got home, she rammed her husband’s head in the kitchen drawer for several hours to see if he got the point. Unfortunately, it had a counter effect.
‘I’ve been talking to the other spoons,’ moaned Harold. ‘Says the dishwasher makes them nervous. From now on, you’ll have to wash us by hand.’
The next day, when Harold told her that he was going to go to work, Estelle baulked, ‘Are you mad? Who’s gonna take financial advice from a spoon!’
Unperturbed, Harold hopped to work, briefcase balanced precariously on his head and followed by a curious crowd of heroin addicts.
‘Are you going to serve me or what?’ croaked Mrs Glatsby in her white lawn bowls outfit.
‘How can I possibly do that?’ Harold said, staring at a lumpy sandwich on the floor, the sad result of him trying to scoop it into his face. ‘I’m a spoon.’
He proudly resumed his stiff composure and didn’t say a word for the rest of the day. Not surprisingly, Harold was fired from his employ, wheeled out on a trolley, and left outside the bank.
‘I’ll take this to the Office of Fair Trading!’
He took it to the Office of Fair Trading, who instructed him to try the Equal Opportunity Board two floors down. Again, he found himself being wheeled out of a building.
Not having been home for several days, Harold finally arrived with two policemen in tow.
‘What happened!’ Estelle cried.
The officers explained that Harold had burst into Riviere’s Restaurant, flung his head into a bowl of French onion soup, and then proceeded to ram his head down a stockbroker’s mouth.
Three months later, Estelle had had enough and left Harold.
‘Off to greener pastures, are we?’ Harold yelled bitterly after her as he lay in the sink with the rest of the dirty cutlery. ‘Hope he’s got it together!’
A letter soon followed filing for a divorce. Outraged, Harold hopped to Estelle’s new apartment. He rang the doorbell with his stiff spoony hands. The door creaked slowly open and there stood another man. He was tiny, quite thin and twisted over. A large piece of paper was shoved tightly under his arm.
‘Who are you?’ Harold demanded.
‘Well, isn’t it obvious,’ the man sighed. ‘I’m a paper clip.’