“One day, dear little Sammy The Snail was going into town to visit his aunt. He heard she had made her delicious looking Fly Fruitcake and he was determined to get a slice. He made his way out of the country-originated cabbage patch where his many snail relations live, slimed down the road and slithered into London.
While there, he came across the famous zebra crossing famous insect pop group The Beetles walked over. He thought to himself,
“This must be the road to my aunt’s house. It must be. It must, must, must!”
Okay, too many musts.
So Sammy sat by the curb and waited eagerly for the light to turn green, bouncing with a squidgy squelch on his tummy, making splatty-splotty noises. He watched the many cars go by, and waved to each driver as he or she passed - except, since he didn’t have any arms, he used his antennae to wave instead.
At last, the light turned green.
“Finally,” sighed Sammy, breathing as slow as a turtle after it had run a race. He slimed across the road, leaving a mucky trail of slime behind, whistling “I’ve Been Working On The Railroad” to himself, wiggling his antennae to the beat.
Then he came across his friend Beatrice Rabbit, who waved cheerfully to him, patted his slimy head, moisturised her hands with carrot scented hand sanitiser and gave a warning to him which he would instantly regret listening to. This is what she warned her:
“I would be careful if I were you, mate. Any minute now, a car might park by and squish you!”
“How?” asked Sammy. Beatrice gave no reply and just skipped on her way. Sammy was confused. Hmmmm….what did that warning mean?
He continued on the trail of his Auntie’s famous Fly Fruitcake….almost there, almost there, almost….OH NO! The red light’s turned on! Sammy looked round wildly in shock as he heard the roaring of an engine, then a horn beeping loudly. He looked to his left. It wasn’t coming from that way.
But when he looked to his right - AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!
A shiny white car was roaring towards him! Sammy tried to slime away but he was too slow, the lights were advancing nearer like an anglerfish advancing on his prey, and just as Sammy was about to reach the other side…
SPLAT!
What remained of Sammy rocketed everywhere. Blood, guts, puss, bile, bogies, brain matter and intestines flew in every direction, splattering into the faces of passers-by, and causing them to scream in terror! Sammy’s insides smelled of urine and poo! Some folk crowded around the corpse of the poor snail, pointing, gasping and fainting in shock, as ambulances and police cars wailed towards the scene.
But sadly…not funeral was held. When Sammy came back in his next life, he was very glad….
TO BE COOKED INTO AN OGRE’S FRUITCAKE HIMSELF!”
“WAAAAAA!!” My three year old self wailed, traumatised. My dad was always nasty to me, and if he wanted to tell me bedtime stories this was the absolute worst he could come up with - one that traumatised me for life. My entire family was the worst and crankiest family you could ever meet - my mum was like this, my dad, my cousins, my uncle, my grandma, and this in life led to a series of traumatic events which ultimately lead to my fate.
First of all, 3 years after I was told the story I was six, and I couldn’t speak after the story was read for me. Whenever the teacher asked me a question, I would open my mouth but no sound came out. No one dared laugh at me, because they just stared and whispered and pointed. They said things about me.
“Why isn’t she answering the question?”
“Maths might be too much for her!
“What kind of family does she live in?”
Uh huh, and if you’re asking that question to me right now as I am reading you this, I’ll answer it for you. My family was so morbid and horrid that they never gave me a suitable environment - they kept everything so melancholy and gloomy, it was like living in a Tim Burton movie.
They never bothered to clean up, and I kept getting coughs and colds and flu, because of all the dust on the mantelpiece and on the wooden floors and on the windowsils and even in the bath. Speaking of baths, whenever they forced me to take one, they did this just by pouring dirty water into the bath and making my skin as murky as a bog monster who had raided a sewer.
And they never made me wear fancy clothes. They just made me wear rags. Lots and lots of rags. They were itchy and scratchy and unbearable against my even dirtier skin, which was cleaned surrounded by worms, beetles and chewed bath toys. Those rags were so old and tattered they could win in a Raggiest Clothes contest against those belonging to a homeless man.
And speaking of the insects that were floating in the bath, that’s all my parents ever fed me. Not the ones Timon and Pumbaa fed Simba in The Lion King, ones which they dug up straight from the rubbish-filled back garden. Mud and trash and dog poo and worms and beetles and spiders. My breath still smells of cowpats the moment I think about eating them.
Leave me for a second, I have to vomit….
Okay, okay. I’ve stopped.
Now can you please let me get on with the story? The exciting bit happens now! But trust me, it’s not nice.
One day, I overheard my parents talking to the school dinner ladies on the phone. Let me guess, I thought to myself. Were they going to let my school serve mud and beetles instead of their famous treacle tart and custard? No way, that would be so disgusting even Jamie Oliver would vomit at that.
I squeaked down each creaky, unmended step and eavesdropped in on my dad, a wicked and crooked nosed old man for his age if you ask me, as he agreed to the dinner ladies talking on the phone.
“Yes, sure.
Oh, of course.
That would be lovely!
Well done!
Okay, bye.”
And when Dad turned me and told me the horrid news, I turned pale. The truth was so dark and grim it could win against my house in a ‘World’s Darkest Moments’ tournament. It was so horrid it could be more overwhelming that loud music blasting from another room in a hotel.
The truth was, he was going to throw me on the road, just like in his story, and sell me to the dinner ladies by watching me get run over and sell my parts - except for my eyes - to the dinner ladies!
And when he finally pushed me onto the road in a matter of abuse and torture more awkward than anyone else’s loving family, as I see you’ve already got, it was deja vu.
All over again.
A white car rumbled towards me and ran me over in the most brutal way possible. But this time as I met the same fate as Sammy, and as the passers-by came to point and gasp and scream at my remains, my stepmaster of a dad grabbed up my remains and ran off as everyone behind him began screaming and shouting in anger.
“Bring her parts back!”
“You are a disgusting man!”
“What kind of dad are you?!”
A NOTE FROM THE DINNER LADIES:
Dear parents,
To make up for this little girl’s life of torture she experienced countless times from her parents, we have agreed with her dad to cook her into one of our world famous desserts and still keep our world famous treacle tart with custard….
SNAIL FLY FRUITCAKE!
Sincerely,
The dinnerladies of Rockshift Primary School, Newhampton
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