Some of my stories are odd. They may not start out meaning to be odd, but they inevitably end up laa-laa and more straitjacket than book jacket. This may limit the number of publications for me to submit them to, but if a story’s good then it’s good, right? Right. But every now and again I chance upon a periodical actually shouting out for oddities. ‘Donut Factory’ was a print magazine based in Berkeley, California and edited by American writer A.E. Phillips. The second edition featured my work. 

 ‘Gnu Shoes’ finds the purely fictional Mr. Brown visiting a shoe shop run by a pushy Wildebeest willing to do anything to make a sale and, although it received a couple of readings at my Aberdeen spoken word night ‘Per-Verse’ around 2014, I didn’t expect it to go anywhere else.  Perhaps it never did.

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Tuesday’s puddles were slightly different to Monday’s. They were wetter and saturated my feet. Upon reflection, it occurred to me that the puddles were not in fact wetter, but roughly the same – only my Hush Puppies had picked up new holes. Twin holes, right through each sole. I did not stop to question the phenomenon but merely made my may to Main Street to look for replacements.

Main Street was quite different to how I remembered it. Where Old Man Johnson’s pawnbroker had once operated, was a flash new shoe shop. As I neared it, the door opened and a squat penguin walked out in a pair of winkle pickers. The shopkeeper, a well turned out gnu, waved him on his way.

‘Every pair comes with a three month guarantee,’ he called after the penguin. ‘You can always rely on Gnu Shoes for comfort. Tell your friends, Mr Guin. I always make a sale!’ The gnu turned to face me, looked down his long, flat, black nose and clenched his teeth into a wide grin. ‘Another customer! Come in, Sir. Come in. I have just the pair of shoes for you.’

‘How could you possibly know without my seeing them, or even my trying them on?’ I replied.

’Ye of little faith, Sir. There is something for everyone in this shop. I always make a sale.’ He led me inside the shop and pushed me on to a velvet covered seat. ‘Now Sir, what will it be?’ he began again. ‘Why, I’ve clogs for dogs, boots for newts, flats for rats, stilettos for geckos…if you’ve four feet or two, I have the shoe.’

‘You’re a good salesman,’ I remarked.

‘Quite,’ agreed the gnu as he began feeding my left foot into a measuring device. ‘Did I mention I always make a sale?’

‘You did.’

‘Size nine I make it, give or take the toe-jam. Our most popular size, Sir. Now, did you have anything in mind?’

‘Well, I thought something black and shiny,’

‘Black and shiny, Sir. As you wish,’ he said.  The gnu was already half way up a library ladder, fishing around on the upper-most shelf. ‘I have the most perfect leather brogues you’ll ever see.’ He jumped down and slammed a brilliant black shoe on my foot. They were almost incandescent, but they did pinch somewhat.

He looked hurt.

‘Do you not like them, Sir?’

‘They’re a bit pinchy.’

‘Most new shoes are, Sir. Believe me, after you break them in, they’ll become a part of you.’

‘Oh, that’s no use. I don’t have time to break them in.’

The gnu nodded and selected another pair.  ‘How about some nice, comfy suede loafers?’ he asked, sliding one on to my foot before I could answer. They were much comfier, almost like a pair of slippers, but they had no shine.

’They’re a little dull,’ I said. ‘Can’t you brighten them up a bit?’

‘Look, Sir, I may be able to do many things but I cannot shine suede.’

‘Oh dear, I’d really rather something shiny. Can you try again?’

The gnu’s nostrils flared.

‘Very good, Sir,’ he said and climbed the ladder once more.

An hour or two later, we were still in the shop. A large pile of shoes sat to my right and, to my left, sat the gnu sobbing lightly and scratching his head with a hoof.

‘I…I’ve tried every pair in the shop,’ he whimpered. ‘I tried patent platform plimsolls, square-toes, slip-ons, sandals, sneakers, stilettos, ski boots…even those weird-smelling orthopaedic shoes I found in the cellar. And yet, and yet, I always make a sale…or I have up until now. You’ve finally beaten me.’ His body shuddered and he began to cry.

‘How about the ones you’re wearing,’ I said. ‘They’re black, they’re shiny, they’re very becoming. I don’t mind if they’re second hand.’

The gnu sniffed and looked at his hooves, ‘But these aren’t for sale. They’re a part of me.’

‘Oh come now,’ I said. ‘So you’re attached to them. You want to make a sale though don’t you?’

The gnu wiped his eyes. ‘A sale is a sale.’

He walked over to a desk, opened the top drawer and took out a knife with a six-inch blade and a bottle of whisky. ‘A sale is a sale,’ he repeated and began to hack at his lower limbs, taking swigs from the bottle to numb the pain.

‘I say,’ I said. ’That looks a little painful. Wouldn’t a shoe-horn work better?’

’A sale…’ grimaced the gnu, ‘…is a sale.’ With two more hacks his bloody right hoof lay before him. He took another swig of whisky, steadied his blade hand and took a final swipe. His left hoof hit the floor with a dull clop. I tried them on. They were a perfect fit, jet black and with an iridescent shine.

‘What a pair of shoes!’ I beamed. ‘I’ll take them.’

The gnu dragged himself to the till to run up the sale. As I left, he lay at the door gasping. ’Y-you c- can always rely on g-g-gnu shoes for c-comfort, Mr Brown. Tell your friends. I…I always make a sale.’

Christmas with the Cromwells

‘Oh Mother, must I attend?’

‘You know you are his favourite nephew, Henry.’  My mother firmly tugged a white coif down over her ears, then fixed an austere wimple.  ‘Besides, James will be there,’ she continued.  ‘You get on splendidly with James.  And Mary and little Frances.’

‘He smells worse than putrid pottage, Mother.  As well you know.  Or he has done for the last two weeks.  Ever since…’  I pulled my most disapproving face.  ‘Since the war ended.  Since the fun ended.  Since they won.’

I slumped down with my greatest harrumph, creasing my sky-blue silk, French pantaloons as I did.  Mother took one look at me and shook her head.

‘You can take those off for a start.  Black breeches and clean, knee-high stockings only.’

The tradition of visiting Uncle Oliver every December 25th was never one I looked forward to.  Christmas 1653 looked like it may be the worst yet.  Far from making us feel welcome when we arrived, Uncle Oliver, or My Lord Protector as he now insisted on being called, merely nodded and gestured to us to recline upon the barren floor of his once great dining hall.  Cold, uncomfortable and with several splinters spurring my buttocks, I sat chewing on mouldy cockle bread and sipping a frankly tiny measure of very weak, distinctly eggy mead.  Around the hall, a hundred guests did likewise and I counted not one smile between us.  There were no holly bunches, no mistletoe hung from door frames and, in the grand fireplace, no Yule log burned.

Cromwell cleared his throat.  ‘Friends, I bid you welcome to a new celebration.  A time to reflect, in the sight of God, on another year passing.’  He bowed his head as if in prayer.  ‘Silently,’ he whispered.

My cousin James stood beside him.  Although he too had bowed his head, he raised   it shortly after.  Perhaps to check we were following suit.  Perhaps out of boredom.  I tried to catch his eye with a raise of my eyebrows.  He sneered back at me.

Pottage breath, I thought to myself.  Scurvy carbuncle.  A pox on your family, you great cat-a-mountain.  Oh, how I wished for a mince pie.

The collective silence was broken by the loud peal of the doorbell.  A minute later, the great hall doors opened and a maid entered, followed by the baker, the butcher, the farmer and several of his seasonal workers.  Their arms were laden with baskets full of the most wondrous fayre: a giant tureen of steaming pea soup, roast woodcock, a juicy suckling pig, savoury bread, quince tart, cinnamon custard and enough smoky, mulled wine for us all.

Cromwell’s eyes bulged.  ‘What do you mean by coming here today?’ he roared.  ‘You dare to bring the devil into my house.  Out!  Out!’

The butcher raised a hand.  ‘But we have an order for you, your, er, maj…your maj…’

Cromwell rolled his eyes.  ‘I’m your Lord Protector.’  He placed his hands on his hips and turned to face us all.  ‘Didn’t I make that absolutely clear?’  He turned to face the butcher once more.  ‘An order you say?’

‘Um, yes, that’s right,’ stammered the baker.  ‘A full banquet, you see.  To be delivered on December 25^th to this address.’

‘You placed it last year, guv,’ said the farmer. ‘Been fattening the pig ever since.’  He patted the glistening pig in the basket he carried.  ‘He was my boy’s favourite, Peregrine Porker.’

‘Mmm,’ agreed the butcher.  ‘Broke my heart to kill it.  Little mite’s still crying in his cot, so I heard.’

‘Poor wee beggar,’ sniffed the baker.

‘Well, that’s right,’ said the farmer.  He doffed the peak of his cap to Cromwell.  ‘Not that we hold it against you, Sir.  It’s just–’

Cromwell strode forward.  ‘It’s just heresy.  I did no such thing.  And I will thank you not to accuse me, Your Lord Protector, of such acts.  Now, I suggest you take these hellish victuals out of my sight at once.’  And with a mighty shove, he sent the farmer headlong into the others, knocking them one by one to the ground.  The baker managed to catch the bread and juggle the tarts to safety.  The butcher tightly grasped the woodcock to his ribcage with success.  But the tureen of steaming pea soup flew high above them all, tipping out its contents like a swarm of verdant locusts.  I watched, and I must admit watched with some glee, as the rich, green mixture landed on Cromwell, covering him from his head to his sober brogues.  Cromwell fell to his knees, gasping, clawing at the exasperated farmer who in a gesture of self-defence, brought the pig down hard upon the Lord Protector’s head.

‘Guards!’ spluttered Cromwell, sending globs of pea this way and that.  ‘Soldiers!  Come quick.  Quick!’

The door was flung open and four soldiers ran into the room, each wearing the unmistakeable pikeman’s helmet of the Roundheads.

‘What goes on here?’ asked one.

The second took one look at Cromwell and shook his head.  ‘Looks like we got ourselves a Mummer.  Dressed up just like the Green Man, is he not?’

‘Only with a pig’s head,’ said the third.  ‘Pagan dress!’

‘Or it’s a mormolukee!’ shouted the fourth.  ‘Right before us as we live and breathe!  Bundle it up, my brothers.  Bundle it up and we take it kicking and screaming to the dungeon.’

Despite his protests, Cromwell was bound, gagged and led away by the soldiers, spending Christmas in his own cell.  They would learn their mistake the hard way when they finally relented to Cromwell’s beseeching family and took him some mouldy cockle bread and very weak, distinctly eggy mead later that day.  In the meantime, we danced, drank and feasted like it was 1652.