One of the lovely things about being a writer is that readers often send you stories they’ve written. I get all sorts – long, short, absurd, realistic, dark, hilarious, nonsensical, brilliant, not-s0-brilliant, emailed documents, hand-written parchments… it’s all going on. And sometimes it’s hard to know how to respond, so it’s good to have a reminder of what your priorities are when you’re a teenage writer (or younger – some of the stories I’ve been sent are from 8 and 9 year-olds).

Enough preamble. What I’m trying to say is this: I’ve been trundling through the dark, forgotten corners of my computer’s memory. Each time I get a new computer I transfer a whole bundle of old files, and some of those files are now very old indeed.

Tonight I found one which looks like it was written when I was about 16. Now, I don’t remember writing anything when I was 16, so this is a bit of a surprise. It might be that I was younger, it might be I was older and for some reason the date on the file is wrong, but never mind. I wrote it. Some-when. I was younger than I am. I was onviously just messing about, so I’m not embarrassed to put it up here for you to read. I can’t imagine there’s anywhere else for me to show it, and I’ve just chuckled (twice!) reading it for the first time in at least 12 years.

Here it is, an adolescent ramble from the mind of the young Joe Craig, entitled…

WHERE DID ALL THE RUBBER TREES GO?

“Where did all the rubber trees go?” asked Furbum. “There used to be many. They came from the sea and they came from the sky. Some came on the tube from Battersea Park, but they were always late. Now there are none. Where did they all go?”

Furbum stroked his Velcro thumb across his brow. This was not the first time an impenetrable question had troubled him for more than the time it takes to polish a Swimbot’s anarchy. It was four o’clock already, and still no tea. Horatio would bring some, he was sure, but where was Horatio? The thought distracted him for a moment from his trouble with rubber trees, which was comforting. Sadly it was in that moment that he remembered he had sent all the rubber trees to be cleaned six weeks ago and had lost the receipt. They’d never let him pick them up without a receipt. They were very strict about that sort of thing. So he soon forgot the matter and sent it upstairs without pants on.

Just then the door burst. Damn those inflatable doors, thought Furbum. But who was standing in the space where the door had once been? Why, none other than Horatio Beanbelly of the East!

“I’m back,” he declared, “and this time I have eyebrows.”

“Oh Horatio,” whimpered Furbum, “I had quite forgot your sternum.”

With that, the giant threw off his elaborate felt cloak and ate a chair by the fire. He was happier than before, Furbum could tell. It was something about the way he had polished his Swimbot’s anarchy.

“Gum, Furbum?” the Beanbellied one cooed. Furbum quivered in his saucepan.

“I thought you’d never… ask.”

Never had the sun set so orange as it did that night over the estate of Furbum, Beanbelly and Goldstein. For they were happy. They had tea. And nobody missed the rubber trees.

I like the part about the door bursting. Might use that for something. I also like the ‘eyebrows’ line…