An Address to the Coconut

Written by Eruantien


Hello…Steve? Wilson? Coco Chanel? Image Courtesy of Genna Marie

So grand is tha’ noble face,
Mighty Baron of the nut race.
There’s nothin’ canst thou not adorn,
and yet be held highest in scorn.

Tha’ makes many a pud so great,
by off’rin’ tha’sen to the steel grate.
Tha milk shall break my fast ‘ere honeydew,
the milk of Paradise shall satisfy but few.

No man, be he Welsh, Cockney or Irish,
shall for tha take o’er much in his tin dish;
for thee, my Portobello belle
I have but one hell,

A swift chop
on the chopping block.

Eruantien specialises in traditional poetry with a light-hearted vibe, and that’s why we love his short poem about a poor coconut. Inspired by a certain fellow named Steve the Coconut – who really was a coconut – while visiting South America, Eru produced this piece on a simple whim. The time spent on it was sparse, but then so is thinking about a coconut. He also suggests he could have been hallucinating while on anti-malaria tablets, whether you believe it or not, we hope you enjoyed the poem! And while you’re here, check out Eruantien’s poem The Tarwarkelion, which tells the tale of Ankou, the Legend of Death.



Written by Rob


Such a sweet relationship! Image Courtesy of David Mitchell

“Arthur! Arthur, where are you?” Miss Granville’s screech echoes down the stairwell for the umpteenth time this morning.

“Coming, Miss Granville.” Arthur calls back from the scullery. He puts Miss Granville’s shoes down that he was polishing and onto the counter, wipes his hands on a rag, and trots down the hallway and up the stairs, trying hard to ignore the nagging arthritic pain from his knees. Miss Granville is sitting in her wheelchair, facing the window, overlooking the back garden and lawns. She is proud and straight, if wrinkled and old, with piercing blue eyes.

“What were you doing, Arthur?” Miss Granville demands.

“I was polishing your shoes, Miss Granville,” pleads Arthur.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Arthur,” snaps Miss Granville. “Why are you so behind with your chores this morning?”

Arthur knows there is no point in trying to suggest overwork, so he offers, “I seem to be a little slow this morning. I didn’t sleep very well.”

“Well, you need to buck your ideas up. I need you to go to the animal feed place at Harmstone. My partridges are nearly out of seed. Then there’s my bed which is needing clean sheets. I’ll bet yours needs changing too. And could you pick up some salmon for lunch whilst you’re down town? Oh, and my dry cleaning should be ready by today. I will be needing my best shawl for the W.I. lunch tomorrow. Now, I’ve noticed the lawns need a trim, Arthur. I hope you’re not going to let them get tatty, you know, like you did last Spring?”

Arthur begins, “no, I won’t Miss Granville,” but she cuts him off, with a chop of her hand.

“Look Arthur! My partridges are here again. Aren’t they just the most beautiful creatures you ever saw?” Her voice has softened, her speech taking a dreamy tone, as she lays her head to one side, clutches her hands to her bosom, and gazes lovingly to the far side of the lawn. Three partridge have hopped out from under the rhododendrons and are pecking at the grass. “Oh, I do love them so.”

“Lucky partridge,” says Arthur, bitterly.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Miss Granville screams, her face contorted like an old newspaper. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you ungrateful wretch, and get about your tasks. Never was a woman more cursed with a husband than I am with you. My mother warned me – how I wish I had listened. Now get out of my sight, or you’ll not have time for the ironing before you need to make lunch.”

Arthur collects the bird seed from the agricultural supplier in Harmstone and buys an air rifle with telescopic sight. The following afternoon, after dropping his wife off at the W.I., and when he was supposed to be cleaning her bathroom, he sets himself at the cellar window with his new gun. He only needs to wait ten minutes or so before two partridges hop into view, pecking at the seed he has spread on the lawn. Arthur’s first shot produces a flurry of feathers, as one bird runs in a tight circle before dropping in an ungainly heap, whilst the second flies away, rasping loudly.

Arthur is weeping uncontrollably “Oh, my, my. What have I done? Those beautiful birds. They never did anyone any harm. I must be mad. She loves them so: I must be. But God help me: I’m so lonely.”

Rob’s Half Hour Challenge entry was written last month under the theme Servant. We thought it fit quite well into April’s Simple Pleasures, but it also gave us some lovely dark comedy with a wicked twist. Poor Arthur, at least he didn’t shoot his wife – was that your original thought as well? If you liked Rob’s HHC, make sure you check out some of his other work, including “Thy Tears Wash” and “Smile“. 


Written by Lilith

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

There’s a feast laid out before him, but he barely takes the time to let his eyes or mind register it properly before his hands have reached out and the first bite is in his mouth. It’s an apple, he realises, chewing energetically and swallowing it as fast as he can – eager to make room for the next mouthful.

Three more bites are enough, and he’s sick of it. The apple is delicious – red and shiny with a perfect crunch, sharp and sweet to the bite, but there is so much more on the table that requires his attention. He drops the apple and reaches out for a loaf of bread, tearing it in two and buttering it roughly before throwing it into his ready jaws.

The bread dries his mouth, and suddenly he is thirsty; his throat drying up too soon in the meal. His left hand finds a flagon of wine while his right is reaching for a dish of carrots, and he pours it straight down his throat without hesitation. It glugs as it makes his way into his body.

Already, his bloated face is reddening. He polishes off the carrots with no more than the odd courtesy chew, and reaches for the platters of meat before him. They have been prepared to be eaten immediately, and as he tosses turkey and ham slices into his maw, the first trickle of saliva makes its way around his lower lip, and dribbles onto his chin.

More wine. More bread. More meat. He grabs a chicken leg, stripping the flesh from the bone and baring it completely. The bone, useless to him now nothing edible remains, drops to the floor and is forgotten. As the table clears and the meal is over, one small fact does not escape this man. He may be sated, but he is not happy – he is alone.

Gluttony was written by Lilith several years ago, as an experimental piece to aid her general writing – we love her disgusting descriptions! If you’d like something a little gentler of Lilith’s, please check out her most recent fiction 35.2.

Dear Mister Nice Guy


Even Mr Men understand personality types.
Image Courtesy of Roger Hargreaves/Egmont

Written by Lockmaker

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Listener,
Mister Shoulder-to-cry-on,
Tell me shall I stamp your card here?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Smile-at-her guy,
Mister Wipe-her-tears guy,
Tell me how many stamps do you need?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Good guy,
Mister Sweet guy,
Tell me of the misdeeds
she commits with your stamps?

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Better-for-her guy,
Mister Cursing-her-for-not-seeing-your-worth guy,
Please hand in your stamp card.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Better-than-the-other guys,
Mister Worthy-through-his-deeds guy,
I hope you see the truth,
That there is no system of rewards.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Each deed does not amount to this prize of flesh,
This gilded dream of silver screens,
This right of deed,
And tarnished dreams.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Mister Friend-zoned guy,
This cage does not exist of evil intent,
The creation of shadowed figures,
Of the striking of keys,
The entailment mistakenly believed.

Dear Mister Nice guy,
Shall I stamp your card here?

Dear Mister Nice Guy is Lockmaker’s début piece here on Inkblots. Her poem was inspired by a casual conversation with a friend, evidently speaking of the many varieties of male personalities in the world. If you enjoy cynicism, then this piece is certainly for you. Maybe we’ll receive a response from our male readers entitled ‘Dear Miss Flirtatious Tease’, or something similar? If you enjoyed Lockmaker’s poem, feel free to leave her a ‘like’ or comment below.  

Inkblots New Year Special: Festive Fiction (Part 2)

Image Courtesy of

The sun rises on a new year, and we’ve got some spectacular HHC entries to kick it off in style!
Image Courtesy of

Welcome to our New Year Special – the second and final part of our festive fiction bonanza. Both entries published below have been picked for their startling creativity given the half hour time limit. Doishy’s piece is of particular interest, having taken inspiration from the ingenious and innovative HHC entries we’ve had over the year. The second HHC from Dice – featured after the read more tag – we just couldn’t resist in posting up! It’s another of his Alexander shorts, so we hope you enjoy! 

– Silver, Inkblots Editor


We believe in fairies, we do, we do!
Screen taken from Disney’s Secret of the Wings

Door 7 – Fairies

This is Jeremy:

How are you feeling today, J?

Pretty good then?

And why is that?
(O.o)- <3_______________________(*o.o*)

You’ve met a nice girl? That’s wonderful! What’s her name?

You don’t know? Why not talk to her?

Ah, nerves. Tell you what… why don’t I talk to her for you?

Awesome. Excuse me….miss?
(*o.o*) ?

Hi, my name’s Narrator and I was wondering if you would like to go talk to my friend over there, Jeremy.
(<.<) ___________________________(*o.O*)

He is a pretty cool guy, if sometimes a little out of it.

You will talk to him! Awesome. I will let you be then.
(o.o) _____________________________(*o.o*)

(o.o) _________________(*o.o*)



(O.o) <3__(*o.O*)

(O.o) <3__(*o.o*)

(O.o) <3__(*O.o*)

(O.o) <\3_____________(*O.o*)

Well that didn’t go so well did it, J?
(O.O) <\3_______________________________________ (*O.o*)

Faeries aye, am I right?

Ah well. Shall we go get drunk instead?

Good lad!
*A few hours later*

f(=.o)- u(o.O) <Riiight……
< And I’m telling you, there was this voice talking to me and a magic girl and it’…it wa’s assuM!

Continue reading →

Inkblots Christmas Special – Festive Fiction (Part 1)

holly_bannerHey Inkblotters,

Welcome to our Christmas Special post for all our wonderful readers and followers. This year we’re posting a few festive tales to get you into a sparkling mood from our 24 Door Advent Calendar – exclusive to members of our forum. Below are the first two short stories and more are on the way! So put your feet up, grab a mince pie, mulled wine (or a glass of sherry) and read on…

– Silver, Inkblots Editor


Let’s kick off with a short story with our favourite sweet pastry treat.
Image Courtesy of Splenda at

Door 23 – Mince Pies

Written by Rob

Thwak Ng jerked from his reverie, and picked up the ringing phone on his desk.

“Tok Long Viet Kong Education Centre, Major Ng speaking,” he said.

“Ah Ng, good morning, Colonel Bhadi here. Did you get my little gift OK yesterday?”

“Good morning colonel. Yes, the problem has been dealt with in the usual way.”

Colonel Bhadi is puzzled: “Problem? What problem?”

Ng is puzzled by Bhadi’s puzzlement: “We carried out the executions at dawn.”

Colonel Bhadi shouts “who on earth have you executed?”

Ng is worried. “The two men you sent.”

“You’ve shot two innocent batmen?”

“I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Why? In God’s name why? They were just bringing you mince pies.”

“That’s right: we always shoot Minh Spies.”

Continue reading →


Written by Rob

The dawn of time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

The Dawn of Time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

After forty years of trudging through the barren wastelands, Arthur spotted another human form on the horizon, and ran as fast as he could to catch up.

“Hey” he shouted “Wait”, coughing in the sulphurous atmosphere, panting heavily. Stumbling over the basalt rubble, frantic for human company, eventually Arthur made himself heard over the howling wind. The figure turned and looked at him. Another old man, beard and hair down to his waist, clothes in tatters, very dirty.

“You as well?” said the man. Arthur was confused.

“What? Me as well what?”

“You caught the leprechaun?”


“….and told him you wanted to live for ever?”


“You should have said “for evermore””

“Well, I know that now.”

“Never mind: only fourteen million years or so before anyone else is born.”

Rob has the record for most HHCs completed, having taken part over 40 times in the years he’s been writing with us, so naturally we’re very proud to present another of his challenge pieces here on Inkblots. If you’re interested in the Half-Hour Challenge or any of our other challenges please feel free to check out this section of the forum – anyone can join in!

Morning Tiger

Written by Rob

weekend away

The couple’s weekend: wine, romance and sex. What can possibly go wrong?

“What are you grinning at?” Karen snaps at me. I should be used to this. She has a beautiful face but it’s screwed up enough to frighten a pitbull. I’m confused. Sure, we’ve not been getting on too well of recent, but last night, as soon as I slipped between the sheets, she was all over me like a rash. Such passion and surrender; so giving, so inventive: I thought all my Christmasses had come at once. This morning she seems to be back in the doldrums again.

“Didn’t you enjoy last night?” I try.

“I slept well, if that’s what you mean.” I give up. I’ll never understand women. I was feeling full of beans. I was up with the lark and out for a brisk constitutional. Now I can feel her sapping the positivity out of me again. I’m so glad I sneaked out of the dark room without waking her.

We’re away for the weekend. Karen’s pal Julia and her partner Derek invited us to watch the rowing regatta at Holme Pierpont. They found a quaint little hotel just a few miles down the road from the regatta venue and booked for all four of us. Now Karen and I are waiting for them in the lobby, ready to share breakfast.

The lounge door opens and Derek staggers out, looking like he’s near to death.

“What’s up with you?” I ask, though I’m fairly sure that I know. I left him in the lounge with a bottle of brandy at around midnight. It looks like he didn’t make it up to bed.

“I think I must have dozed off on in the chair last night,” he croaks. “I’ve got a mouth like the sole of a limeburner’s clog. Where’s Julia?” Continue reading →

The Writer’s Block

Written by Dice

N.B This short piece was written on behalf of the author’s recurring writer’s block. 

writer block

Uh-oh, looks like this writer is suffering from that horrible Writer’s disease: The Writer’s Block.

“A tale, a tale write, a tale to write?” cried the Swedish lady. Why is she Swedish? Who knows? They felt it to be right.

Should she not speak in Swedish? På svenska hon ska tala. An English-speaking community this is, to write ‘In Swedish she should speak,’ would achieve little but to confuse them as they attempt the pronunciation. And maybe now they would learn it and sound… uncool at school.

“A tale to write?” enquired the balding fellow, with the LIMP, pronounced L-imp. “Why a tale to write?”

“I feel that I must, since it is my hobby and my joy.”

“Then write dear lady, if you are indeed expensive.”

“I would, but for my life I fear that I have that dreaded thing that I cannot name.”

“Name it blonde woman, name it, you must not fear what’s in the name. Name it quickly as the backing music is becoming more sinister, and the room has become colder.”

A convenient breeze passes through causing the man, woman, and the scurrying shrew to shudder as the pitch from the violins increase.

“I can’t name it, to name it would be to admit it!”

The woman shrieked in horror and placed her white-gloved hand upon her reddening cheek. A strange action to take, but less strange when you considered the balding man with the big, strong, firm, and attractive belt had slapped the blue-eyed lady with his moisturised hand. Continue reading →

This One! An Alexander Episode

Written By Dice


The Chennai Mathematical Institute in India looks quite suitable for time travel. Which door will you choose?

“It’s this door,” declared Alexander gesturing to a white-wood moulded door, one of many in a seamlessly ending corridor which repeated in the same pattern of doors, plant pots and portraits of old men.

“I think you’ll find it is this door,” disagreed Zander demonstrating towards an identical door three doors down. Every door in the endless corridor was identical in every way. Having been led through a maze of identical, inter-crossing corridors full of identical white doors, Alex had no idea why these two should be different from any of the others. He decided it was best to ask Jennifer.

“This one is closer.”

“Who invented the room?”

“Who discovered its potential for inter-universal travel?”

Jennifer was the woman who he had met in the Impossible Room, which in turn had transformed into a replica of Number 10 Downing Street with this endless maze of corridors. Jennifer was the only one in the Impossible Room who wasn’t a parallel universe version of himself. She was slim with brown hair and a pretty face. She wore little make-up and had her hair drawn back into a low ponytail.

“What are they arguing about?”

“Which door leads to where we want to go,” she replied simply.

“But I thought we were, you know, travelling into the past.” Continue reading →