Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
“I’ve done it! Yippee!” Charley’s shout came from the kitchen, barely two seconds before the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor. A deep, fruity, noisy belch splurted out through the open kitchen door. It oozled around the corner and into the laundry. A baked-beansy, last-night’s-lentilsy sort of smell drifted in its wake.
“Far out!” Dad’s shocked voice floated back to where Charley stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass. “What on EARTH was that?”
He appeared around the corner like a human clothes horse, wet washing hanging from his shoulders and each hand.
Charley beamed from the stool by the kitchen sink. “Well,” she said, “I reckon that would have rated at least 8.5 overall.”
“Overall what?” asked her dad, his eyes scanning the floor to see just how far the broken glass had spread.
“Overall on a burp-meister-meter, of course,” she replied. “I reckon that one would have scored a 9.5 for sound, maybe 8.5 for strength and stinkiness. Maybe 9 for speed?” She sighed. “It would probably only have rated a 7.5 for staying power, though. It didn’t last very long.”
Her dad shook his head. “It seemed long enough to me,” he remarked drily, then eyed Charley curiously. “What I can’t figure out though, is how a noise so big comes out of someone so small!” He looked again at his grinning daughter. A bird’s nest of bed hair hanging over twinkling eyes, which shone above her Milo-moustachioed mouth, PJs covered with… Well, better not to think about that.
“So what’s with all the glass?” asked her dad. “What did you break? And anyway, just what is it that you’ve done? Apart from the obvious, that is.”
Charley held up what looked like an empty jam jar, with its lid firmly screwed on and a label written in large, uneven letters. “I’ve worked out how to bottle and store my burps!” she announced proudly.
Dad stared, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You’ve what?” he asked, astonished.
“Worked out a way to store my burps!” she repeated. “You know, keep ‘em. Bottle ‘em. Whatever you want to call it. The one that you heard was pretty powerful. That’s why the jar slipped out of my hand when I took the lid off. Cool, eh?”
Dad walked over to the kitchen table. Draping the wet washing over the back of a chair, he sat down and looked at his excited daughter. “Well, I must say, that’s a first. Pretty clever. Good job. I’ve never heard of anyone ever bottling burps before.” He paused. Then asked suspiciously, “And just why are you bottling your burps?”
“Well, that way, I can add to them, bit by bit. Then, when I really need to let one go, I’ll have a ripper all stored up. All I need to do is take the lid off, and…” Her eyes closed in anticipation of what would happen next. “It’ll be sooo sweet, dad!”
“So stinky, more like it,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.
“No,” Charley assured him. “It’ll be like, totally amazing. AND I’ll be in with a chance to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition!”
At that moment, Charley’s two older brothers came in from the back yard.
“Is that even a thing?” scoffed Ed, her oldest brother. “Sounds pretty stoopid, doofus!”
“Sounds pretty cool to me,” said Angus. “But, is it a thing?”
“’Course it’s a thing,” said Charley, hurt.
“How about this as an entry,” said Angus. He belched loudly.
Dad stood up and gathered the washing once more. “I’ll be somewhere far, far away if you need me,” he said. “Better get that glass cleaned up quickly, Charley, before someone gets hurt. Or before Mum gets home.”
Charley got the dustpan and brush from under the sink. She began sweeping up the broken glass. Angus held out the rubbish bin for her.
“How in the world do you win a burping competition?” he asked.
“Who cares,” muttered Ed, as he multitasked texting his friends while insulting his sister.
“Oh, just leave her alone,” said Angus. “So, how do you win? Is it based on the loudest burp?”
Charley took a deep breath. “No, there are five different categories, then you get an overall mark on a burp-meister-meter.”
“That makes sense,” said her brother. “What are the categories then?”
“Strength. That’s a bit like wind strength. It’s measured by a burpometer. A bit like one of those thingys that people use to measure wind. You know – an anemoneometer?”
“I think you mean an anemometer,” laughed Angus. “What are the other things?”
Charley held up her fingers. “Speed – that’s measured by a speedometer – obviously.”
“”Obviously,”agreed her brother, thinking that it wasn’t at all obvious, but letting it pass. “And…?
“Stinkiness – that’s measured by a sniffinator. Sound – measured by a decibel meter. And then staying power. How long the burp lasts. They just use a stop watch to measure that.”
“Cool,” said Angus. “So, why all the broken glass?”
Charley explained what had happened with the previous bottled burp. The one that got away. “But,” she said, “if I can bottle my burps, they’ll get stronger and stronger. Like when Grandma leaves her tea bag in for too long. And that way, I’m bound to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition.”
“Yeah, sure,” commented Ed. “Probably more like the Doofus Prize for Chemistry. I’m out of here. See you later. Not.”
“Let me know if you need any extra burps to add to your collection,” said Angus. “I’m happy to help.” Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he managed to produce a very small burp.
“You’ll have to do better than that!” laughed his sister. “But thanks for the offer.”
High Fliers – Jennie Irving
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Ethel. She had no fear of heights, she loved the idea of flying and it was her dream to become a fighter pilot. Sadly, she lived in the 1940s, when that wasn’t an option for her. Women were kept busy building the planes that only men were allowed to fly. There were no Amelia Earharts in World War II.
Instead, she indulged her passion for heights and flying by taking to diving. She became rather good at it, and was awarded all sorts of trophies in different diving competition. Meanwhile, her brother went and joined the US Air Force, becoming a fighter pilot.
She complained to him about the unjustness of this. All he said in response was, “You’ll need to compromise.”
Every day, as she worked in the aircraft factory, she thought about that compromise, and what an empty thing it was. Compromise involves a choice, she thought bitterly, and she had none. Nothing she could do would ever enable her to join the airforce as a pilot, let alone a fighter pilot. So while her brother continued his riveting job in the air, she continued hers on the ground.
By night, she flew from the high diving platforms, sloughing off her dark thoughts as she plunged into the cool, clear water again and again. Of course, she recognised that she was one of the lucky ones. A major advantage of this type of flying was that there was no possibility of being killed by enemy fire.
One day, in early August 1945, she was invited to perform at an aquatic benefit to raise funds for disabled airmen. All participants in the acrobatic diving display were awarded points. Needless to say, Ethel earned the most points, winning easily. She was crowned Queen of the High Fliers by a group of admiring airmen. Her coronet was surmounted by that ultimate symbol of power over everything – the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion.
Ethel looked at the camera with a smile that was almost a grimace. She would much rather have received a year’s pass to the pool. She reminded herself, “You’ll need to compromise. You don’t need to wear this forever.”
And because of that, she kew that she would be able to sleep more easily that night. She might have helped to build the planes that delivered the weapons of mass destruction, but she didn’t need to live with the horror that was to haunt her brother for the rest of his life. He had piloted the Enola Gay. Such a beautiful name. Their mother’s name. But one that would sadly live in infamy.
At the last minute, Ethel looked at the young airmen around her and realised that, in a way, they had to compromise too. They needed to compromise their desire for peace now with their peace of mind in the future. They were, in a sense, just as powerless as she was. High fliers, all of them. But with clipped wings.
Why Guinea Pigs Don’t Need Trousers – Jennie Irving
Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?
Well, it’s plain for us to see that they don’t need any pockets for a wallet – or a key.
Do you think they might need trousers? Just to put a hanky in?
All my guinea pigs use tissues. After use, they’re in the bin.
I find trouser pockets are quite good to warm my hands up,
And for storing bits and pieces, like those little packs of ketchup.
But guinea pigs are sensible (though they might get high on grass).
They’ve no need to gather rubbish in a pocket on their…
Moving right along… can you imagine when they’re going to the loo?
It’s easy for a person, ‘cos you know just what to do.
But a guinea pig would fumble with the buttons or the clips.
And black jelly beans would overflow from stuck, unopened zips.
Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?
Well, they really don’t need clothes.
They’re neatly clad in softest hair from rear end to nose.
They have no need of modesty.
They really couldn’t care if they show their bottoms to the world for anyone to stare.
No MYKIs, car keys, hankies, mints,
And no alarms for houses.
A guinea pig’s life is simple.
And that’s why they don’t need trousers.