I’m going down, down, down.
Down into the slimy dark-redness of Danny’s throat.
It’s all around me.
The warm squishy walls.
Pressing.
Squishing.
Digesting.
Digesting!
I’ve got to get out of here.
I’ve got to go up.
But I’m going down.
Suddenly the squishing stops.
I fall into a big red cave.
Dark.
Dripping.
Wet.
I land on something squelchy. Everything’s sort of wobbly and unsteady. It’s like being in a jumping castle that’s covered in slime.
I guess this must be Danny’s stomach.
What am I saying? I can’t be in Danny’s stomach.
This can’t be real.
I must be dreaming.
That’s it. Of course. I’m still in my dream.
Or am I? Is it a dream, or maybe it’s some sort of weird hallucination. What if I’ve gone mad but I don’t know I’ve gone mad because not knowing I’ve gone mad is part of the madness? But then the fact that I’m thinking this means that I must know I’m mad so I can’t be mad. But how can I be sure that I’m not just dreaming that I’m mad — or that I’m mad and I’m just having a regular dream? I could try pinching myself again, but that didn’t really help the first time. That’s how I ended up in here. What if I pinch myself and I end up in an even worse dream? I couldn’t stand it. This is bad enough.
No.
I’m just going to have to deal with the situation as it is. It’s the only way.
I have to find a way out of Danny’s stomach. But how?
As my eyes adjust to the dimness I can see a whole landscape emerge from the gloom around me.
It has a sort of lunar feel — everything is covered in some kind of white powder. It’s all over me. I brush myself down and sniff my fingers. I know that smell. It’s sherbet! Judging by how much of it is down here, Danny must live on the stuff.
There’s a big lake in front of me. I have to be careful. That could be Danny’s stomach juices. I crouch down for a closer look. It doesn’t look like stomach juices though. It’s sparkling and full of bubbles, like lemonade. I put my finger in and taste a bit. It is lemonade!
On the other side of the lemonade lake there appears to be a snow-capped mountain range. It’s not like a normal mountain range though — it’s pink and white and brown. As I peer closely I can see that it’s actually ice-cream. And next to it there looks like hundreds — possibly thousands — of donuts. All sitting around in huge piles like stacks of old tyres at a car wreckers.
No wonder Danny is acting so strangely.
He lives on a diet of pure sugar.
Except for the occasional human, that is.
But how am I going to get out?
I look up. There’s no way I can climb back up the walls of Danny’s throat. They’re too slippery. Besides, the opening I fell through must be more than a hundred metres above me. I couldn’t reach it even if I tried.
I look all around me.
I see something flashing in the lemonade lake. Something that glitters.
I move towards it.
It’s Goldie!
I reach down and pick her up.
‘Don’t worry, Goldie,’ I say, slipping her into my pyjama pocket. ‘I’ll get us out of here!’
I hear a long low noise in the distance.
It sounds like a foghorn.
I look up. In front of me I can see a tunnel sloping downwards.
That could be a way out.
I start running as fast as I can, but as I run further along the tunnel it gets darker, the smell gets worse and the foghorn gets louder.
Uh-oh.
If that’s the only way out, then I’d rather stay in.
I run back the way I came.
Perhaps being in Danny’s stomach is not so bad after all. At least there’s ice-cream. And donuts. And sherbet. And all that lemonade. No wonder Danny burps so much.
Actually, that gives me an idea.
When you mix sherbet and ice-cream and lemonade together it bubbles and froths. If I stirred all this stuff up together in Danny’s stomach maybe I could create enough gas to make him burp it — and me — up and out of here.
It’s worth a try.
I scrape the sherbet into a big pile and push it into the lemonade. The lake starts frothing and bubbling.
Good, but no sign of a burp yet.
I grab enormous handfuls of ice-cream and add them to the lake.
Better — the froth is building — but still I need more.
I scrape more sherbet and hurl more ice-cream.
Eventually the froth starts to overflow the lake. The whole spitting, popping, bubbling mess is out of control. It’s all around me.
Suddenly the stomach is filled with a low rumbling noise. The spongy floor wobbles like jelly. I put my arms out and try to stop myself from falling, but I trip and stumble backwards.
I lose my balance, but I don’t fall. Instead, I’m swept up in a tornado of burp gas and sucked back up the way I came.
I shoot up the throat at an amazing speed.
I’m going so fast that I miss the turn-off to Danny’s mouth and go hurtling up into his nose.
This is very bad.
If I come flying out at this speed I could be killed.
But hang on!
I’m flying headfirst into a forest of nostril hairs.
I grab one. Some nostril hair! It’s as thick as a piece of rope.
I swing up, hit the wall of Danny’s nose and swing back again. This is even more fun than swinging on the clothesline. I swing back and forth a few times before slowing down and stopping.
Okay, I’ve avoided death by splattering. Now to get out of Danny’s nose safely.
But just as I’m about to let go of the nostril hair, I see a new danger.
Danny’s finger!
He’s picking his nose!
I climb the nostril hair as far up as I can to try and get out of the giant finger’s way, but it’s no use. The finger is filling the entire nostril. It’s like an enormous battering ram. It’s pushing me up against these big rubbery beanbags.
Except they’re not beanbags.
And they’re not made of rubber.
Erggh. That’s disgusting! I’d rather die any other way than this.
I’m being pushed deeper and deeper into them. It’s getting hard to breathe.
Suddenly I’m being rocketed forward again — attached to the end of Danny’s finger.
I blink as I emerge into the light.
Danny points his finger towards his eyes and studies the end of it. He sees me.
He starts to laugh.
The overpowering stench of his breath makes me almost lose consciousness.
What’s he going to do with me?
He’s got to let me go now.
Surely he’s made me suffer enough.
He moves his finger towards his mouth.
Oh no.
That’s disgusting.
I don’t mind admitting that I’ve picked my nose occasionally — well, more than occasionally, practically every day if you want to know the truth — but I’ve never, ever eaten it. Not on purpose, anyhow. I have my standards.
This is it. I’ve had all I can take.
I’m going to pinch myself.
Maybe things could get worse. But then again, it’s hard to imagine anything worse than being covered in snot and eaten by a giant.
I pinch my arm as hard as I can.
I wake up in my bed.
I check the ceiling.
It’s completely intact.
I check the floor.
No mini-Dannys.
So far so good.
Everything appears to be normal.
I check the goldfish bowl to see if Goldie is there. I can see something swimming in it. I suppose that’s Go
ldie but I can’t tell exactly. My vision is all blurry. And my eyes are burning.
I focus as hard as I can but what I’m seeing doesn’t make sense.
It’s not Goldie . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s me!
A tiny me swimming around and around the bowl.
But that can’t be me . . . because I’m here . . . at least I think I’m here . . .
I look down at my body.
But I’m not me.
I’m a giant goldfish.
Wait! I’m obviously still dreaming . . . I’ve got to pinch myself again . . . but how do I pinch myself without arms or fingers? All I’ve got is a couple of useless fins!
I start flipping and flopping and flapping.
Crash!
I fall off the bed onto the floor.
There is a knock on the door.
‘Help!’ I yell. ‘Help!’
But nothing comes out.
I can’t talk. I can only open and close my mouth.
There is another knock.
‘Andy?’ says Mum. ‘Are you awake yet?’
That’s a very good question. I wish I knew.
The door opens.
Mum walks in.
‘Why are you lying on the floor, you silly boy?’ she says.
Boy? She called me a boy. That must mean that . . . I look down at my body. I’m not a goldfish anymore. Thank goodness.
‘You have a visitor,’ says Mum.
‘Who?’ I say.
‘Danny,’ she says.
‘No!’ I yell. ‘Not Danny! Keep him away from me!’
But it’s too late — he’s already in.
I can see his nostrils flaring.
I can see his fingers.
I know where they’ve been.
‘Hi, Andy,’ he says.
I scream.
‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ says Mum.
‘Matter?’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter! He ate Goldie . . . then his head came off and a whole army of mini-Dannys attacked me and then he became a giant and ripped the roof off the house and ate me and then picked me out of his nose and tried to eat me again . . .’
Mum and Danny are laughing.
‘Sounds like you’ve been having a bad dream,’ says Mum. ‘But you’re awake now.’
‘But am I?’ I say. ‘How can I be sure? Every time I think I’m awake the dream starts up again!’
‘I had one of those once,’ says Danny. ‘I kept dreaming I was eating donuts. Millions and millions and millions of them. And every time I woke up I’d just be eating more donuts . . . it was really cool.’
I scream again.
Mum sits on the side of my bed and strokes my head.
‘Calm down, Andy,’ she says. ‘You’re really awake now.’
‘I am?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
But I’m not so sure. Something doesn’t feel right.
I look at the goldfish bowl. Goldie’s missing!
A bolt of fear shoots down my spine.
I point to the empty bowl.
‘If I’m awake,’ I say, ‘then where’s Goldie?’
Danny steps forward.
‘There she is!’ he says.
Goldie is flipping around on the carpet. Danny picks her up and puts her back in the bowl.
‘There,’ says Mum. ‘See? Danny didn’t hurt Goldie — he saved her. She must have jumped out of the bowl.’
But I’m still scared.
I don’t trust Danny.
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘How do we know that he didn’t already have her in his stomach and he just burped her up, put her on the carpet and pretended to save her?’
Danny laughs.
‘What are you on about?’ he says.
‘That’s a very good question, Danny,’ says Mum, getting up off my bed.
‘Don’t leave me, Mum!’ I plead. ‘Don’t leave me alone with him!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Mum.
She leaves the room.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I really am awake.
Maybe the dream really is over.
I look over at Danny.
My stomach drops.
He’s pressing his face up against Goldie’s bowl. He’s got his hand above it and is following Goldie around with his fingers.
‘Here fishy, fishy, fishy,’ he says. ‘Here fishy, fishy, fishy.’
’m sitting in the gym listening to Mr Rowe drone on and on. Mr Rowe is the deputy head. He only gets to conduct whole school assemblies once or twice a year, and when he does, he makes the most of it.
It’s time some of you took a good long look at yourselves in a mirror,’ says Mr Rowe. ‘Ask yourselves if you like what you see. Listen to yourselves speak. Ask yourselves if you like what you hear. There are no such words as “gunna” and “youse”. . .’
I wish he’d hurry up and get to the most important bit. The announcement of the winner of the school short-story competition.
The reason I’m looking forward to this is because the winner is going to be me.
How do I know?
It’s simple.
Because I’ve written a story that is a surefire winner. The judges are going to love it.
I usually write stories full of action, explosions, monsters and guns. But I never win. The judges always go for the boring soppy stuff. So this year I’ve decided to give them exactly what they want. I’ve written the boringest, soppiest story in the world. Plus it has a happy ending. It can’t fail.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not proud of this story.
I just wrote it because it’s the only way to win the competition. And the only reason I want to win the competition is to impress Lisa Mackney. She is always going on about books and writers and how she wants to be a famous author one day, so I figure the best way to get her to take me seriously is to win the competition.
When Lisa sees me win the competition she’s going to realise once and for all what a deeply thoughtful, poetic and sensitive person I really am.
Danny leans across.
‘When am I going to get to read your story?’ he whispers.
‘I don’t think it’s really the sort of story you’d like, Dan,’ I say.
‘But that’s not fair,’ says Danny. ‘I showed you mine. I won’t laugh. I promise.’
‘You really want to read it?’ I say.
‘Yes!’ says Danny.
I pull a copy of my story out of my pocket and pass it to him.
Up until now I haven’t shown it to anybody. I’ve kept it strictly top secret. I couldn’t take the risk that somebody else might steal my idea and try to pass it off as their own.
Danny takes the story. I read it over his shoulder, just to make sure that it’s as bad as I remember.
Kittens, puppies and ponies by Andy Griffiths
Once upon a time there was a magical kingdom called Lovelyville. Everything was lovely in Lovelyville. The people were lovely, the weather was lovely and the animals were lovely. There were no horrible spiders, poisonous snakes or giant cockroaches.
No. There were none of these things.
Just lovely animals like kittens, puppies and ponies. They played and frolicked and scampered around in the meadows causing no harm to anybody.
One day, one of the kittens had an idea.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘let’s go around to all the townspeople and give them each a big hug!’
‘What a good idea!’ said a pony. ‘We could give them rides as well!’
‘And lick their faces!’ said a puppy.
‘Yes!’ said the kitten. ‘Let’s do it right now!’
And so all the animals set off.
The first house they came to belonged to Mr White.
He opened the door and saw all the kittens and puppies and ponies of Lovelyville on his doorstep.
‘Hello!’ said the kitten. ‘We’v
e come to give you a big hug!’
Mr White looked at the playful, scampering group – their sleek well-groomed bodies shining in the morning sun — and his heart was gladdened. The kitten jumped up into his arms and hugged him. The puppy leaped up and licked his face. The pony came forward and Mr White climbed onto its back and went for a ride, tears of joy pouring down his face. And the animals didn’t stop there. They kept going until they’d hugged and licked and given rides to every last person in Lovelyville.
‘What a lovely day we’ve had!’ said the kitten.
‘Yes,’ said the puppy. ‘It’s lovely to do lovely things for people.’
‘Now Lovelyville is even lovelier than ever,’ said the pony.
And the townspeople gave the kittens, puppies and ponies three cheers and everybody ate their vegetables, brushed their teeth and went to bed early.
The End.
Danny hands the story back to me. He’s shaking his head.
‘Well,’ I say, what did you think?’
Danny takes a deep breath.
‘You want the truth?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘It stinks,’ says Danny. ‘I hate it.’
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘If you hate it then the judges will love it!’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ says Danny.
‘You’ll see I’m right,’ I whisper. ‘When I win.’
‘No, that’s where you’re wrong,’ says Danny. ‘Because I’m going to win.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘With a story about a giant mechanical chicken that goes rampaging through the streets wrecking everything and killing everybody? You’ll never win with that. The judges just don’t go for all that action stuff.’
‘How do you know what the judges like?’ says Danny.
‘Because I’ve worked it out,’ I say. ‘Every year we write stories about killer robots, killer aliens and killer chickens, right?’
‘Yeah,’ says Danny. ‘So?’
‘And have our stories ever won?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Danny.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘The winner is always Tanya Shepherd with some cute story about bunnies or teddy bears or elves. Well not this year, because I’m going to beat her at her own game.’
Just Crazy Page 8
