Twisted stories

Tatiana Bazhan

Twisted stories

Doctor’s Grocery List

Bartholomew “Barty” Bingley, a man so vibrantly healthy he practically glowed with it, strolled into St. Elsewhere's Hospital for a routine check-up. He felt like a million bucks, or perhaps a slightly crumpled ten-dollar bill – still legal tender, but with a touch of character. Dr. Silas P. Quilling, a man whose stethoscope seemed perpetually colder than his temperament, examined Barty with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor. After a series of prods and pokes, Dr. Quilling's face adopted the grave expression one usually reserves for discussing the extinction of the dodo. “Mr. Bingley,” he intoned, his voice a mournful baritone, “I'm afraid we've found something… interesting.”

“Interesting” turned out to be a newly-minted ailment called “Quilling's Quadrant Conundrum,” a disease so rare, Dr. Quilling was fairly certain he'd just invented it. He prescribed a regiment of elderberry enemas, lavender lozenges, and a daily dose of interpretive dance therapy to “harmonize the afflicted quadrant.” Barty, initially bewildered, figured the doctor knew best. After a week of this bizarre regimen, Barty felt less like a spring chicken and more like a plucked turkey, simmering gently in a pot of existential dread. The interpretive dance, in particular, had attracted the attention of his neighbour, Agnes, who now believed Barty was auditioning for a mime troupe.

The diagnosis then took a darker turn. “It appears, Mr. Bingley,” Dr. Quilling announced with a theatrical sigh, “that the Conundrum has… evolved. We're now looking at a rather aggressive case of… Thyroid Tango.” Barty, now thoroughly convinced he was trapped in a medical sitcom, was scheduled for immediate surgery – a thyroidectomy, no less. On the eve of the operation, a young, bright-eyed intern, fresh out of medical school and overflowing with textbook knowledge, stumbled upon Barty's chart. He blinked. He squinted. He pulled out a magnifying glass. “Dr. Quilling,” he stammered, “I… I don't understand. Mr. Bingley's thyroid is perfectly healthy! All his results are normal!”

It turned out, in a twist worthy of the Bard himself, that Dr. Quilling had been using Barty's chart to scribble down his grocery list, and the “interesting” find had been nothing more than a reminder to buy artichokes. Barty, liberated from his impending Tango-ectomy, left St. Elsewhere's a wiser, if slightly more suspicious, man, forever wary of doctors and the seductive allure of exotic vegetables. The moral of the story? Sometimes, the only thing ailing you is the overactive imagination of your physician. And perhaps, the need for a clearer grocery list.

Fool's Gold

Barnaby Buttercup, a man whose name was tragically ironic considering his personality was more akin to week-old cabbage, was in a pickle. A very large, very vinegary pickle involving a misplaced lottery ticket worth enough to buy a small Caribbean island (populated only by highly trained monkeys, naturally). His supposed best friend, Archibald “Archie” Higgins, a fellow whose grin could melt glaciers and whose back was always available for a hearty, albeit slightly too enthusiastic, slap, was, naturally, right there beside him. Archie, you see, was the kind of friend who'd swear he’d lend you his own kidneys if you needed them, a sentiment generally expressed while simultaneously borrowing fifty bucks you'd never see again.

Barnaby, sweat plastering his already sparse comb-over to his scalp, wrung his hands. “Archie, old boy, I'm ruined! The ticket! Gone! Vanished like a politician's promise after election day!"

Archie, displaying the concern of a seasoned Shakespearean actor portraying profound grief, clapped Barnaby on the shoulder hard enough to dislocate something. “Barnaby, my dear, distraught friend! Despair not! We shall find it! We're thicker than thieves, you and I! More like conjoined twins, separated at birth but spiritually connected by our shared love of… well, whatever it is we share a love of!”

And find it they did. Or rather, Archie claimed to have found it, tucked rather suspiciously under his own doormat. He presented it to Barnaby with a theatrical flourish, a performance bordering on the Oscar-worthy, complete with a single, perfectly timed tear rolling down his cheek. “Barnaby! A miracle! Fate has smiled upon us! Or rather, upon me, briefly, before leading me to discover it… for you, of course!”

But here's where the pickle got extra vinegary. See, the lottery numbers were displayed in the newspaper that very morning, and Barnaby, despite being usually as sharp as a butter knife, wasn't completely daft. He noticed Archie’s signature in the bottom corner of the ticket, written in his distinctive, loopy handwriting.

The sugary-sweet mask of friendship, the overly-hearty back-slaps, the promises of kidneys freely given… all of it crumpled faster than a cheap suit in a hurricane. Suddenly, Archie's grin looked less like sunshine and more like the glint off a used car salesman's teeth. The truth, as it so often does, had a way of unearthing itself, leaving Barnaby facing not just a lost fortune, but a stark, uncomfortable reality: sometimes, the wolves wear woollier sweaters than you'd expect, and the Judas kiss comes with a bonus hug. The Caribbean island remained firmly out of reach, but Barnaby gained something far more valuable: a crystal-clear view of the man standing – or rather, shrinking – before him. A view that, while bitter, was at least free of the saccharine coating of false friendship. And in the grand ledger of life, a clear view, however painful, is always worth more than fool's gold.

Mama Grogan's Apple Pie

The clock above Grogan's Deli ticked with the slow, deliberate malice of a landlord waiting for his rent. Inside, Millie, a girl whose eyes held more starlight than the entire Texas sky, nervously smoothed down her already immaculate waitress uniform. Tonight was the night. Tonight, she was going to tell Benny, the shy, bespectacled busboy with the heart of a poet and the hands of a dishwashing champion, how she felt. She'd rehearsed the lines a hundred times: “Benny, you're sweeter than a slice of Mama Grogan's apple pie…” She imagined his blush, the way his glasses would slip down his nose, the stammering confession that would undoubtedly follow.

Benny, meanwhile, was in the back, wrestling with a mountain of suds. He clutched a small, velvet box hidden deep in his apron pocket. Inside nestled not a diamond – Benny couldn’t afford such extravagance – but a perfectly formed sea shell he’d found on Coney Island last summer. He knew Millie loved the ocean, and he envisioned presenting it to her, saying, “Millie, this shell whispers of the sea, just like my heart whispers of you…” He imagined her delight, the way her eyes would sparkle, the understanding that would dawn as she realized this quiet soul cherished her above all things.

Finally, closing time arrived. Millie, a little too brightly, approached Benny, who was scrubbing furiously at a lone, defiant plate. “Benny,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I… I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

Benny, emboldened, reached into his apron. “Millie,” he interrupted, his voice cracking with nerves. “I have something for you…” He presented the seashell with a flourish.

Millie stared at the shell, then at Benny's earnest face. A slow smile spread across her face, but a different kind of smile than Benny anticipated. “Benny,” she said, “that's so thoughtful! I got a new job! At a seafood restaurant down by the docks. They needed someone with experience serving… well, you know, seafood!” She paused, then added brightly, “It's much better pay. Guess I just have a knack for handling shellfish.”

Benny's glasses slipped. The shell, suddenly heavy, felt like a stone in his hand. He looked from the shell, to Millie, and back to the mountain of dirty dishes, an ocean of unrequited love stretching before him. The clock above Grogan's ticked on, each second now a tiny, mocking laugh. The only thing sweeter than Mama Grogan's apple pie, it seemed, was the irony of fate. He simply nodded, managed a weak smile, and went back to scrubbing, the sound of shattering dishes drowned out by the roar of the ocean only he could hear.

Lucy and the Feathered Fiasco

Lucy, a soul as bright as a newly-minted penny but as grounded as a well-worn park bench, possessed a peculiar penchant for pigeons. Every day, rain or shine, she'd waltz into Central Park, a veritable Pied Piper in sensible shoes, scattering seeds with the generosity of a lottery winner. The pigeons, those feathered freeloaders of the sky, knew her schedule better than the mayor knew his own policies.

Her heart, a veritable aviary of affection, overflowed with fondness for the cooing creatures. She saw not disease-ridden pests, but little feathered philosophers, pondering the weighty matters of breadcrumbs and park benches. She even gave them names – Ben, Penelope, and the perpetually grumpy Clarence, who always stole the best bits.

Little did Lucy suspect that her innocent hobby was brewing a storm, a feathered hurricane poised to descend upon the unsuspecting city. The pigeon population, emboldened by Lucy's largesse, exploded like popcorn in a hot skillet. Soon, flocks darkened the skies, statues were snowed under with…well, you get the picture, and the park benches, once heavens of tranquility, became avian battlegrounds.

Mayor Thompson, a man whose hair was greyer than a pigeon's wing and whose temper shorter than a pigeon's attention span, finally cracked. He declared, in a voice that could curdle milk, “Enough! This feathered frenzy must cease!”

His solution, hatched in the dead of night, was…unconventional. He proposed a city-wide pigeon beauty pageant. The winner would get a lifetime supply of gourmet birdseed, and the rest would be gently relocated to a charming, albeit distant, island paradise.

The pageant was a spectacle. Pigeons preened, strutted, and cooed their hearts out. Lucy, naturally, was a judge, her heart torn between fair assessment and fierce loyalty to her feathered friends. Clarence, with his perpetually scowling face, somehow charmed the crowd.

In a twist worthy of a soap opera, Clarence won. But the island paradise turned out to be… a chicken farm. Clarence, used to urban sophistication, found himself surrounded by clucking, scratching rivals. Lucy, though heartbroken, couldn't help but chuckle. The city was saved, and Clarence, well, he learned that even a pigeon can be humbled by a bit of rural reality. Lucy continued to visit the park, though now she shared her seeds with the squirrels, just to diversify her portfolio, you understand.

The Ballad of Bob's Bottomless Basket of Broken Promises

Bob, a dreamer with a heart full of honeyed words and an imagination that could rival a kaleidoscope, had sworn eternal devotion to Beatrice. “My dear Beatrice,” he’d intoned, eyes gleaming like polished pennies, “I shall make you my wife, my queen, my guiding North Star!” Beatrice, bless her soul, believed him. That was ten years ago.

Since then, their engagement had become a permanent fixture, like the statue in the town square. The wedding, however, was always just around the corner – a corner that eternally receded as Bob’s ingenuity flourished. He was a veritable Houdini of nuptial escapes.

“My sweet Beatrice,” he'd say, his voice dripping with sincerity that could sweeten a lemon, “we must postpone. The stars aren't aligned! Jupiter is in retrograde. It's a cosmic decree against matrimony!” Beatrice, armed with a half-hearted astrology book, would grudgingly concede.

Then came the Great Aunt Mildred Emergency. “She's in dire need of a new hip, my love,” Bob declared, “and I, as her only nephew, am duty-bound to lead the fundraising! A wedding now would be… insensitive.” Beatrice, who had yet to meet this mythical aunt, nodded with a sigh that could rust iron.

The excuses grew more elaborate. A sudden, urgent need to climb Mount Kilimanjaro “for spiritual enlightenment,” a deep-sea diving expedition to find a lost treasure that would “secure their financial future,” even a stint as a mime in Paris to “discover his true artistic self.” Beatrice, meanwhile, discovered a remarkable talent for knitting scarves – a skill honed during the endless evenings she spent waiting.

Years spiraled by like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. Her once vibrant hope had faded to a dull ember, yet Beatrice, with a resilience that would make a willow tree envious, remained. She knew Bob. He was more comfortable courting her than being her partner. But she also knew that she loved Bob.

One sunny afternoon, Bob burst into her parlour, eyes shining brighter than ever. “Beatrice, my love!” he exclaimed, “I have found it! The perfect reason to finally set a date! We must wait for the blooming of the legendary Midnight Orchid of Borneo. It only flowers once a century, and it is a symbol of eternal love!”

Beatrice fixed him with a gaze that could melt glaciers. “Oh, Bob,” she said softly, “You're going all the way to Borneo this time, aren't you? Well, it is good you go. While you are away, I will marry your brother, Ronald. He doesn't have such a vivid imagination!”

And so, Bob, the eternal fiancé, found himself the best man at a wedding he should have been the groom at, and the Midnight Orchid of Borneo bloomed only to be forgotten.

When Cupid Has Hay Fever

Benjamin, bless his cotton socks and hopelessly romantic heart, had fallen for Rose like a skyscraper tumbling in a slow-motion movie. Rose, the girl next door, was a vision – a symphony of sunshine and smiles, housed in a floral sundress. Benjamin, on the other hand, was more of a muted trombone solo, usually clad in a slightly-too-tight waistcoat and a perpetual state of nervous perspiration.

His love, however, was as loud as a brass band at a picnic. And, being a man of action, or rather, a man of well-intentioned, slightly misguided action, he decided to woo her the old-fashioned way: with roses. Every blessed morning, as dawn painted the sky in hues of apricot and rose (irony, you magnificent beast!), Benjamin would tiptoe from his flat, a freshly cut rose clutched in his trembling hand. He'd then deposit it, with the stealth of a squirrel burying a particularly prized acorn, upon Rose's balcony.

It was a labour of love, a ritual as predictable as the sunrise. He imagined Rose, awakening to the fragrant bloom, a smile gracing her lips, thinking of her secret admirer. He envisioned their grand meeting, a scene orchestrated by fate and fragrant petals. The reality, however, was as different as a banjo is from a Stradivarius.

Unbeknownst to our lovesick Benjamin, Rose was allergic to roses. Terribly, spectacularly, violently allergic. Each morning, after Benjamin's stealthy floral delivery, Rose would wake up, not to a sweet-smelling serenade, but to a sneezing fit that could rival a small earthquake. Her eyes would puff up like over-inflated balloons, and her nose would run like a leaky faucet. She suspected a well-meaning but clueless Cupid was at work, but had no idea who was behind the floral attacks.

One crisp autumn morning, Benjamin, peering through his binoculars (disguised as “birdwatching equipment”), saw Rose emerge onto her balcony. This was it, the moment! She picked up the rose, her face scrunched up in a way that Benjamin interpreted as pure, unadulterated delight.

“Curse this infernal pollen!” she shouted, before launching into a sneezing volley, loud enough to wake the dead.

Benjamin, finally understanding the fragrant folly of his ways, went back to his waistcoat, a little bit wiser, and a lot more itchy. After all, as fate often reminds us, even the most beautiful blossoms can carry hidden thorns. And sometimes, the grandest gestures are best kept to oneself, unless one wishes to induce a sneezing symphony of epic proportions.

The Gold Box of Lord Featherbottom

Charles, a man whose morals were as elastic as an old rubber band – stretched thin and easily snapped – fancied himself a bit of a Robin Hood, minus the archery skills and the noble intentions. One night, under a moon that looked suspiciously like a peeled orange, he liberated a gold box from the mansion of Lord Featherbottom, a man whose wealth was as vast and unsettling as the Gobi Desert. “Reparations,” Charles muttered, feeling quite heroic despite the clammy sweat on his palms.

The box, smaller than a loaf of day-old bread but heavier than a guilty conscience, gleamed under the dim light of Charles's squalid apartment. Curiosity, that relentless cat, finally clawed at him. He pried it open, and a wisp of shimmering gas, smelling vaguely of lemons and forgotten dreams, escaped. Before Charles could slam it shut, he inhaled.

He laughed. Not a polite chuckle, mind you, but a full-bodied, gut-busting, tear-inducing guffaw. He laughed until his ribs ached, until his landlady, Mrs. Finth, pounded on the door, threatening eviction and mentioning something about summoning the spirits of dead cats. The laughter subsided only with the dawn, leaving Charles feeling drained and vaguely ridiculous.

He tried to ditch the box, of course. He tossed it in the river, but it bobbed back like a persistent suitor. He buried it in the park, but it reappeared on his bedside table, as shiny and mocking as ever. Every morning, he’d wake to find that infernal box, and the cycle of giggles would begin anew.

Desperate, Charles consulted Old Man Fitzwilliam, the neighbourhood oracle, who smelled perpetually of mothballs and old regrets. Fitzwilliam, after peering at Charles with eyes that saw clear through him, cackled, a sound like rusty hinges opening. “Ah, the Laughing Box! Legend says Lord Featherbottom cursed it. No one can keep it, but no one is punished for stealing it. The curse is that the box has to be stolen, if it is not, the laughing gas will kill the owner.”

Charles saw the logic in it. The thing needed to be stolen. It was a societal laughingstock, a perpetual prank played on the world. He left the box on a park bench, under a sign that read “Free to a good home.” He watched from behind a tree as a gaggle of teenagers snatched it up, their laughter echoing through the park. The next morning, Charles woke up feeling lighter than air, the lingering scent of lemons a pleasant memory. He’d done his civic duty, redistributed the mirth, and, for the first time in weeks, he could face the day with a straight face and maybe, just maybe, a little stolen joy of his own.

The Stage is Set, and So Is the Table

Amanda, in her youth, was a wisp of a thing, a veritable sylph, if sylphs harboured ambitions of silver screen stardom. Her dreams were Technicolour epics, filled with sweeping romances, heartbreaking tragedies, and roles so characterful, they practically vibrated with life. She envisioned herself as the next Olivier, but with more mascara. There was, however, a fly in the ointment, a chink in her theatrical armour, and it came in the form of a cream puff.

Amanda adored pastries. More specifically, she worshipped them. A delicate eclair was to her as a sonnet to Shakespeare. Each bite was a tiny curtain call, each sugary crumb a standing ovation. Time, that ruthless stage manager, began to play his part. Amanda's waistline expanded, a slow, relentless expansion, mirroring the rising action of a particularly long play. Her once sharp features softened, blurring around the edges like a watercolour left in the rain. The leading roles, those glittering prizes, began to slip through her fingers like sand.

Yet, Amanda persevered. She saw herself still upon the stage, perhaps not as Juliet, but as Nurse, a role that, she argued, required a certain… amplitude. The silver screen beckoned less frequently, but character roles, the eccentric aunt, the gossiping neighbour, these were still within reach. Amanda, ever the pragmatist, adjusted her sights.

Years marched on, each one leaving its mark like a heavy-handed makeup artist. Amanda, no longer a wisp, had become a substantial presence, a veritable galleon in a sea of supermodels. Her hair, once the colour of spun gold, was now a wispy grey cloud framing a face etched with the stories of a thousand unbaked cakes. She was a fixture of the local theatre, a grumbling, generous, talented old soul. Her backstage pronouncements were legendary, her on-stage presence undeniable. She may not have been a star, but she was, without a doubt, a force of nature.

And why wouldn't she be? After all, she owned the theatre, having inherited it from her father, a renowned pastry chef who, in a stroke of genius, had invested all his profits into the building. The stage was not her passion, rather, it was her inheritance, but the pastries she sold at the intermission allowed her to fund her true love: the creation of even more delectable treats!

The Art of Vague Appreciation

Beatrice Bumblebee adored Art. Not in that stuffy, gallery-going, sherry-sipping way, mind you. Oh, no. Beatrice loved Art with the fervent passion of a lovesick baker for a perfect crème brûlée. She haunted theatres like a persistent ghost, consumed plays like a starving man devouring a five-course meal, and practically lived in the velvet-lined world of musicals, humming along just slightly off-key. She declared each performance “utterly devastating,” “breathtakingly poignant,” and “worth more than its weight in gilded doorknobs.”

One Tuesday, mid-intermission of what Beatrice declared was “a particularly moving tragedy about… well, something with emotional baggage,” she found herself chatting with a bewildered-looking gentleman struggling to navigate the overflowing throng. He was, as far as Beatrice could tell, quite taken with her enthusiasm. So, naturally, she launched into a dazzling, breathless monologue about the current season. “Oh, darling, have you seen the one with the, you know, the thing? The one with all the… feelings? Simply divine! And then there’s that other one, with the chaps, the costumes, and the, ah… you know… theatrics! Positively splendid!”

The gentleman, a kindly soul named Mr. Plumson, raised a curious eyebrow. He’d been attempting to figure out which play he was even at. “Indeed,” he said, stroking his chin. “And what did you think of Lady Bracknell's delivery in… ah… that one?” Beatrice blinked. Lady… what-now? She tilted her head, the picture of thoughtful contemplation. “Oh, she was… simply marvelous! Absolutely riveting! The way she… well, the way she… did things! Truly unforgettable!” Mr. Plumson leaned in, a twinkle in his eye. “And did you find the subtext particularly resonant, considering the playwright's… shall we say… complex relationship with… his muse?”

Beatrice beamed. “Oh, absolutely! The… the resonances! So… resonant! You see, that's what I adore about Art. It's so… you know… arty!” Mr. Plumson, suppressing a chuckle, finally cleared his throat. “And of course, you're familiar with the author's other works, such as… ah… “Whimsical Wanderings in the Wisteria Woods”?” Beatrice paused, a flicker of panic in her eyes. She knew she was cornered, like a butterfly in a very elegantly decorated net. “Oh, well, you see,” she confessed, her voice suddenly small, “I've never quite been one for… names. I just… love the experience! It's all so… so…” She spread her arms wide, a gesture encompassing the entire theatre, the entire idea of Art. “So… performance-y!”