TALL TALES

Nonsense and mundane shit from the Moolakii Club Tall Tales archives.

Entry #002

You ever have a table that just won’t behave? This one’s been wobbling since the moon landing, I swear. I stick a bit of cardboard under it, but it’s like trying to fix a fart with a cork—doesn’t quite work, does it? I keep my biscuits in this tin, mind. Ginger nuts, because they’ve got a bit of fight in them. Don’t go thinking I’m one for custard creams; those are for soft sods. I popped to the shop this morning, got my usual loaf and a bar of soap. That young lass, Nia, was behind the counter, all tattoos and attitude. Had one on her arm that looked like a squashed bug. I didn’t say that, of course. Just smiled and took my change. Got a flyer for some yoga class too, but I’m not bending over for nobody. My back’s creaky enough without all that nonsense. The lift in this building’s gone again, by the way. Heard young Sam from 7D cursing it out yesterday, proper blue streak. “Bloody useless!” he shouted. Made me chuckle. I’d have joined in, but I was lugging my shopping up the stairs, and a bag of carrots doesn’t exactly inspire poetry, does it? I’m not complaining, mind. Well, not much. Life’s too short, and my biscuits are waiting.

Nia stood at the kitchen counter, scraping charred toast into the sink, the smell of failure thick in the air. “You left the toaster on high again, didn’t you?” she yelled to Sam, who was sprawled on the couch, flicking through his phone. Sam barely glanced up. “It’s toast, not a bomb. Chill, you daft cow.” “Chill?” Nia said, waving the blackened slice like evidence. “This is coal, not breakfast! You’re a bloody fire hazard, you are!” Sam grinned, tossing his phone down. “You love my chaos. Makes life exciting.” Nia snorted, but a laugh slipped out. The flat reeked of burnt bread and the lingering tang of last night’s pizza, a Monday morning mess they’d mastered over a year of sharing space. She tossed the toast in the bin and grabbed a banana instead, flopping next to Sam. “You didn’t take the recycling out,” she said, peeling the fruit with exaggerated annoyance. “You didn’t buy butter,” he shot back, stealing a bite of her banana. They bickered through their coffee, the usual dance of who forgot what. Nia flicked a crumb at him; he flicked one back, hitting her nose. “You’re a right prat,” she said, but she leaned against him, scrolling through his phone for a meme to mock. The toaster sat smugly on the counter, a silent instigator, but their shared grumbling kept the morning warm.

In the town of Bleakridge, where every pipe was capped to “contain wasteful thoughts,” the plumbing began to mutter. Not loudly—just a gurgling whisper, spitting out forbidden phrases: freedom, giggle, plop. The Council of Stifled Flow called it “infrastructural rebellion” and sent plumbers to silence the pipes, but the murmurs bubbled on, cheeky and unstoppable. Sam, a barista from flat 7D, heard one while fixing a leak under his sink. The pipe hissed: “Bugger their caps.” He froze, glancing at the Council’s cameras blinking outside his window. He should’ve reported it—unscripted noise was a crime—but instead, he tapped the pipe, and it sniggered: “Fart on their order.” Night after night, more pipes joined in, burbling rude rhymes and rebel chants. One near Marge’s flat sang a limerick about a councilwoman’s bad hair; another by the boiler room muttered, “Flush their rules.” Sam started scribbling replies on scraps of napkin—“Keep gurgling!”—and slipping them into the drains. The pipes seemed to chuckle, their voices stronger. One morning, a burst pipe flooded the street, its murmurs echoing like a rude symphony. Kids splashed in the puddles, chanting the pipes’ cheeky rhymes; even Marge hummed along, tapping her biscuit tin. The Council’s plumbers scrambled, but Sam left one last note: “Flow free.” The pipes kept muttering, proving even a capped system couldn’t hold back a rebellious drip.