Short Story: Old Brown

Things are getting gritty out there...

If you were at my Nottingham Comedy Festival preview of Spine Hygiene, you’ll have seen this piece and artwork referenced at the start of the show, and I want it out there for the curious amongst you. In the future, short stories will be a feature of the paid newsletter, but will become available for free after a period of time.

Old Brown

Old Brown looked this way and that. The road had run through this part of the land for ages. It started as a dirt track, was totally ignored by the Romans, and eventually expanded into a big concrete river flanked by fields when the Industrial Revolution came. Old Brown was used to the road. But it was New Year’s Eve and the whole thing was crusted with salt. The Gritters had been out.

Old Brown had a loose concept of The Gritters. There had been a road accident last winter, all skidding and screeching and shining red metal. Luckily, Old Brown was already on the other side at that point. He watched The Gritters topping up their layers of rock salt, and there were no more accidents—just Old Brown, trapped and increasingly bad-tempered. There were very few sheep in the fields that year, and the ones that hatched right never grew to a decent size.

Over the road, in the little copse of trees that the farmers knew not to chop down, mushrooms were twinkling- those little brown trumpets seemed innocuous, but they sprouted from a fungus that was very deep and very very old. And on New Year’s Eve, they glowed. Old Brown, generally above things like temperature and conditions, shivered.

Old Brown was a mangled heap of deer, lost sheep and the occasional badger. Forelegs and tails stuck out in roughly the right places, deer skins gave him attractive dapples on the chest, and he was crowned with magnificent antlers. Legs of deer and sheep formed his undercarriage, allowing him to scuttle fast like a woodlouse, leaving trails of footprints like a herd of deer. In the old days, hunters had tracked him for days hoping for dinner- he hid well as they had iron on their arrows, he knew from bitter experience, but the legend of Old Brown had still spread.

And the bigger he was, the more eggs he could lay. Every year at New Year’s Eve he would eat the mushrooms and lay his eggs in the fields, hatching into the sheep that made the region famous.

 On bountiful years even arable farmers would find themselves with fat, resilient sheep with thick luscious fleeces and thick luscious milk that made excellent soft cheeses. What Old Brown didn’t know was how many of these poor farmers had been investigated by the taxman, demanding the paperwork origin of these animals and suspecting foul play.

His brood this year was bigger, and it had taken it’s toll. Unless he found a way to cross this salt, he would waste, bits falling off, until he was left clinging to bits of frogs and insects. Old Brown wasn’t about to let that happen, his seven-foot stature had taken much curating over decades.

Traffic had slowed down, and Old Brown could poke his heads out a bit more. The Gritters had been thorough and consistent, the bastards. Old Brown tested the road with an unfavoured hoof, and, after a sizzle and a smell of burning hair, he retracted it quickly. Warm clouds puffed out of his noses as he tried to work out what to do. The night wasn’t long anymore, and mushrooms don’t last when it’s damp and frosty.

Headlights. Quick, hiding, in the bushes, flat like roadkill. A huge vehicle, yellow and unstoppable, lights flashing like angry stars. A Gritter. Old Brown cringed as hated grit ricocheted off the road and into the verges.

Up in the cab, the driver was cold and tired. He disliked these twisty turns, especially at night, but the job needed to be done. The radio was on, but he was keeping an eye on those hedges. Coming up on his lefthand side, a cluster of reflective eyes stared out at him.

“Well hidden tonight, Old Brown” he mumbled as he checked his mirrors. Empty roads.

Parking brake on, lights on, climbing out. His orange fluorescent jacket glowed in the lights. Old Brown couldn’t move. The man was approaching, silhouetted and carrying something long. Old Brown felt his eggs weighing him down, he couldn’t run or fight but he would if he had to.

Then the man turned his back, and there was an awful whooshing sound. Grit was flying... away. The Gritter Man continued sweeping until a decent pathway was made across the road.

“Sorry about this. New hire, didn’t know to leave you a path. Well, we told him, but he didn’t listen”

Old Brown didn’t understand, but felt the friendly tone. Still, he wasn’t moving anywhere with that Gritter around. Nothing happened for a few minutes. The Gritter Man untied his scarf and blindfolded himself.

“Come on, yer alright.”

Another minute. Colour was creeping into the edges of the sky. Old Brown stepped onto the swept road, eyes never leaving the blindfolded Gritter Man. Any movement, Old Brown would impale him on his antlers and take him- not that Old Brown had much use for vulnerable feet and furless skin. It’s best for all concerned that Old Brown had never focused too hard on dextrous hands or opposable thumbs.

The idling engine covered the clattering of Old Brown’s hooves. Rogue noses sniffed the Gritter Man against Old Brown’s better judgement. The Gritter Man kept still and politely ignored the smell of sheep, deer and decay. When he got to the other side, Old Brown bellowed in thanks before disappearing.

The Gritter Man untied his scarf and climbed back into the cab. Clearing a path for the old bugger had added a couple of hours to the end of a long night shift, and he could feel his mobile buzzing in his pocket, asking where he was and why he was so far out of his usual route. Still, can’t be helped, he thought. As he started the gritter for the long trip back to the depot, he thought he could see something glittering on the neighbouring hill, and a large black dot putting out the lights one by one.

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Upcoming Shows:

• Spine Hygiene supporting my fave lil guy, SAM SEE
  8th December, Square Hole, Sheffield TICKETS

• Spine Hygiene, Leicester Comedy Festival, 16th February
  17:00, Phoenix- The Nest - this show is right before Club Wormhole so do see both together for an incredibly silly Sunday Night TICKETS

• Spine Hygiene, Saturday 15th March - 7pm-8.30pm, Glasgow Comedy Festival.
  Check my linktr.ee when tickets go live

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Club Wormhole - The Scottish Panto (It’s Macbeth)

Monday 2nd December, Fishergate Studios TICKETS

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Knitting Update

I really did think I’d have the dinosaur neck warmer/cowl done by this week, but alas, only an inch or so was added on. It hasn’t occurred to me before that the rows build like geological layers. Hell yeah