Fausterella

By Rosalind

One Friday evening…..

Anthony heard a clanking sound, but he was so tired he couldn’t be bothered to get up and soon he was fast asleep. His last thought was the strange sound was coming from the kitchen.

As a matter of fact, the noise was coming from the kitchen. The cutlery from the kitchen drawer was just waking up. ‘Gosh,’ one fork said, who just happened to be called Stabacheeseball, ‘that was a stiff day.’

‘We’re always stiff,’ another knife called Cutaburger scolded. ‘We’re cutlery.’

‘Now now’ said the wise old spoon, who went by the name of Wise Old Spoon, therefore no-one except himself knew his real name. ’We’re all cutlery, so we shouldn’t be arguing.’

‘He’s right, y’know,’ another spoon piped up. This was Princess Scoopasausage. Her mum and dad were King Cutaknife and Queen Forkalong. Why all the cutlery in the world had such strange names, no-one knew.

Suddenly a voice said: ‘What’s all this noise? We don’t want the humans to wake up!’ It was Scoopasausage’s dad, King Cutaknife.

‘I agree,’ said the different voice of Queen Forkalong, ‘The humans will pulverise us if they find out!’ There was a mumble of agreement, and all the knives, forks and spoons went to work, stealing all the grapes from the fridge. Why they liked grapes, no-one knew.

Anthony lay in bed, shivering and sweating with fear. A million questions chased around his head like wasps. Why had he heard that strange sound? What was that terrifying noise? Was he imagining it? If he was, why was it so random? That was his last question before he fell asleep.

The cutlery was having so much fun. They were munching down grapes and spitting the pips all over the road. ‘Let’s do this all over town!’ one cried. ‘All over town!’ the others cheered. So off they went.

In the morning, the police, investigators, scientists, everyone was inspecting the millions of tiny little seeds that had somehow got all over town. ‘They are definitely grape pips.’ one finally announced.

All the cutlery had run, giggling, out of sight.

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