I held Rosie’s hand really tight so we could cross the road safely. When we reached the other side I realised that her arm had come off and there was a trail of blood leading back to a gushing arm hole. It was then I saw my face like it had been photo-shopped or something. I looked proper fit.
My head suddenly detached itself from my shoulders, it had four little engines on it and shifted across broad contours as it changed direction, like a Zeppelin. It slowly started to gather momentum against the wind and rose up and started moving across the road. I was obviously worried about Rosie and although it stained the muscles behind my eyes to look down from the accent, I caught a glimpse of her. A clever girl, she’d already taken someone else’s arm and pushed it into the hole to close the wound.
With all my effort I surged my blimp head forwards. I felt I was managing to increase the density of my nose to help pull me towards Rosie. As I got closer I suddenly realised that Rosie was in a tremendous rage. Her ‘new’ arm was limp at her side, but her one original arm flailed the air trying to get me and pull me down.
I opened my mouth to say I was sorry but all this did was let the air out and I made a squeaking noise and flapped around like a balloon. Rosie stood stroking the limp arm which had belonged to an old man, so it had an interesting texture.
My head was tiny now and practically useless to anyone. Or so I thought until that night, after all the drunks and night-shift workers had rained passed with their respective fatigues, a rat took my face to use as a kind of mask. But that’s another story.
Rosie is fine now. The arm she stole died of old age, but she’s perfectly happy having a dead arm – it’s a real novelty.