'EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP' by Tim Warren

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

Here we see the very wall in question. Visitors are often surprised by how low it is, but people were so much shorter then. The hen that laid Humpty, on the other hand, was considerably taller compared to today's breeds.

That’s right, yes, sir, egg people have always come in small, medium or large.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

Popularised by Hadrian, freestanding outdoor walls soon sprang up all across Britain. For egg people, the writing was very much upon them (and, naturally, for the chickens that laid them too).

No, sir, the chickens laid eggs not walls.

But climbing walls was not the problem, it was the dismounting — and perhaps, too, more crucially, a curious failure to learn from the mistakes of others.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

We are talking about the king of the egg people and his men — that’s right, madam, you’re very well informed — not the king of England — a common misunderstanding, even today.

Contemporary reports suggest 160 men were sent to Humpty's aid. However, the word 'all' can be misleading: sadly, there were not nearly as many horses.

Most of the horses, understandably, collapsed en route, overburdened, and had to be put down; while a number of the men, having fallen, suffered similar fates.

The rhyme glosses over it somewhat, yes.

Couldn't put Humpty together again

By the time they reached Humpty, barely ten men were left; none survived the dismount. And while the horses showed willing, hooves, alas, proved ill-suited to the task.

These few fragments — displayed here beside Humpty's favourite eggcup, for indication of scale — are all of him — or them — that remain.

The king? Yes, went into exile, as you put it, sir.

But I fail to see the amusement.

'The White Spider' by nimaruichi

Ethan sat motionless and vacant-eyed, smothered in a strange numbness. He had been sitting like this, for god knows how long, in the porch of the house that was no longer his own. The virus had taken everything from him. His job, his home, his wife. Once so full of life, all Ethan was left with now was emptiness inside.

He clutched the pistol in his pocket tighter. The cold metal stung, but it was as if the pistol was fused to his hand, urging him towards the inevitable end. Soon, very soon.

Then, something caught his eye. It was a little white spider. Blank like my life, Ethan murmured to himself. Balancing daintily on its long legs, the itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout that trailed the wall all the way down from the roof. Ethan looked at it spellbound. At least the spider had found a secure place for itself. 

Suddenly the sky turned dark and down came the rain, and washed the spider out. It curled into a ball and rolled away. What chance did it have, after all!

Then, just like that, the skies cleared and out came the sun, and dried up all the rain. Like the parched earth had greedily sucked up all the water and everything in it to slake its thirst. Poor little spider, Ethan thought. Nothing going your way, is it? But there it was, crawling out of a tiny crack in the ground. It uncurled its legs, and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again. Ethan looked in wonderment. He found his fingers around the pistol had loosened somehow; he pulled the offensive load out of his pocket and flung it away.

It was time to crawl out of the hole.

'Ding Dong Bell' by Zoe Critchley

Ding dong, bell peals rang out from the local church. Their knell mixed with the chatter of the group of nosy townspeople that gathered at the gate to the farm.

“What is it?” someone asked. 

“Pussy’s in the well!” someone else told them. She wasn’t actually called Pussy. Her real name was Cat - Catherine Kitter - but children could be cruel, and adults could turn a blind eye. She had been working as a farmhand to make some extra money. Her family were poor, you see.

 “Who put her in?” 

“I’ve heard it was that little Johnny Flynn, the farmer’s boy.” 

As Johnny Flynn would have it told, he and Cat had been playing. Johnny Flynn was full of malice. He would never have played with her. He would have pushed her, though. 

“Who pulled her out?” 

“I don’t think they have yet! They are still trying!” 

“Who found her?”

 “That little Tommy Stout from the butchers, you know?” 

“My god! That must have been horrifying for him!” 

Nobody cared about Cat. 

“What a naughty boy was that!” they always said of Johnny Flynn, “What a naughty boy he is!” 

Johnny Flynn would not suffer consequences. He never faced any music. They dismissed each and every transgression because they thought he could and should be trusted, every time; trusted not to break the school window; trusted not to set fire to the heather; trusted not to try to drown poor ‘Pussy’ Cat Kitter. 

Poor Cat Kitter, who never did him any harm. She never did anybody any harm.

 They replaced her with a real cat, you know. That was what I heard. The real cat could not milk the cows or sweep the yard, but ate all of the mice in the farmer’s barn, so was considered an improvement.