Josie Rogers

written aged 12
Lochgilphead High School, Argyll

Unlikely Friends

In the fuzzy heat of the August sun, the smog congregated around usually airy houses and gardens, making it impossible to keep cool. The lawns had been browned and baked over the summer, the hosepipes curled into shape in sulky disguise.

A solitary worm wriggled lethargically across some creosote-stained decking, stopping to rest its fat, bloated body awhile. At that moment, an ugly, pompous crow swooped, ruffling its glossy feathers as it did so. It swooped upon the worm, who happened to be called Wesley, and snapped him up in his beak.

Wesley wriggled his body frantically, and the crow squished his beak together, warningly.

'Don't move, or I'll by your heg off!' he tried to articulate, which is always hard when your mouth is clamped around a struggling invertebrate.

'Oh,' Wesley replied. 'Okay.'

'Dong talg to me,' the crow said. 'I dong like to congverse wiv my food.'

'Oh,' repeated Wesley. 'The name's Wesley, by the way.'

'Tony,' the crow said, begrudgingly.

Wesley had barely noticed how high they were flying. They were swooping high above the crawling, sprawling traffic.

All too soon, Tony the crow had touched down in a small chalet attached to a tree. Outside was a vegetable patch. Wesley checked his Worm Watch. It was nearly lunchtime.

'Well,' Tony said, after releasing Wesley from the fierce embrace of his beak, 'it's quite a nice little property really. One bedroom, lawn view. It'd be a nice spot to raise a family.'

'Do you have a wife? Chicks?' Wesley enquired, one eye still on those big juicy lumps of compost.

'No, I'm on my own.'

'Oh, okay.'

The crow, who was, of course, named Tony, looked at the little worm who was, of course, called Wesley.

'I don't really want to eat you, Wesley.'

'Well, I am a bit muddy,' Wesley replied, hardly shielding his delight.

The pair chatted companionably over plates of soil and any crow delicacies Tony happened to have in the fridge.

You may know that worms do not have very long life spans. Not long after their first encounter, Tony invited Wesley over to his garden-side dwelling.

It was becoming hard for Wesley to move, as he had arthritis of the whole body. The conversation turned to Worm culture, Crow politics. Both Wesley and Tony had drunk a tad too much pond water, and were getting a bit lairy.

'I regret eating all those worms now!'

'Oh yesh. My Dad, Wilbur, a great worm - he was eaten by some dirty great crow!'

Something clicked in the back of Tony's mind. Wilbur - Wilbur the worm...

'Wesley - I ATE your father!'

'Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!'

TWO DAYS LATER

After the little pond water incident, Tony and Wesley did not speak for a while. But Tony realised, what was life without friends like Wesley?

The unlikely friends were silhouetted against the dreamy pink sky of the suburbs.

All was well.