Pumping Up Napoleon by Maria Donovan

an oaf to see to on the way over and it took rather longer than I thought.’
    â€˜What?’ says Andromeda.
    â€˜By the way…’ Perseus leans forward and beckons the sea monster closer. The sea monster advances, keeping a wary eye on the hero’s sword. Perseus, bringing his mouth close to the holes in the side of the sea monster’s head where the ears should be, whispers, ‘Who is she, exactly? I seem to have lost my notes.’
    The sea monster sighs and recites impatiently: ‘Her name’s Andromeda. Her mother bragged she’s more beautiful than Neptune’s daughters.’
    â€˜And is she? I mean, after all, once one’s rescued a girl I believe one’s supposed to marry her and to be quite honest,’ he glances over at Andromeda who grimaces back, ‘she doesn’t seem to have much idea of, you know, grooming .’
    â€˜Of all the nerve,’ explodes Andromeda. ‘You should have seen me three hours ago.’
    â€˜That’s true, actually,’ says the sea monster. ‘You are rather late.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ says Perseus straightening up and shutting his diary with a snap. ‘And now if I don’t hurry I’ll be even later for my next appointment. Tuesday at three. Don’t keep me waiting.’ He spurs his horse inland.
    â€˜Great,’ mutters the monster, trudging into the sea without a backward glance. ‘And he promised to introduce me to that woman with the snakes.’
    â€˜Well don’t imagine I’ll be here,’ shouts Andromeda.
    The key is in her girdle and she reaches it easily, but her numb fingers let it drop into the water. She reaches out with her foot and is momentarily distracted by its puckered aspect. Just then a wave lifts the key up by its ribbon and draws it a little further off.
    Andromeda bites her lip and gazes out to sea. ‘Help,’ says Andromeda, weakly at first. And then, much louder, ‘HELP!’
    The monster humps his back and dives for the ocean floor. Inland, the dust kicked up by the hero’s horse is beginning to settle. The sun is sinking. There is no one else in sight.

Scary Tiger
    Have you ever had an impulse? Standing on a railway platform have you never felt the urge to give someone a little shove?
    In my lunch hour I’m waiting to cross the road to the baker’s when I see a pregnant woman on the other side, also waiting. Woman as vessel; form dictated by function; baby-wrapping. I cross the road one way; she the other. We pass in the middle. Her eyes slide over me and away. She’s thinking about danger from traffic, not me. Perhaps all she sees is a shape to avoid.
    As soon as I see her I want to run across and punch her in the stomach. I know . I can hear you; I know what you’re thinking. Please understand: I don’t really want to, but I thought I might.
    I suppose some people will assume I’m jealous. Or unnatural. I can hear the voices. Not hear them, you understand. I don’t want you to think that I’m really hearing voices. But they play in my mind. Home movies.
    I just had the thought and saw myself doing it. Her – doubling over, falling to the ground; old people stopping, gaping, shouting. Me instantly slashed in two by the knowledge of what I had done; what people thought of me.
    You’re evil , say the voices. This is exciting for them. They’re like a restless audience, easily bored. I’m haunted by the people in the cheap seats; they won’t shut up.
    I’ve had all sorts of jobs.
    The old lady watches me weigh the potatoes. I know just how many spuds make up a pound. I haven’t converted to metric and neither has she, although the scales are set to kilos.
    I smile a lot at the customers. This one smiles back.
    She checks the change in her purse. Her hair needs washing and I think, she doesn’t do it herself; she goes once a week to the hairdresser’s; she’d like to go