Max woke from a night of uneasy dreams to find his head had metamorphosed into a giant root vegetable.
He’d really gone and done it this time.
‘Why do you comb hair?’ He thought he heard himself ask.
The face in the mirror would look bemused, if it weren’t a turnip.
He couldn’t think who might know, so he rang himself. Check the voice inside his head was still him. It was not.
Max started to spin, the chord of the telephone tying him up in silly knots.
‘You’re making this lard for me,’ complained the voice inside the rutabaga.
‘Sorry,’ Max tore himself away from the mirror and sneaked into his room. A cow slept noisily in the corner, cartons and cartons of milk and milk products all around her. Nothing to see here but dairy.
He sat down and began to draw. A handsome man, happy, looking fresh and ever so slick, not a trace of sickness. Next to the picture Max drew an arrow and scrawled: ‘Me. In my dream!’
‘Dear Me,’ he wrote, forcing a cough into a laugh. ‘Just one letter away from the truth.’
It was a good lie.
By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Steven Morrissey/Stephen Street