By Gigi Rice

 

Short horror stories that happened to me in SCA. *

 

I’m in the new disabled loo. There is no toilet paper. 

 

I sit in the pit and catch hypothermia. They cut my nose off. The school kids shout “Voldemort Voldemort!” outside KFC. 

 

Alfie Souter hugs me. 

 

I microwave my lunch but the chicken centre is still cold. 

 

I birth triplets and all of them are killed instantly. 

 

Squirrel sheds her fur and reveals she is God and has been judging me for every single un-moral decision I have made here. There are many and I am banished to hell (Watford). 

 

The spicy chicken and coriander toastie from San Marino gives me a funny tummy at around 10pm every time after consumption. 

 

The anti knife crime youths manage to find me in the street and pester me for a good 150 metres until I unfortunately tell them that I am actually 13 and cannot help their noble cause. 

 

My book score remains forever 49. 

 

A certain esteemed guest comes to visit and speaks in an incredibly quiet voice. I miss every nugget of gold he says. 

 

Ian Hands catches me on ASOS ordering a pair of Boohoo size 4 flared trousers while a presentation about how to solve world hunger goes on. 

An auditionee asks for volunteers. I try half a tea spoon of “Pyscho juice ghost pepper”. I subsequently cry and writhe in stomach ache pain until the unique combination of white wine and a Maltesers McFlurry settles me. 

 

Sean asks another question right at the end when I thought I was free. 

 

I have the sudden realisation that the microphone I am recording into for my case study scripts, is not the microphone. 

 

I can smell the crack wafting up from the seven addicts outside that I then wade through politely on my way home. 

 

Dean Shein leaves his food out from last Friday. Flies infest the room and rats gnaw at my portfolio until it is gone. 

 

Comedy school finishes at 9pm. EVERY SINGLE MONDAY. 

 

The fun client doesn’t bring samples. Hiss hiss.

 

Zelda poos on the floor. 

 

Bhaji eats Zelda, and said excretment. 

 

I pray for a single weekend off but instead Sunday becomes the new Monday. 

 

Saturday night becomes riddled with anxiety for Sunday. 

 

I drink a fucking canned beer cause I am desperate enough. 

 

The world becomes one giant piece of art direction and it is all WRONG. 

 

The dead people in the graves that are in the studio walls start scratching at the stone. They say they will order me Deliveroo if I let them out. 

 

Helmut Krone’s book is extortionately priced. 

 

A visiting ECD looks at me like I am thick as pig shit. 

 

My brain conjures up the worlds best idea that somehow falls flat when I present it. 

 

I fall asleep with my eyes open. My brain jolts and then feels very peculiar. 

 

I consider turning to drugs for an extra bit of pep. 

 

My bank account has 7 quid in it. Sigh.

 

I get high on a family sized bar of Galaxy caramel crunch rose gold coated mini eggs.

 

 

 

*Creative license has been applied