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Monkeys

I come home to my tiny blue sea-side house. I've lost my front door key so head round the back, crunching over the driveway made of white stones. As usual I'm a bit annoyed I have to share my garden with the chip shop next door. I wave at the chip-shop family who are sitting on a picnic bench, eating chips. I enter the tiny one-room house and go straight out of the French windows and down the grassy slope to my old metal security box, which faces the ocean. Just large enough to squeeze one person inside, the boxes are to lock ourselves in on a night, when the strange monkeys come. A monkey that was thought dead sitting on a branch for years woke up one day with an extra tiny head on each elbow and knee, long white hair and a human face. It screamed, went mad, and multiplied. I sit in my box and wait.

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