Jonathan Cardew

Jonathan Cardew is a writer from Sheffield. He doesn’t live there anymore. But he is from there. Find his words in cream city review, SmokeLong Quarterly, wigleaf, and Best Microfiction 2021.

THE FUCK’S A TUFFET? by Jonathan Cardew

Little Miss Muffet took another hit from her Juul. It was Friday, which meant English class all afternoon. Instead of walking towards the Arts building, though, Muffet detoured into the woods so she could do a little pipe before Hawthorne.


When she sat down on a grassy embankment, a spider descended from a nearby tree--a ten-foot wide spider, big enough to hop and skip over a bus.


She tried to light her pipe, but the spider freaked out and hissed at the flame.


“Oh, just piss off,” she said to the spider, and it promptly did.


Once she was high, it crawled back.


“Are you eating fire?” asked the spider, sheepishly, motioning to the pipe with one hairy leg.


“Go away,” said Muffet. 


“I just want to sit with you on that tuffet,” said the spider. “Seems like a perfect spot.”


Miss Muffet enjoyed smoking so much—getting high was her new normal, filling herself with fumes was her new way. 


“A tuffet?”


She laughed. She coughed out smoke.


Spiders were not her new way.



When she arrived at school, things were baffling.


Two freshmen rushed up to her and flapped their traps about Mr. Karman making out with one of the seniors and getting caught by the principal.


Miss Muffet took a surreptitious draw from her Juul, eating the vape so that it leaked out of her nose.


“Ewww, gross,” she said, but she wasn’t really grossed out; Mr. Karman had a tush like two boiled eggs joined in holy matrimony.


“In the Biology room,” said one of the freshmen, with an exaggerated wink.


Little Miss Muffet thought about the spider.


She mouthed the word, “tuffet.”






She entered the school via the Sciences wing.



It was dark in the Biology room, except for the hydroponic lights in one corner.


Little Miss Muffet peered through the little glass window and could just about make out the hunched figure of Mr. Karman at his desk.


It looked like he was bent over his grading, but surely he was staring down into the chasm of his bad choices.


Little Miss Muffet knocked on the window—rat-a-tat-tat.


No response.


She tried again, but figured she might as well just open the door.


The room was eerily quiet—never was it quiet during class time since Mr. Karman operated on a ‘do what you will’ kind of vibe.


She walked toward him.


He looked up from his chasm.


“Muffet…” he said. “Don’t you have class now?”


“Free period,” she lied, sitting down on one of the student seats.


“Oh,” he said, letting out a sigh.


“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Karman, but I had a question…”


“Now's not a great time for questions,” he said.


Little Miss Muffet leant back in the seat so it groaned, getting out her Juul device and giving it a quick pull.


She guessed Mr. Karman wouldn’t notice, let alone care.


“Now’s not a great time for anything.”


Mr. Karman looked sexy in the wan light, like a figure from an oil painting, all anguish and doom, haggard.



When the bell rang, Little Miss Muffet was already deep in the woods again.


Hawthorne could wait until Wednesday.


Hawthorne and his scarlet letter could go screw themselves, 1600s style.


“You’re back,” said the spider, who was in the same general vicinity as before.


The spider was one of those fat spiders with tiny legs. Pointless. Dragging its hairy-ass belly across the ground when it moved.


A sorry, sorry sight.


“I’m back,” said Little Miss Muffet, using her fingers to simulate quote marks.


She took her place on the small, grassy hill and got out her pipe again.


“Can I?” said the spider, pointing to the same spot as before.


“Can you what?”


It blinked its dozen eyes.


“Sit down beside you,” it said. “On that tuffet.”


Little Miss Muffet sighed, channeling Mr. Karman.


“Look,” she said. “It’s a free country.”


She pushed a nub of weed into the pipe end and lit it, drawing a perfect crackle.


“Can I ask you a question?”

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Slide through the doors of the convenience store. Live a little in your skin. This skin was given to you in about 1975. Friendship Wolfcheese made sure you got the kind of skin that earned you favor. Ask for cigarettes. Carefully enunciate the vowels and the consonants. Friendship Wolfcheese was very particular about sounds.

Marlllllborooooo Liiiiiights.

Feel the heat in your cheeks. Why the heat in your cheeks?

Marllllllborooooo Liiiights.

He doesn’t understand you. This boy of fifteen, with the fresh coat of paint on his face. Squints in your direction. He’s speaking, but the speaking isn’t happening in your ears.

Friendship Wolfcheese lived on a boat. He hunted for fish with a stick and string, and then he fried the fish in a sea of butter. Fish eyes popped because of the heat. Because of the way they were being cooked.

Marllllllboroooooo Liiiiights.

This boy of fifteen. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t care for you. He’s got the phone to worry about and the hair to worry about and he doesn’t know you.


Marlllllborooooooo Liiiiiiiiights.

Point again, hitting the plastic separating you and the boy.

Marlllllborooooooo Liiiiiiights.

Fish eyes popping. More of a melt, really. Friendship Wolfcheese could melt a fish in butter whole. A whole melt.

Marlllllboroooooo Liiiiiiights.

Until the fish was just butter.

Marlllllboroooooo Liiiiiiights.

You could live without. Friendship Wolfcheese could live without. Fish could live without water for nine days. Flipping and flipping. On a chopping block.

You walk back.

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