Comedy - Understanding the 7 Story Types by Looking at a Girl and an Apple

Girl and her pal are in the room upstairs. They excitedly unwrap a brand-new archery set. Girl stretches the arrow across the bow, pretending to aim at her mate.

Girl's eyes light up, "You know what would be total lit now?" "What?" the friend is eager to participate in whichever hare-brained idea Girl's up to. "An apple on your head. There's some in the kitchen." "Tots," the pal (let's call her Deena) nods with glee. Girl is vexed though, "There's a problem, I'm barred from the kitchen till tomorrow."

"Again? Alright, I'll get it. Who's home?" Deena is ever-ready.

"My annoying Sister, my trumping Granddad, Malti and the pigeon."

"Malti… Maltesers?"

"Maltipoo, a mixed breed pup, real cute. You saw him!"

"Alright, what's with the pigeon?"

"It's the one I'm saving. I told you about her."

"Firstly, how d'you know it's her? Secondly, you're saving a pigeon? It's the first I hear about it. Where do you keep it?"

"Phhh, annoying. I found her wounded, she fell off the roof, so I gave her CPR. She's in the loft but keeps wanting to get out."

"Does it fly?"

Girl gives her a barrel stare, "I told you it's a she," she emphasises each word.

"Alright, don't be sus. Can she fly?"

"Duh, how else will she get out? But she's not ready for outside yet. And Malti's a halfwit; he seems to think she's dinner, hunter instinct or something."

"Ok, again, how do you know it's a she?"

"Why are you still here?"

Deena gets out onto the landing, from there to the stairs and down the double twist rail.

She is passed by scampering Grandpa, barefoot in his pj's; on one of his hands is a sock, which he occasionally waves at his backside; the other grabs hold of the rail as he makes his way up the stairs. He is chased by screaming Sister, who looks like a mad person threatening to smash him with a baton of a rolled-up newspaper.

While Deena is figuring out what is that thing on Sister's head, a tiny fluffball scoots by — Malti the pup — after him, fluttering and grunting, a pigeon, whose wild wings almost poke Deena's eye out. Deena wobbles and loses her balance; her uncontrollably swinging arms smack the pigeon, propelling her through the open window.

At once, everything freezes, everyone gasps. "The bird!!!" Grandpa, Sister and Malti, all leap to the windowsill. Seizing the opportunity of a quiet corridor, Deena jolts to the kitchen and scouts for the bowl. There it is. She rummages through the avocadoes, pears, oranges, satsumas and lemons; shove aside house keys, car keys, flashlight, a toilet roll, discarded batteries, and unidentifiable green-brown substance that looks like an ancient sweet; finally, the apple.

In the hall, the mood is still one of awe, albeit for a different reason. Excited Malti barks and squeals at the pigeon who's screeching for dear life in his paws. Grandpa and Sister pad around looking for a rescue path. Staring at this scene, Deena is reminded of a primaeval tribal sacrifice dance. Then the flapping of wings, squeals, barks, a thud, the ringing of a window frame smashed open against the wall. Deena runs to the window to see the bird scramble away into the garden and upon a tree.

Drawn to the noise, Girl arrives just in time to witness her pigeon's newfound freedom, "Yay!" she shouts, "She's healed!"

All this excitement makes Grandpa trump even more. Sister takes it as a cue to resume the chase.

Meantime, Girl and Deena return to the room. Girl places the apple on top of Deena's head. From here on, the only thing left to see is where will the arrows go when you aim them at an apple on top of someone's head but miss.