I tell stories

“Yes,” said the angel. “Sorry about that.”

The Pope opened his mouth, but didn’t manage to get out more than “Bwa…”

They’d already known the scrolls were genuine, the text older, less edited.

And that had thrown up some… differences.

“But… why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, if you’re going to make up such a homocentric view of history, who are we to stop you? You seemed happy enough.”

“But… orang-utans? His chosen, the ones made on the sixth day… the orang-utans? What makes them better than us?”

“Well, for one thing, the snake found them a lot less gullible.”

It wasn’t the first time Annabel’s cleavage had caused controversy.

“Our nightdresses are silk,” Principal Emmeline. “We scream at 102 decibels. And our necklines are never less than 6 inches below our collarbones.”

Annabel, fully covered, looked unimpressed.

“And now you won’t attend exercise class. Saggy necks don’t get bitten.”

“I don’t want to get bitten! I want to be a corporate lawyer.”

“What?”

“You heard me! I’m more than just a neck, Miss. And if those vampires think they’re so evil…” lightning cracked “they’ve not seen anything yet.”

She stormed out. Emmeline blinked back a tear. “I’m so proud.”

—–

This was from the prompt ‘beautifying neck exercise’.

Sandra sleeps cuddling Percy the Penguin, to keep the monsters away.

When she was 5, this was cute. Now she’s 23, her boyfriend’s having some trouble with it.

“Babe, trust me, I’ll keep you safe.”

Percy, discarded, looks unconvinced.

Despite Sandra’s misgivings, they have a quiet night.

Unlike the manticore, nailed to the wall with a carving knife, or whatever owned the severed purple tentacle dripping black ooze.

Percy looks a bit bedraggled. The boyfriend, mutely, gets up.

“I knew you’d leave.” Sandra says, quietly. “All the others did.”

“I’m not leaving, babe. I’m going to buy him a katana.”

—–

This one was for my sister-in-law, and was from the prompt ‘Penguin cuddles’.

The strange screen clicked back on. Those two surreal boys leered at me. One asked, “Are you real?”

“Yes,” I hissed, “are you?”

They nodded in unison and moved closer. I placed my hands upon the glass, they did too. Multi-coloured hues shot from my fingertips; an unseen force sucked me and the boys within the screen. The boys screams echoed, “Get us outa here!”

They were now two-dimensional painted figures trapped inside a box, and I was changed into flesh — somehow, we’d exchanged worlds.

“No,” I said giggling, “my turn to watch you,” but instead, I turned them off.

—–

Part 1 can be found here: Mika Takuro

I never used to believe in ghosts.

There were four of us, back then: me, Tom, James and Beth. Seventeen years old, drinking alcopops in the White Horse and smoking joints in the park.

And eventually, we grew up.

Now Tom’s got a wife in Sheffield. James emigrated. Beth earns too much at HSBC.

I saw them all off, and at twenty-eight, I’m all that’s left. No more alcopops, but the same White Horse, the same park.

Sometimes, I think I still see them, and me, reflected through the bottom of a pint glass. Ghosts, all of us, every one.

Someone told me that sleep is for the weak.

I agreed.

So. I haven’t slept. For eighteen years.

And it was fine, for the first two. I think. It’s all a bit of a blur.

But then, I started to see them. The slim ones.

The ones who come from the cracks in your floorboards and wardrobes, and watch you. While you sleep. Just watch. Their long stabby fingers curled over your head.

I catch them approaching me, sometimes. When I start to shut my eyes. They’re waiting. To watch me.

You’re not weak, to sleep. You’re very, very brave.

There were fireworks on the day she was born.

Not for her – for some old dead guy who liked making explosions.

But wherever she lived, and she lived a lot of places, that night the sky was lit up in red and green and gold and blue.

It suited her. She played with fire.

Magpie appreciated talents like that.

The trickster bird perched on the park bench and stared at the sparkling beads decorating her throat, the rings on her fingers, the studs on her hat.

“Hm,” he said. “You and me need to get to know each other better.”

—–

Happy birthday, K.

“Nice jacket. Kill it yourself?”

I listen to the voices in my head.

“No,” I repeat. “It’s still alive. Thought it’d keep that tribble you’re wearing company.”

Paul’s smile twitches.

I always used to be his mocking-boy, but now I’ve signed up to Wildeify. Through recording devices placed into my brain, they know everything I see and hear.

So when I need a snappy comeback, their writers can drop one straight into my head.

Also, they make sure I only dream about products I’m likely to enjoy.

It’s a pretty good deal. Wiping off Paul’s smug smile is a bonus.

He never got to see his daughter.

It was a cruel trick for fate to play, wrecking his boat the day before she was born.

That was four months ago. She’d loved summer storms.

But tonight was a special night. The night people left food out for the fairies and shut their doors to wandering ghosts.

So she’d put on her best dress and lit a candle in her window.

There was a knock at the door, slow and heavy. A drip of water. A smell of salt.

She kissed her daughter’s tiny head. “Hey baby,” she said. “Daddy’s home.”

—–

Traditionally, Hallowe’en was the night the dead tried to return home.