Simon gulped down a whiskey. Gina stood outside by the swing, pushing little Rachael as though nothing had changed in their lives. He couldn’t look at them. He downed two more shots and lay down on the couch.
There was a rap at the sliding glass door. Not again. Couldn’t they leave him alone? Simon covered his face with a blanket, waiting the sound out. The hanging tendrils soon dragged Gina’s corpse back to the swing, returning to their endless mockery of Simon’s old life.
Story by Alex Buchholz of weirdshitwithalex.blog. Check out his blog for more weird shit, with Alex. Thanks for the tale, Alex!
“They’re not
pests,” cried Eric. “Get off my roof.”
Jim looked down the
sight of his air rifle.
“Don’t,”
begged Eric.
Jim squeezed the trigger. The pigeons took off and came towards them. He took aim and squeezed again. The gun didn’t fire. His finger crumbled into seeds.
Eric stepped back as the flock descended.
Ahh, I still love the idea of pest control being eaten by pigeons. OK, so that’s a re-hash of the pigeon shamans previous story. Here’s the thing. I put 18 new prints onto my Etsy store. I then didn’t post about them again since listing day.
My problem is, I’m bad at writing marketing copy for my own art. So instead, I figure posting them with stories is better. Kinda… Right?
Oh, and this week, I finally got about to making mocks of all my images in different frames. So hey, I have something to talk about and point too!
She watched the roots, reaching up out of the ground. Twirling around each other. Tying themselves together and standing tall. She would have run when she saw her face forming in the organic ballet. If only the roots holding her hands and feet would loosen their grip.
Ya know, I was absolutely certain I’d had Durthi as a #Colour_Collective portrait. Can’t find her in any of the usual folders or my Twatter though. I shall remedy this in 2019.
Obs, this ain’t just no straight-up horror post, but an advert too. Cause ya know, I do need a few quid to buy tea!
You can get an original hand drawn Durthi or a print of this fiendish plant lady on my Etsy store. Postage is free and first class wherever you live in the world, and each card envelope comes with a free bird drawn on it. Stick that in ya stovepipe and smoke it.
George tumbled through the door onto the roof. He could hear the shuffling of feet on the stairs below. Why?” asked George. “Oh, we all get our kicks somehow,” sighed Lucy. “That, and my ex-tells me I should channel my hobbies into doing more good for the world.” “And this is doing good?” cried George. “Yes, well,” replied Lucy. “But, maybe not for you.” George looked over the edge at the stained pathways below. The stairwell door creaked open.
“Nearly there,” grinned Lucy. “And who’s this?” “My window cleaner,” grimaced George. “Thought he was banging your wife right?” said Lucy. “I thought so, yes,” sighed George. “Thought so?” asked Lucy. “Shame you changed your mind after he’d taken a tumble through the sixth-floor window.” The window cleaner squirted Windowlene into Georges’ face and gave him a buff and shine. “Oh and look at all the glass stuck in his backside,” laughed Lucy. “Hey, I bet that’s a right pane in the arse!”
“Up, up, up,” said Lucy, pulling him up to the next floor. George stumbled through the door. “My god, this is my old kitchen,” he pondered. “Ah, the wifey loved this room,” said Lucy. “ She was lovely wasn’t she?” George glared at Lucy. “She tells me the kitchen table was the first place you two did the business.” “She’s not…” muttered George. “Here?” grinned Lucy. “Of course. She’s still in the pantry.” A moan came from behind the door, George retreated to the stairwell. “Do you know, the first time I had sex was with my first missus was in her parents’ kitchen,” sighed Lucy. “’This is awkward,’ she said. ‘Just ignore them’ I replied.” The pantry door burst open, Georges wife emerged wielding her kitchen utensils.
This story originally came from some darker puns between Lucy and Yuffies meeting in the Grey Moon that felt out of context in that storyline. By Spectres beard, I just ain’t feeling it this week, though! Not happy with the quality of writing, humour or story. And I’ve ended up not using the original puns. Doh’eth.
But hey, the bright side. I have a growing library of sound effects. I’m overusing them something rotten this week, but it’s the learning to use them, innit.
Oh, and hey, it’s getting near Crimbo. If you enjoyed Grey Moons story or my old original horrors covering Capricorn, don’t forget they’re available in a lovely smellin paperback available on Amazon. They’d make a fab Christmas gift! (Linky: https://amzn.to/2PjT7ak )
“Come, we have others waiting for you upstairs,” said Lucy.
George paused at the stairwell rummaging in his jacket pockets.
“Oh that’s not going to work here,” said Lucy as he produced a phone.
“I have four bars,” said George.
“And I have a hammer,” replied Lucy, bringing a Stanley on Georges mobile.
“Mr Prime Minister,” said Lucy, drifting over and shaking Georges’ hand. “She’s been waiting for you.”
Sam, ran up to George and threw her arm around him. “It’s like a fairy tale reunion,” grinned Lucy.
“You tell me such brilliant bed-time fairy tales,” said Sam.
“I’m glad you enjoy them,” replied Lucy.
“But why do they all start with ‘once upon a time?’”
“Sometimes they don’t,” replied Lucy. “Sometimes they start with ‘if elected, I promise…’”
Well, Lucy sounds like she’s having a good day. Thanks, rabble, for all the positive feedback on sound effects. Y’all still awesome.
George tumbled through the front door. “Holy crap, did you see that?” he asked the receptionist.
“Oh, yes sir. Happens all the time,” she replied. “Mr George North?”
“Yes,” mumbled George. “How did…”
“Take the stairs to the second floor, third door on the left, the crèche,” said Receptionist.
“Oh, no,” started George. “I had a daughter…”
“Yes,” chipped in the receptionist. “And she’s on the second floor.”
More sound effects. Some cuts. Works a lil bit better for the shorts I reckon.
“There are only two ways off this roof,” said Lucy.
Gerald peered over the edge at the stained concrete below.
He knew he wasn’t the first man given this choice.
He knew he wouldn’t be the last man given this choice.
And he knew, all the others would have made the decision as quick and easy as he had.
Little Fears 