Category Archives for Fiction

TUESDAY, WITH SPIDERS

The spiders on the ceiling were hungry.

Rich huddled over the counter, whisking his pancake batter to smooth out the few remaining lumps of flour. Keeping one eye on the ceiling to track the spiders’ movements, he dipped a finger into the bowl, then licked it clean. Mmmm; it was ready.

Bowl still in hand, he walked over to the hob, took out a pan and turned on the heat. He placed the pan on the gas, dropped in a thick wodge of butter, then glanced up again. The spiders were gone.

He panicked, hugged the mixing bowl closer. There they were! Three black spiders scurrying across the ceiling towards him. One of them—skinny, malnourished—lagged behind the others, as if it could not quite keep up. Rick scowled at them warningly. His wife would have hoovered them up by now, but she was out for dinner and he did not know where the hoover was.

The spiders came to a halt directly above his head. Rich squinted up at them, then grabbed a tea towel and waved it ineffectually in their direction. The spiders did not move. He glanced down, noticed the butter had melted and begun to foam. The spiders could wait; his pancakes were more important.

Rich set the mixing bowl down by the hob, then paused. No ladles. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He shrugged, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and dipped it into the bowl, filling it to the very brim.

The batter barely sizzled as it hit the pan, creeping out towards the edges slowly but inexorably. Damn, he’d forgotten to check the pan temperature first. Rich raised the heat a notch, tilting the pan back and forth to spread the batter evenly, but there was too much liquid and his supposed delicate crepe was turning into a cake. Exasperated, Rich tried to flip the pancake with a jerky wrist movement. It was a half-hearted flip at best: the pancake folded in half and proceeded to stick together.

“Double damn!” Rich tried to prise the two halves apart, but it was too late. Defeated, he tipped the pancake onto his plate. The half-moon of dough smiled winningly back at him. He munched on a corner thoughtfully and ignored the spiders. They were mocking him; he was sure of it.

Take 2. Pan at the right temperature, check. Enough oil, check. Mug half-full of batter, check. And pour.

This time it sizzled, it spread thinly and evenly, and when the top began to bubble, Rich lifted up the pan and flicked his wrist with extra flourish. The pancake soared into the air, then back down, landing neatly in the pan. Victory!

He flipped the pancake again, higher this time, letting out a cheer when he caught it. And again, higher! And again! Rich completely forgot about the spiders, so intent was he on his newly discovered manly talent.

Then it happened: his golf club swing sent the pancake soaring up, and up, and up, until SPLAT! It came to a rest on the ceiling, and did not come back down. Rich waved the pan enticingly, but the pancake did not move.

The spiders huddled together, conferring. Then, as the seconds passed and the pancake remained securely on the ceiling, they began their advance, circling the pancake, drawing in for the kill. The skinny one struck first, scurrying straight across the dough to the centre.

Later, when his wife came back home, all that remained was a circle of grease.

She stared up at it, incredulous. “Darling, what on earth happened?”

Rich shrugged. “The spiders on the ceiling were hungry.”

FEELING BLUE

I have come to realize that fashion forever follows nature. Polka dot dresses reminiscent of ladybirds, the black-and-white zebra stripes on high heels, the comfy jumpers with kangaroo pouches…. All the animals imported from Earth have been faithfully copied until there is nothing left to copy. And now this… Blue skin, highlighter-bright.

As a young lady of certain repute — sufficient to garner attention, yet not quite enough to make up the rules — I must conform to fashion’s dictates. So here I sit spreading blue tincture down my arm in preparation for tonight’s festivities. It’s our gold anniversary: 50 Earth years since we colonized Venus.

I say we but of course I played no part in the original settlement — why I was only decanted seventeen years ago! Some of the first colonists still have to wear firmasuits to hold their bodies in place; their bodies are too old to adjust to the gee here, but I never have had to, hence the blue skin.

I’ve heard on Earth girls brown their skin in the sun, and during the cold months tint their skin orange to recapture the warmth. Orange like the sky of Venus, like the endless canyon and deserts… It was Rosca who decided if the Earthmen wear a tribute to us, we should wear a tribute to them.

Blue is a rare colour here on Venus. But on Earth — or at least on the holograms of Earth I’ve seen — you can drown in blueness. Blue sky, blue flowers, why even rivers and lakes and oceans of blue that you can bathe in without protection! (That last I’m not sure about; surely whatever turns the water blue is noxious?)

The thought of so much blueness fills me with a strange longing. Or maybe it is the thought of so much water — the only water in my room, other than that in my body, is the quarter-full tear jar in my pocket. We’re a nation that carries our grief with us, always. It’s our best form of currency. When I fill up this tear jar I’m going to trade it in for something exciting… I don’t know what yet. Perhaps flight lessons, although mother says I should save up for a family permit. As if I am interested in starting a family now!

After what happened with Cajk, I don’t think I shall ever speak to boys again. He… he… I expect he will be there tonight with her. I saw her in the compound last week, carrying an Adsa shopping bag of all things. I imagine she buys discount tinctures there and will attend the party tonight with skin more green than blue. But I shouldn’t judge; mother says it’s unbecoming.

Although I simply cannot stop thinking about it. I don’t understand how she appeals to Cajk! I thought… I was under the impression what we shared was special. I was ready to — well, you know.

Just a minute while I put some tincture on my lips. There, all done. I’m blue everywhere. Even my insides feel blue. What a fanciful thought! But perhaps they are… Perhaps the tincture has seeped through and tainted the bottled-up grief with its colour. As if I need anymore tainting.

Perhaps that’s why Cajk left me: he realized I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t worthy.

Oh! I’m crying. I better put down the dictaphone and catch my tears.

A LONE BAKER

They tumbled out of her apron and on to the counter—twenty of them, thirty, he wasn’t sure. They looked so innocuous lying there on the counter, the very same counter upon which he rolled out his bread every morning. Rob just stared, gnarled hands ready for action, his fingertips gripped tightly around the handle of a serrated bread knife.

Nothing. No movement. It was hard to believe these were the very same pests that were infesting local stores, where innocent shoppers picked them up without realizing. Every single shop had succumbed to the infestation except his bakery, and now here he was with thirty of them on his own turf. He’d have to scrub the counter for hours to get it clean.

Rob scowled at the girl. “How dare you bring these… these monsters here!”

She had the audacity to shrug. “Everyone else’s got them.”

“I am not everyone else. I refuse to be brainwashed and stand idle while they take over the world. My bakery has standards. I thought you understood that when I hired you last week.” When she just shrugged again, Rob threw his hands up in disgust. Young people these days had no common sense.

“I’ll take them away then, yeah?”

“Yes. Now!”

Rob could not watch her gather the pests back up into her arms, could not watch the way they rolled limply, feigning innocence. He wasn’t going to be fooled; their diminutive size in no way lessened the evil they carried. He waited with his back turned until he heard the tinkle-tinkle of his shop door opening and closing, then let out a long sigh. Their influence was growing daily. His shop assistant had been clean the week before when he’d hired her—all the tests had come back negative. Now she too had succumbed.

Rob shook his head and turned back around, only to freeze in disgust. She’d forgotten one. It was in the corner of the counter, half-tucked behind an empty bread basket. He stared at it, could hardly bring himself to touch it, but the curiosity won through. He had to know how they were doing it, how they were brainwashing the townsfolk into singing their praises.

Rob used the tip of his knife to prod the pest into the centre of his counter. It moved along obligingly, and came to a rest upright, staring at him. There was no time to hesitate: he brought his knife down hard and sliced through the beast’s exoskeleton—or what he thought was the exoskeleton. It had the same composition all the way through to the middle: a spongy body studded with hard white squares. He almost stopped breathing. What manner of beast was this?

He crouched down, brought his face level with the dissected parts. Rob hated to admit it, but looking at this cut up pest he could feel Mother Nature’s guiding touch. Its body, its scent…. It was perfectly engineered to seduce mankind. And the pests continued to develop, to evolve, each generation even more perfect than the last, to the point that Rob felt sure even he would soon be under their thrall.

He was but a simple baker: what he could he do to stop their advance? His wife…. She would have known what to do, would have had a weapon up her sleeve to fight back. But all Rob could do was stare at this sliced up monster and wonder whether he was better off giving in and letting them take their rightful control over his shop. He was nothing without his wife—all of a sudden the solitude of being the last man standing overwhelmed him, and Rob sank down to his knees and wept.

Through his tears he could smell the scent of the sliced-up beast, enticing even after death, sweet like chocolate and smooth like banana. Rob struck out angrily and scattered the body across the shop floor, one last moment of defiance. Tomorrow he would submit to their dominion, but for now—for now…. He stood up, walked around the counter, and ground the pest’s body into the floor.

The tinkle-tinkle of the door announced the shop girl’s return. She took in the scene quietly, glancing from his face to the floor.

Then she shrugged. “Get with the times, gramps. They’re just muffins.”

Written for alphabete
(“chocolate chip banana muffin takes over the world”)

RE: VAMPIRE VACANCY

Dear Evan Pyre,

I’d like to express my interest in the vampire vacancy as advertised on The Guardian website. As a current employee at Preternatural News, I believe my substantial familiarity with vampire society and culture makes me a competitive candidate for the position.

I have had the privilege of partaking in the development of three newly commissioned vampire-focused publications on behalf of Preternatural News. My current role is that of researcher and writer, and as such I have gained considerable experience in keeping abreast of the latest supernatural developments, writing topical editorial, and liaising with leading vampires across the world. In light of these responsibilities, my strong interpersonal and communicative skills have been a definite asset. Furthermore, the high level of independence within this position highlights my organizational abilities, which are so crucial to the vampire identity.

Previous experience includes an internship at Triptych Corporation, during which one of my responsibilities was to identify market trends amongst humans and propose new commercially viable areas for expansion—a skill set which can only contribute to the virile underground vampire economy.

My lack of hands-on experience in being supernatural is offset by the extensive theoretical knowledge gleaned during my MA in Vampire Literature at Hertfordshire University, which covered all aspects from the initial making, diet requirements and procreation, to the final resolution. Furthermore, my intention as an immortal is to establish a sister publication to Preternatural News, focusing on delivering high quality reports not to humans but to other supernatural beings, thereby enhancing the profile of the vampire community I join.

I believe that both technical knowledge and practical ambitions are equally important: a human needs a deep biological understanding in order to become a vampire, but needs long-term ambitions in order to become a successful vampire. Thus the opportunity to join an already thriving society such as the London ‘Pyres is of great interest to me.

I think my unique combination of interpersonal skills, critical thinking, and experience developing cutting-edge vampire-focused publications makes me an ideal person to help expand the London ‘Pyres dominion. But most of all, I thrive on challenge and change, and look forward to new and exciting opportunities which will allow me to develop to my fullest potential.

I’d welcome the chance to provide you with any additional information to supplement my CV (attached). Please do not hesitate to let me know should you have any further questions.

Thank you very much for your time.

Yours sincerely,

Edward Wanabi

RESCUE MISSIONS

Creative commons via stock.xchng

Dragon suitably beheaded, Prince Charming galloped across the castle moat, brandishing his sword with practiced flair. If only a painter could capture me like this, he thought, picturing the scene: his white stallion frozen mid-leap, neck arched in a perfect curve and mane and tail streaming through the air, him astride in a resplendent scarlet tunic, with a stern profile and smiling eyes.

Wexford—his horse—cantered onwards without instruction, straight into the castle courtyard, his hooves clatter-clattering on the mismatched cobblestones. There he wheeled to a halt and stamped his foot twice.

“Never fear, Princess!” Prince Charming called out, uncertain whether she could hear him but feeling exhilarated at the returning echo of his voice. “I shall rescue you!”

He dismounted, giving Wexford one solid pat on the neck. Wexford ignored him, so Prince Charming ignored Wexford back. He shook his head and walked towards the stairs leading up to the main doorway. “Stupid horse,” he muttered, not paying attention to where he was walking. His suit of armour was so heavy he tripped on the first step and crashed down on his face. Wexford’s loud whinny sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Not to be discouraged, Prince Charming leapt to his feet and stomped all the way up the stairs, pushing the castle doors open and walking inside. Once inside, he stopped and looked around in surprise. He had been expecting an abandoned castle, overrun with weeds and the lazy cobwebs of large, content spiders. Instead he found a neat entrance hall, candles burning brightly in the lamps, and highly polished wooden furniture that gleamed so brightly he could see his face in the reflection.

But there was no time to waste admiring the décor. He had a princess to save! He could already imagine the reunion: her lying asleep on her bed, golden locks cascading over one shoulder, face upturned, waiting for a kiss. He’d walk into her room, lean down and press his lips against hers. Only that could break the curse upon her. Her eyes would flutter open, she’d take one look at him and fall in love. Wexford would carry them home to live happily ever after. Prince Charming smiled self-deprecatingly. The things a man had to do nowadays to find himself a wife!

The highest room of the tallest tower—that’s where Sleeping Beauty was. Prince Charming huffed and puffed his way up the stairs, using his broadsword as a walking stick. When he’d finally reached the top, he was so tired he had to sit down for a few minutes and breathe deeply. Then he got to his feet and walked the last few steps over to the narrow wooden door behind which waited his prize.

Prince Charming put his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. He pulled out his travel comb and a small towel, wiped his face dry and combed his hair into a neat side parting so that he would look good for the Princess. He knocked out of habit, then pushed open the door and walked in to meet his future wife. Except there was one small problem to his great plan: the bed was empty.

Prince Charming walked over to the bed, stared down at the neatly pressed sheets in abject confusion. Where was she? The instructions had been clear, this is where the wicked witch had left Sleeping Beauty, ready to be rescued. But this bed didn’t even look like it had been slept in! That’s when he noticed the note on the pillow.

He picked it up. Was it a love letter? It didn’t look like the love letters he had seen before. It was not pink, and it didn’t smell like perfume. It smelled like old newspapers, and—when Prince Charming turned the paper around to stare at the back—he realized it was a piece of an old newspaper. It had a completed crossword on the back!

He turned it back around and stared at the no-nonsense handwriting. At least it was easier to read than the usual girly cursive.

Dear Prince Charming, the letter said. I am very sorry not to be waiting for you as you wanted me to. The thing is, I knew the witch was going to poison me so I took an anti-sleeping-potion beforehand. At first I spent a lot of time playing and teaching myself languages like ogrish.  Then I got bored waiting for you to rescue me. So when I heard that Prince Dashing was captured by ogres when he was out fishing, I thought I’d go rescue him instead. I hope you don’t mind. If you want, you can wait here until I get back.
Lots of love, from Sleeping Beauty.

Prince Charming sat down on the bed and let the letter fall to the floor. Now what was he going to tell his parents?

Inspired by the wonderful 7-year-old Alexia.