A collection of the pieces of microfiction I wrote on twitter in January. (Minus the typos.)
“Where did the house go?”, I asked the lady sitting in front of the house next to the now empty lot. “Which house?” “The green one I saw here when passing by just a week ago.“ She shook her head, laughing at me. “There hasn’t been a house in 200 years over there.”
“Hey girl, can I talk to you for a second?” “No.” “Okay. Sorry.” The ghost vanished back into the sidewalk.
“Shhhh” whispered the ancient oaken wardrobe in the corner, softly, to the poet sitting at a desk by the window, “would you mind opening the curtain a little more so I could enjoy the moonlight as well? It’s been a while.”
The water was boiling in the pot and he was about to turn around to pick up the bag of pasta from the table behind him, but the bag was already being handed to him. “Thanks” he muttered, while dumping the pasta into the pot. Then he remembered he was home alone.
There were shards and pieces of broken glass and pottery everywhere. On tables, on shelves, all over the floor. The oddest private art collection I had ever seen. “What exactly do you collect?” “Broken dreams.”
“I hate being able to pass through walls and bookshelves. Backs of chairs, too. I miss leaning against objects. Not being able to rest against anything solid gives me phantom backaches,” complained the ghost of the gnarly old lady haunting the library.
The wool blanket didn’t like colour of the new bed-sheets. It started floating and hovered over to the window. Rain was pouring down outside. Maybe the bed-sheets weren’t so bad after all. It settled back down on them, softly, deciding to give the colours a chance.
Something was stirring in the coffee mug in front of her. She took a closer look.
“Uaaah!” The head of a tiny and very drowsy looking ghost emerged from the dark liquid. “Sorry, I was just so tired and must have fallen asleep in the coffee tin again.”
“Wanted: cat ghost, to haunt my room. I’m very allergic to living pets but really could use some company.” The teenage girl set down her pen, smiling at the note. Now, how to send it? She decided on burning it in a bowl. Nine minutes later, she heard a gentle meow.
I opened the book. The book opened a portal and sucked me in. I woke up yesterday again, deciding on not buying the book. This was my downfall. The book now has me trapped in a closed system of paradox time, devouring my soul and feasting on my fear.
“Don’t ever pick leaves from the hydra-plant. It will grow twenty more leaves in that place and soon take over the world.” The hydra-plant author chuckled after finishing typing that paragraph in their newest herbology manuscript.
They were about to leave the apartment for an evening out, when a small, shy voice whispered from within a kitchen drawer, “Could you maybe turn on the radio for me? I always feel lonely when you go; and I can’t leave these walls.”
I opened the freezer. Inside a frozen soap bubble, oddly out of place, was resting on the vegetable bags. When I poked it, a small wisp of fog rose inside, stretching into a tiny, ghostly yawn. It opened dark eyes, stared back at me, then settled back down to sleep.
The ghost of a squirrel sat on its favourite old tree, staring longingly at the stash of walnuts it had buried between the roots last year.
It missed the movement of winter winds ruffling its fur coat. Being a ghost was cold inside.
The young artist didn’t have money to keep pets, but he didn’t mind. A whole lot of small spirits frequented his apartment: the ghost of a goldfish had claimed the kettle, a snake spirit the microwave; an invisible parrot chattered away from its spot on the lamp.
10.000 ghosts floated in front of the parliament, stretching and twisting into signs.
“We’ve come from the future to haunt you”
“You killed us by ignoring climate change”
“You sank our isles, burnt our forests”
“Listen to your children!”
(2019-01-26, dedicated to Greta Thunberg)
It’s raining on the cemetery; and all the ghosts are carrying umbrellas. If you ask them why, they’ll tell you it’s so they won’t feel too sad they can’t really feel the rain drops anymore. Also, they love the bright colours.
They pointed at the old brass telescope in the corner of the thrift store. “How much do you want for this?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of much use for you”, the merchant pointed out.
“Is it broken?”
“Well … not exactly. You see, there’s the ghost of an astronomer occupying it; and she refuses to let people look through her unless they make her comfortable.”
“I’ve a cozy attic with a nice skylight.”
The merchant smiled. “She might like that.”
The Tragic Tale of the Reptiloid Werewolf
(A five-part story for @Koffeinfusion.)
As everybody knows, a civilization of reptilians is living beneath the earth, secretly watching humans from there. But rarely anyone knows the reason why they went underground.
One moonlit night, many eras ago, a young reptiloid was bitten by a werewolf. The result was horrifying, much more so than in an affected human.
The reptiloid’s smooth, scaly skin split open with a disgustingly cracking sound as its body began to bulge and twist, while the whole inner anatomy painfully changed from cold-blooded lizard to viviparous endotherm.
The lycanthropic reptilian screamed and screamed in a hissing voice as it felt its blood boiling and its guts liquefying, and all the other reptilians screamed as well in horror as they had to watch an abomination grow and swell to terrible size.
The creature was banished, living out a long, nightmarish life as a walking night-terror itself, while the remaining reptilians hid away, vowing never to see moonlight again until humans had disposed of all werewolves.