“That’s it Big Hat Bill, I’ve had it up to here with you terrorizing this here little town. I’m gonna put an end to it right here, right now, with a bullet right between your eyes,” the ranger said with his hand hovering just above his pistol.
Big Hat Bill stood opposite the ranger down the stretch of dusty main road with a big dirty grin and enormous hat. “Good luck with that, you know how many men like you have tried gunning me down?” He laughed with spittle spurting across his grotty whiskers. “I was on this land before this town even got built, I know all its nooks!”
“This town belongs to the people, you’re nothing but a crook Big Hat Bill!” The Ranger drew his pistol and fired.
The bullet flew through the gap that formed between bill and his big hat as he dropped to the ground, and seemingly disappeared into it, leaving only the large hat sitting on the dirt. The ranger ran up to the hat wide-eyed and lifted the hat to reveal a trapdoor and hidden tunnel.
“Big hat bill! You won’t get away that easy!”
Foul laughter echoed back through the tunnel.
With gritted teeth the ranger kicked up a cloud of sand. I was so close, he thought, That Big Hat Bill and his nasty tricks! It felt as if hot air pumped through his muscles as his arms shook. He felt his upper lip twitch as he clenched his fist– A shot ricocheted off the ground, wide-eyed he blinked at the smoking pistol still in his hand.
Shaken from his rage, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the main road. A woodchopper returned to his axe now that the commotion had eased down. The ranger scratched his chin. So, the slippery weasel’s got tunnels running all throughout the town. Tunnels are for rats, he thought, and I ain’t no rat. He’d have me out maneuvered in those tunnels, so I expect he won’t be coming out any time soon. It was too dangerous to follow him in.
The ranger paced before something nudged against his shin. No, to catch a rat you need… The ranger’s gaze slipped down to Bill’s beloved oversized hat still sitting on the ground, it’s size not so noticeable when Bill-less. The ranger smiled. The damn fool’s left me the perfect bait. All I gotta do is draw him out.
He approached the woodchopper. “Say, how much for all your wood and a box of matches if you got any?”
St Albans Line – Not in service
Altona Line – Not in service
Williamstown Line – Not in service
Sandringham Line – Not in service
Murmuring crowds gathered around the service screens at Flinders Street Station. Every single one of them read ‘Not in Service’. Had I known it would be like this I wouldn’t have slipped through the gates, I just wanted to take the train through the northern suburbs and get home. The myki inspectors were beginning to eye me. Surely there had to be something. I briskly moved to the windows overlooking the platforms. All were empty, save for one. Despite the screens, there was one train waiting at Platform One. It seemed an ordinary metro train, grey and blue, but the LED screen on the front read: ‘Service to the plains.’ Nobody was waiting to board it. Maybe I could board it, I thought. I looked over my shoulder, with a black scanning device in hand a man dressed as a wannabe cop was meandering over, trying not to spook me I suspect, too bad.
I scampered down the escalator to the train, a faint, “Hey!” called out behind me. The platform was empty, but the train was packed. I pressed the button, and the doors slid open, I maneuvered through all the standing passengers aiming to squeeze somewhere down the middle of the aisle with the hopes of blending. I settled on a position behind a heavy-set businessman who made a little wheeze with every breath. Peaking over his shoulder, the myki inspector paced the platform outside, shaking his head, speaking into a radio. An announcement played over the speakers of the train.
Could the fare evader please vacate the train immediately
I’d never heard anything like it and as if that would work. An additional inspector emerged from the bottom of the escalator joining the first in his pacing. I ducked behind the shoulder every time they passed by. They were looking more and more distressed. Before long, another five inspectors had joined them. They were overgrown flies swarming the platform, only growing in numbers.
Could the fare evader please vacate the train immediately
At this point, I couldn’t even look, I glanced around the carriage and felt a growing dropping sensation in my chest. The old woman with crooked teeth, the mother with her two boys with well kept teeth, the man with a lap of groceries from the butcher with oddly sharp k-9s, everyone was looking at me. They weren’t concerned though, they were all smiling, even in the reflection of the window the businessman flashed his teeth. I’d rather the dogs out there have me than whatever the fuck this is, I pushed through them all back to the door and pressed the button.
Nothing.
I press it again.
It doesn’t open.
The inspectors all swarm around the door, I hear their muffled and panicked voices commanding me to get off. I point at the button and shake my head, a swelling form in my throat. I feel the train jolt, one myki inspector holds his hand to his head and I watch as he slides away from view, the train pulling out of the station.
I watch atop the autumn hills, yellowing dry grass jostling in a warm humid wind. A Hills Hoist clothesline hysterically squeaks somewhere nearby. The setting sun creeps through cracks in the bellowing overcast sky. Smells like it might rain, but something else is coming. Dread pushes up in my chest in a tremor, the ground shaking under my feet. A loud scratching sound from far behind grows louder and louder. With a powerful gushing of air, it fast becomes a deafening roar. A wide stroke of decay courses past me, like a road forming over the slopes, the grass withers into black ash, ember flecks carried up into the air dissolve into tiny particles while the grass blades curl into the bare dirt. The dying path continues effortlessly past the horizon. This hallowed countryside once again the canvas to famine’s brush.
A long beard hung from his face like an old shag rug riddled with dust mites, look close enough and one might glimpse a pair of eyes peering out from it, though without the cheerful wrinkle lines that ventured out from his own. No, his eyes were the night sky, so dark that constellations of stars shimmered across them in parallel to the ticking of his mind as he pondered over old fantastic tomes. He could be heard from rooms adjacent to his study as his gown was so decorated in enchanted trinkets and jewels that every movement, every turn of a page was accompanied by a jingle. He always read his books laying on his belly, his gown bunching down to his knees as he kicked his muscular legs back and forth. Muscular because as you know, a wizard’s books and magical items are their most prized possessions, and Filgert the Wizard was no exception. He carried all his gigantic volumes, magic scepters and potions, hid them all beneath his gown and it was of no surprise that floors would crack beneath his feet.
Also, he smelled like woodchips.
With his vision framed by leaves of the bush, he watched the cobbled tower intently. An orange light flickered through the window from the top floor. His heart pulsed as a shadow glided across the light and a moment later the light extinguished. He pulled his dark hood over his head and slipped out of the bushes; his chance had come. With the delicate jostle of the pick and an accommodating click of the lock, the old wooden door opened askew. He snuck inside the musty foyer, the ornate rug softening his steps. Looking around the circular room, a table covered in nicknacks and clutter, a cupboard and a couple of old leather chairs by the fireplace – he knew it would be too valuable to leave haphazardly down here. He needed to venture up.
He had been hoping for a stone stepped staircase, but now inspected the wonky old wooden steps spiraling up to the next floor. Crooked and malformed, they looked as though they might scream under the weight of any boot, the original home alarm system and with silence being the priority of any burglary, a sense of dread bubbled in his chest. Closing his eyes and ready to flee, he took the first step; relief – all quiet. Another step quiet yet again. Again. He was beginning to see the next floor, bookshelves coming into view. The silence shattered a creak on the last step, and then a thump from the top floor. He froze on the step with wide eyes. He waited. Footstep after footstep across the ceiling of the room, then a creak on the top steps down. Someone was coming – He was coming. He had to decide now, up or down. UP or DOWN. Fuck it – up.
He slinked into the darkened library and pressed himself against the cool stone wall behind the side of one of the many dusty bookcases. Every step down there was creak after creak. He thought himself lucky to learn just how noisy the second set of stairs was without having to set foot on them. The steps ceased as he must have been surveying the room. Moments passed, gusts of wind passed, the panic lessened. The sound of stair ascension and a sense of relief. He fell from his hiding place onto his knees and took a deep breath.
A breath cut short with a loud thump behind him. Someone dropping onto the floor. The jangle of jewels and trinkets rang throughout the room.
…and the musky smell of woodchips flooded his nostrils.
Deep in the woodland the stone tower had long since crumbled beneath the elements, moss and ivy ran its original circular shape, half of its walls stood at a stumpy knee height, while opposite it skewed above, but only so far as to what was once a second floor. A cool draught swept through the structure and George pulled his brown coat tighter around himself. Through his round glasses looked up at what remained of the half-collapsed wooden floor above. A clatter followed by a coarse voice brought his gaze back down.
“You’ve visited me here every day since you found me, are you not afraid?” She sat down beside him.
He looked into her empty eye sockets where a small patch of clover had made their home and draped out in such a way, he thought, that made them look like green tears, “Do you mean me harm?”
“I’m sure if I did, I surely would have inflicted it upon you by now.”
He could not see her smile for the very fact, she lacked the muscles to do so, and lips for that matter, but over the weeks he had learned that when she smiled her shoulders would raise in a particular way. He knew she was smiling as she said that. “Then I will be happy to continue visiting. It must have been lonely before I stumbled upon you here.”
She stood up and began wandering around the room, the dagger wedged between her visible ribs glistened against a ray of light that cut through the room. She’d claimed that despite it having been the means of her death, she now fancied it as a piece of jewelry. Afterall, you might as well take advantages of the new avenues of fashion when spending your afterlife as an animated skeleton.
“Oh, I’m not so sure. There are many things to keep one occupied around here,” she said, “Critters like hares, birds and spiders. We all know each other, you know.”
“You can speak with them?” George’s eye sparkled.
“Of course, being undead had its perks! Would you care to meet them?” She held out her skeletal hand.
He grabbed it and stood. They did not release each other’s hand and seemed to pretend as though neither of them had noticed. Together they sauntered outside into the woodland and spent an afternoon chatting with the woodland locals.
A brisk gust carries the dry autumn leaves through the neighborhood. All the young trick-or-treaters scuttling down the footpaths in little masquerading gangs. They trample the lawns, battering every door with a demanding drum before presenting their baskets for handouts and leaving little time before hurrying to the next score – without thanks, no less.
Well, I’ve had it with these brats.
I close the curtain in the living room and pick up my knife. I plunge the silver blade into the thick orange skin of the pumpkin. I don it with two malevolent eyes and a crooked smiling mouth, I picture the warmth it will bring. Then, I attach a wheat sack for a body with sticks for legs and arms. The match ignites with the flick of my wrist and the candle mounted within its head bursts to life with a raging flame. I gaze upon the little fella, a little top heavy with its large head relative to small body. Eventually it manages to stand, catching its balance. Looking up at me, an orange glow flickers through its eyes.
With a small wispy voice, it speaks. “What will you have me do?”
I smile softly and place the box of matches in its hand. “I think you already know.”
Its mouth twists into a smile far wider than I had initially carved and bolts out of the room and down the hall. The front door swings open by a great unknown force as it sprints out of the house shrieking, “Yippee!” and cackling to itself.
First a squeal, a commotion breaks out and before long, the smell of cheap burning polyester and timber wafts throughout and the sound of screams echo throughout the street. I sit in the living room staring at the floor in silence and soon the neighborhood is quiet. Save for the crackling noise coming from the porch and little footsteps approaching down the hall. The little pumpkin kid wonders back into the room, and plops down in front of me.
“All done.”
Flames lick the edges of the doorway as the candle gutters inside its head. It slumps of onto the ground.
A snicker, a giggle, the flavour of mischief is in the air.
Silhouetted before the sun as it hurtles to the ground, a shopping trolley smashes onto the pavement. Among several others, the boxy metal grid crumpled right in front of the Woolworths automatic doors with a herd of fearful customers cowering behind the glass, unwilling to set foot beyond. They flinch as another trolley crashes into the pile and a roar of high-pitched laughter erupts from above.
“How long can this go on!” One customer says with a whimper.
“I can’t wait here all day; I’ve got ice cream in here.” Another customer holds up their shopping bag.
The manager stands at the front of the crowd holding out their hands, “We’ve already called the police. Whoever they are, they’re sure to run out of trolley’s eventually.” Another crash adds to pile.
The Woolworths car park floods with the orange glow of dusk as all the owners of all the solitary cars, unable to stand another hour, sit on the floor with shopping bags dripping from defrosted goods. They yawn and sigh as hundreds of bent trolleys scatter the pavement and spill out onto the road. The police never came, in fact, they haven’t seen anyone since it started happening.
Suddenly one of the customers jolted up. “Do you hear that?”
“No?”
“It’s beautiful. A breath of fresh air compared to that Woolworths radio crap. Coming from out there, you seriously don’t hear it?” The customer stands and heads for the door, ice cream dripping from their bags.
As the doors slide open, the manager calls out. “Sir! Don’t go out there!”
“It’s her! She’s singing it! She’s on my car!” Everyone watches intently as the customer crosses the threshold and steps out onto the pavement. Sure enough, a woman is leaning against a car, a twisted expression across her face.
A droplet of blood plops onto the customer’s shoulder. “Oh, she’s stopped.” They turn to face the door and look to the roof. They squint. “Little red hats?” Their eyes widen.
Long into the night, the customers watch on in horror as trolley after trolley falls onto the mangled body of the customer, their blood mixing in patterns with melted ice cream on the concrete.
The engine of the car is barely audible as I pull up to the peak of Mt. Scream, my passenger-to-be stands idly with their suitcase in hand. This will be my eighth vomit demon today. I feel a wave of tiredness flush through my face as I anticipate just how this job will end, for the eighth time today; 23-hour workdays are just so long, but I feel that they always seem longer the more I consider complaining about it. At least I have that one hour off to look forward to, though it’s such a short break it almost makes it all feel worse.
The door opens and a voice characterised by heavy slobber speaks, “You my uber?”
“The one and only,” I reply.
I check my phone while listening to the squelching as they slide into the back seat. The seatbelt clicks.
“Off to the acid pools?” I say.
“Yeah, got some guys I gotta vomit on before they dunk them in there for next couple of days.”
“Cool, cool, no worries. It’ll be about 20 minutes. Music?”
“Could you put on breakfast radio?”
I feel a twitch somewhere in my face as reach down to console. I glance at the time as I switch on the radio: 6pm of course.
We set off, I drive down the pothole-ridden road, bits of drool flittering about in the back seat with my face occasionally being graced with a fleck or two. I swerve the car back and forth around the flocks of imps feeding on the folks damned to be roadkill for eternity. A drop of sweat slips down my forehead as I focus on the road, I glance up at the rearview mirror and catch the eye of the passenger, a cruel expression across their slick face.
“Can you turn the heater on? The hellfire has been a bit cooler than usual today.”
I force a grin. “Of course.”
The car rolls up to the magma lake and we wait for a moment. Finally, a pair of giant talons grip the roof and lift the car up. My shirt is drenched in sweat as the heater is blaring and I look down at the Firey bubbling pool below. It’d be nice if I could just jump out, I think, but I’m already dead. The wheels touch down on the other side and I floor the accelerator, smashing through the twisted hollow woodland which promptly grows back over itself rectangle around its victims and as we burst through the other side a crowd of skeletons tumble onto the bonnet and then up to the windshield, which I promptly wipe off with the wipers.
The glowing green of the acid pools comes into view; I sigh a breath of relief. With the squeal of the brakes, the car pulls up and I smile at the passenger.
“Here you are.”
“Thank–” Their cheeks puff, a belch escapes, in an instant the windows are caked in a chunky green liquid. I maintain my smile, but behind my eyes any demon knows that my torment is going well here. I spend the next hour cleaning the car before moving onto my next customer – locally known as the gaseous demon.
With dusk in its final few minutes, under an overcast sky, the last of the workers at Cranbourne Gardens clock off and file out to the car park. The last worker locks the gate behind them and strolls to their car. They pay no mind to the only other car sitting across from them as they start the engine and the headlights flick on. Inside that other car, ducked behind the seats, Pearl holds her breath. The light of the worker’s car glides across the interior as they turn out of the car park. Pearl listens as the sound of tread rolling over the asphalt and the grumble of the engine fades into the dark. She wastes no time. Her back car door swings open and she gently forces it shut trying to make as little noise as possible. Slinking over to the fence she thinks, why go to collector’s corner or the bunnings plant section when you’ve got a botanical gardens just a few suburbs over?
She slinks through the threshold of bushes and brush surrounding the steel fence line. The spiked tips of the fence are no trouble for her. She climbs one of the many trees against the boundary and leaps the branches over to the other side. She’s in. Now to head to the rare plants section.
She keeps behind the shrubs she’d scouted out in the day. The unfortunate thing about security for these places is that even with surveillance cameras, there’s just so many places to obscure their view. She moves fast, weaving through the branches and keeping behind the leaves. Only a few sections to go.
There’s movement. She stops, eyes widening, she watches. Someone else with the same idea, she thinks. She can’t believe it, so little discretion– the figure skipping carelessly along the path in the dark before disappearing around a corner. Laughter echoes into the air.
At first, she felt her brow furrow. They were going to get caught like this. The CCTV will have already seen them. Crap. Police may already be on the way. She felt sweat forming across her body. She couldn’t risk it. She turns and heads back to the fence and stops again. Through the leaves she could see another figure, a different figure, skipping down the path, laughing. She shakes her head. Just how many are there? She keeps moving before suddenly there’s the snapping of a twig. A pale hand reaches out and grabs her arm. She looks up and gasps.
“Skip with us.”
The morning sun shines on the front gate as the worker slips her key into the lock. She walks in, puts her bag in the office, clocks on and heads out for her morning routine tasks. As she steps down the stairs to the main path, she lifts an eyebrow. Across the lake in the rare plants section, she’s sure she can see a woman, with a completely dead pan expression and heavy bags under her eyes, skipping along the path. She rushes down the steps and heads over. She arrives but the section is empty. She scratches her head and her gaze drifts across. A large plant catches her eye. Was this here yesterday? She leans down and read’s the label, ‘Donated to the Cranbourne Gardens by Pearl M.’
*The goosebumps theme song plays*
A ray of afternoon light beamed through the window and washed across the classroom, colouring all the children sitting on the floor in a hazy glow. The teacher stood at the front of her class in front of a blackboard that she crudely drew a beetle on.
As she drew, she spoke, “One hundred years ago the giant beetle –which was the size of the city– flew down from space,” said the teacher.
“Do beetle’s have toes?” asked the student.
She turned to the class. “Sort of, but when the beetle landed, funnily enough, one of its feet landed on a school just like this. Destroyed it instantly, but the government hadn’t been funding it properly for years and it was more or less falling apart behind red tape. So, everyone was pretty happy to see it knocked down!”
“But how can the beetle stand on a school when we’re on top of it?” asked another student.
“Well, you see, we used to build schools on the ground, would you believe it!”
All the students gasped.
“That’s right! When the beetle came it was right over everyone blocking out the sun across the whole city. If you looked up, all you could see was the beetle’s underside. And as you all know, plants need sunlight and so do we!”
“Was everyone mad at the beetle?” asked a student sadly.
“Interestingly, no. In fact, everyone was actually already pretty sick of the city, especially because the government was so disliked, and now all the plants were dead too. So, everyone, probably your great grandparents, packed their things and started the long journey of scaling the beetle!”
“My mum said my great grandma fell off when she was climbing up.” A student called out from the back.
“Yes! Many people didn’t make the journey sadly. Many people couldn’t climb the beetle and had to be roped up or carried on people’s backs. Which they also did with all the building material, livestock and machinery.”
The teacher stood up and walked to the window and gestured to the bustling city outside, a picturesque marriage of vivid wildflowers and ornate buildings, luscious trees and curving paths.
“When finally arrived on the beetle’s back, they got straight to work and began to build and that’s where we all reside today. They made buildings, farms and meadows. All on its back and the most fascinating part is that the beetle didn’t move at all until one day, when the very last person from the city finally arrived on its back, as if it were waiting– it took one great big step.”
Sounds of quiet amazement gushed through the students.
“Soon enough, the beetle was taking many steps. It was walking and the old city was left behind, completely abandoned. The biggest ghost town to ever exist.”
“Where did it take everyone?” asked a student.
“It was very slow going but eventually after a few years, when everyone had settled into their new home on the beetle’s back, another city appeared on the horizon. And exactly the same thing played out! Everyone from that city climbed on up and on it went, moving again, city to city.”
“So, it got everyone from every city?” asked a little girl at the back.
“One would think! But no. You see, after a while it reached a city that was already empty by the time the beetle had arrived, and everyone was so confused. But the beetle just simply walked over it and kept on going!”
“Where did they all go?” a student asked in bewilderment.
“Well, as it turns out, a year or so later something large came into view of the beetle-back city on the horizon. Anybody want to guess?”
“Another beetle!” a couple of students called out.
“Correct! All over the world beetles had arrived from the sky and everyone just loved them so much that they climbed aboard and built cities on their backs! And one hundred years on, it’s believed not a single human being lives on the ground anymore!”
I love living on the back of a giant beetle!
Light breezes sweep across the hillside, jostling the grass against the cobbled path. Insects flitter out of the way as Holly walks by, but the lizards basking on the sun-warmed stones don’t bother, it’s too pleasant a day to spend it hiding. She stops at the small wooden sign as she approaches the crest of the hill, the wicker basket hanging from her elbow sways with the weight of whatever wriggles inside. Sifting through her pocket she pulls out a piece of dried fish and slips it into the basket; she smiles as the wriggling gradually settles. She continues over the hill and the thatch roofs of the village come into view. She waves to the sweating farmers tending to their crops and they take the chance for a quick reprieve to wave back before returning to work.
The smell of freshly baked bread floods her nose. Entering the village, she dodges the children as they run past her down to the river, laughing and teasing one another. She passes the old woman hanging her linen out to dry. Looking up, the chubby tabby slumped across the windowsill behind a hanging pot of pansies yawns, stretches and adjusts before returning to his afternoon slumbering. She makes her way through the crowds at the town square where the market stalls are piled with vibrant fruits and crates of fresh vegetables. The venders call out claiming their produce is the best in the world and you couldn’t get a better deal. The clammer of the market fades as she turns down another street and up the wooden steps onto the porch of the post office where an old man sits on a rocking chair fanning himself with his newspaper. He looks up at her with his squinted eyes that widen immediately, he gasps and falls back on his chair.
The bell on the doorframe jingles as she walks into a cool storefront. An old woman standing behind the counter organizing a collection of letter looks up and adjusts the glasses from the end of her nose up to her eyes which widen as the old mans did.
“Your back!”
“And look what I’ve brought.”
She places the basket onto the counter and places her hand on the lid, the old woman peers over it. Holly lifts the lid and the woman gasps.
“Oh my goodness, look at him. Aww.”
The old woman offers her hand inside the basket and a tiny green hand reaches up and grips her finger.
“You can hold him if you like?”
The old woman lifts him out of the basket, its big bulging black eyes staring blankly at her and she nurses it. “Aren’t you just the sweetest.”
The door swings open, the bell jingles and the old man from the porch stands there, his face red and out of breath. “She’s back!”
“I know. Look.” The old woman gestures to the creature in her arms.
The old man rushes up, squeezing whatever breath he’d mustered out again. “My goodness! Is that a little green alien?”
Holly holds up her basket. “Yep, I found him in the woods.”
He turns to the old woman. “We’ll train him to deliver the letters then?”
“That’s right, he’ll be our little delivery man.”
“Fantastic!” Excitedly, the old man turns back to Holly. “Come, sit down. We’ll put the kettle on, you must tell us of your adventure. Not a detail missed, you hear!”
The old woman places the little alien back in the basket and pulls out a little blue postmen’s cap from under the counter and fixes it upon his bulbus green head. The group leave into the kitchen and while the little alien listens to the laughter and the kettle whistle, he crawls out of the basket and uses his powers to shrink it. Then he removes the fish bones from it, gathers the letters left on the counter and places them neatly inside. He hops down from the desk and the bell on the doorframe jingles once more as he heads out for his first round of deliveries in the village.
“Pest control says it’s not bugs or rodents in the wall but a secret third thing”
Telling
Larry had spent the past three sleepless nights blocking his ears to scratching and growling in the walls. The next day he called pest control, and the exterminator spent the afternoon inspecting the walls. The exterminator called Larry over and pointed at a seemingly blank spot on the wall. This was apparently where the sound had been coming from and according to the exterminator it was a very uncommon pest that was going to require a specific treatment to deal with. Larry gave him the thumbs up and stood by. He was surprised as the exterminator pulled from his bag, not any kind of poison or trap, but instead an exact replica of Larry’s house and placed it on the ground. The exterminator gave a little tap on the wall and a little version of Larry squeezed out from under the skirting board and rushed into the little house. Little Larry locked the door of the little house. The exterminator packed his bag, told Larry not to let anything happen to little Larry and left.
Showing
Larry rubbed the bags under his bloodshot eyes and yawned. The bedroom whirred with the hum of devices and repetitive knocking travelled across the walls as the exterminator placed his ear against the plaster.
“Anything yet?” Larry said.
The exterminator lifted his head and kneeled to his duffel bag and began rummaging through it. “It’s an unusual one, but nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”
“And?”
The exterminator held up his finger and Larry clenched his jaw before it relaxed and slowly gaped as the exterminator carefully lifted a small house out of his bag. The tiny hedges under the windows, the brown front door with a silver door knocker, even the little brick chimney was chuffing with smoke, that’s my house, thought Larry. Placed carefully on the floor the exterminator zipped up his bag, gave a little knock on the wall and treaded slowly over to Larry.
“Watch.”
Larry stared, as a little hand peeked out from under the skirting, then an arm, followed by the rest of the body. Larry’s eyes were wide, and he stammered as he spoke.
“That’s me.”
“Yep. And you’d be well advised to keep little you safe and sound.”
Little Larry made quick glances at the men as he scampered across the wooden floorboards to the front door of the tiny house. His tiny breath was fast as he shuffled around his pocket, a tiny jingle and a tiny set of keys was hurried into the tiny door. Larry listened as the tiny door slammed shut and the tiny click of the lock echoed throughout the room. Larry opened his mouth but managed a quiet gasp.
“Right! Easy done. That’ll be $1,400, I’ll head out to the van and write you up a invoice.”
The sun shone through the windows of the old church onto the happy couple. Winston felt the warmth of Samantha’s hands as they stood before the priest. His heart pounding against his tuxedo shirt, he felt all the eyes of his family and friends beaming onto him from the pews. He glanced over to the other side of the room, where seats for Samantha’s family were reserved; all empty. A layer of sweat estranged the couples’ hands as he tried looking over at the bridesmaid, hoping to discern what was going on, but he hold eye contact with them, in his mind he was looking into their eyes but physically his own gaze was confused, darting over their form. He shook his head and returned to his fiancé, her eyes glowed as she smiled, she was divinity to him. His nerves calmed and the priest asked the final question.
I do.
I do.
The priest stood silent. Winston waited. Isn’t he supposed to tell me I can kiss the bride? He looked at the priest and gestured, raising his eyebrows.
Tears slipped down the priest’s cheeks as he spoke, trembling. “Isn’t there someone you forgot to ask?”
Winston furrowed his brow, a strange whirring became apparent. He couldn’t place it. It grew from all around them, like a siren growing louder and louder. A flash of anger came across Samantha’s face as she released his hands. She looked across the room and stood tall as if squaring something up. The stained glass windows rattled in their frames against the growing noise that was easily ten times the power of a fog horn or a nuclear siren. The guests shuffled about in a panic, some held their ears and wept. Winston thought he could see blood seeping out from their hands. He stabilized himself on a wooden mantle as the walls of the old church began to vibrate under the intensity of the noise and dust and tiny stones began crumbling. The ground shook violently and he felt his eyes bulging in their sockets. He looked over at his wife to be, still standing looking over the crowd when a force of air erupted throughout the building, throwing him onto the ground. As air whipped throughout the room, there was no longer a room. In a moment the walls were nothing more than tiny particles floating in the air, the guests no more than fetuses in their wombs on the ground of an endless blank desert, the priest a mere bible floating in the air among the woodchips that were once the stage he was standing on only moments before.
But the sound had stopped. Thank god.
He looked at his bride standing on the sand, seething with anger as a pair of scissors descended from the sky, a white ribbon attached fluttering as it did. Gold text upon it read, “Angels do not.”
Good evening, and welcome to the news.
An elderly man has been left confused after the discovery of a letter etched into a welding mask, he came across the strange mask on the shore of a California beach this morning during a stroll. Surprisingly, the letter seems to offer a rather interesting explanation to rising ocean levels and the sudden disappearance of the polar ice caps that left experts baffled. The letter contained the following:
December 25th, 2024
What was once an ocean of ice in the north pole was now reduced to just a plain old ocean. There’s a swirling red and white post jutting from one of the remaining blocks of ice as it bobs along the water. The aimless post once signified the very north of the whole world, and more than that, everyone knew that if you saw that post, Santa was sure to be nearby. And there he is, floating face down in the water; the current bumping his body up against the remaining blocks of ice. The water’s still cold enough to hold off the decomposition. The gulls will be at him soon enough, if what remains of the elves don’t get him first. They’d be hungry by now. Their home, the workshop, split into pieces as the ice ripped apart beneath them a few weeks ago. I’ve watched them huddle on small ice burgs, some have formed highly organised tribes, other groups have already cannibalised each other. I’m sure they taste like sweets or gingerbread or something of that whimsical nature.
Now you may be thinking; that bloody climate change, nobody listened to the experts, and this is what we get. And that is true to a degree. It was already melting by the time I arrived, no doubt. But I’m an impatient man, you see and I’m sick to death of hearing about “The icecaps melting.” So, I donned my welding mask and gloves, packed a blowtorch and bought a cruise ticket to the north pole. I just wanted to get it over with already. I voyaged all the way up here and managed to slip away onto the ice with an emergency life raft. I’m bloody hoping by the time I get back, all I hear on the TV is, “The icecaps have finally melted, so we can all stop talking about it now.”
I don’t think I will be making it back.
In my blowtorching, I got carried away– I even destroyed my stolen raft and even if anybody knew where I was, all the ships don’t know how to navigate this new iceless landscape. It’s never been mapped out; they may never find me. I’m just going to sit here next to this bloody pole with Santa’s corpse flapping about in the water for entertainment until I starve to death. I don’t even have the luxury of freezing to death because of what I’ve done.
My impatience has won me a slow death.