The stories here will be a mix of what is often called micro-fiction (less than 500 words) and flash fiction (less than a thousand).
THE BLOOD MOON
There was a blood moon that night. The scientists said it was the first blood moon for seventeen years.
It made her nervous, staring at that moon, and the big black cloud hovering above the horizon. It was dangerous and crazy, this meeting she’d set up. A man, a total stranger, someone who was nothing but text on her laptop screen. Down here by the lake, where the darkness was almost complete.
She glanced up at the sky. Ah, but she was Cancer the Crab, and her planet was the Moon, so she knew it would protect her. Just as it had protected her at the time of the last blood moon, when she was thirteen years old. As it seeped through the window onto her pillow and deadened her pain deep inside.
She watched the figure approach. His walk was stealthy. As he got closer, she could make out his features in the moonlight. He was younger than she’d expected. Forty years old, and flabby. Not much of a human being. A man she’d pass on the street a hundred times each day, and wonder if he might have been the one all those years ago.
She stepped out from the shadows of the trees. “Simon?”
He looked at her, confused. Then disappointed. “Suzie?”
“Yes, this is Suzie. The thirteen year old girl you’ve been grooming for the last six months.”
She felt the jolt of the blade as it cracked against one of his ribs.
Her hands were steeped in crimson in the moonlight. But the black cloud came and the blood moon was no more. She laughed. Yes, she was Cancer the Crab, and her planet was the Moon, so she’d known all along it would never betray her. She could slip away through the darkness, and no one would ever know.
THE IMPLANT
“An ice cream, please.” I pointed to the picture and the slogan. “A creamy, dreamy 99.”
The salesman smiled. “Would you like the Traditional or our new Super Implant?”
Well, being a modern, consumerist kind of guy, I naturally wanted both. I pushed my mobile screen against the machine. INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. So it had to be one or the other.
“If you opt for the implant, you’ll imagine you’re eating an ice cream when you’re not. It’s a very heart-friendly option,” the salesman helpfully explained.
I liked the idea of being able to eat ice cream without getting fat so I opted for the implant. Though I felt a little worried it might hurt. But just a tingle on my temple.
And at once an ice cream cone appeared in my hand, with a swirling spiral of shocking white gunk on the top, just like I used to have in Blackpool as a kid. But where was my chocolate flake? “Hey,” I said, “I want the full works. I want a creamy, dreamy 99.”
From somewhere came the purr of a woman’s voice. THAT WILL BE AN EXTRA FIVE DOLLARS. PLEASE AGREE TO ADD THIS ITEM TO YOUR BASKET.
By now my lips were watering. “I agree! I agree!”
And a chocolate flake landed plop in the middle of my ice cream, which was already melting over my fingers. I closed my eyes and licked them.
Oh no, please no. This wasn’t ice cream made from dairy cream: it was vegan, made from soy milk. I wanted creamy and dreamy, ice cream that tasted like it was clogging up my arteries and I’d pop my clogs on the spot. Or if not that, at least the mix of milk powder, chemicals and sugar that I used to get in Blackpool.
“I want full-fat cream,” I called out. The soft voice purred again. THAT WILL BE AN EXTRA TEN DOLLARS. PLEASE AGREE TO ADD THIS ITEM TO …
“I agree, I agree!” Then I waited. Nothing happened. I licked my fingers again. Still bland, still made from soy.
At last the voice replied. INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. PLEASE ADD MORE CREDIT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE YOUR PURCHASE.
“But I haven’t got more credit.” And I waited. And waited. For what seemed like an eternity.
Until the voice returned. INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. PLEASE ADD MORE CREDIT IN ORDER TO COMPLETE …
I hurried back to the store. “I want to exchange my new Super Implant for a Traditional. A real ice cream. A creamy, dreamy 99.”
The salesman smiled. “I’m afraid that implants are non-refundable,” he explained, less helpfully.
“But there are laws,” I spluttered, “Consumer protection.”
“You signed a contract. You ticked the Terms & Conditions. Implants are non-refundable. It’s in sub-clause 32a.”
Suddenly music burst aloud inside my head, an advertising jingle for a brand of soda. Decibels that could drown out a pneumatic drill.
“Oh my God, what’s that?”
The salesman gave me his most sincere smile. “It’s your notification, sir. You get a complimentary notification every fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t want it! Turn it off!”
“It’s a bonus to show our gratitude for your custom. It’s complimentary.”
To my relief, the advert came to an end. “You mean I’m going to get this thing blasting in my brain every fifteen minutes?”
“Until the contract expires in two years’ time,” the salesman beamed. “It’s in the Terms & Conditions. Sub-clause 37b.”
I looked him in the eye. “But all I wanted was an ice cream.”
“Then you should have gone to Blackpool.”
THE SNAKE
“Oh, not again,” he thought to himself. For four or five days, the security guards on the gate had shown him this snake in a jar.
“Cobra,” one of them said. “Delicious fried.”
He knew this was meant to shock him. “Oh, I ate snake on my holiday to China,” he replied, coolly. It wasn’t true, but it would take the wind from their sails.
The guard changed tack. “Or lizard nice. In a curry.”
“Where did you find it?” he asked. “On the complex?”
The guards pointed. “Over there, by the lake.”
He felt irritated to have to go through this ritual each day. He found it so childish. But that night he dreamed there was a snake hanging from the ceiling fan above his bed and it fell into his mouth and was sliding down his throat.
The next day, right on cue, they showed him the cobra again. He had a name by now: a white sticky label on the outside of the jar had christened him, ‘Ray’.
That night he had the same dream.
He started looking under the bed before he went to sleep to make sure the snake wasn’t there. He stopped opening the balcony door because there was a palm that hung over the terrace and maybe the snake could slither along one of its fronds and sneak into his apartment. He began to read about snakes. How in many cultures they were symbols of wisdom, not evil. The cycle of life and death – the snake eating its own tail.
Then one day the jar was empty.
“He escaped,” the guards explained.
“But he mustn’t. He’ll go to my apartment.”
They assumed he was joking and laughed, “Then, sir, you have cobra curry tonight.”
In his dream that night, the snake slid deep inside him. And began to eat him from inside.
A few days later, the guards used their pass key to let the police into the apartment. The neighbours had been complaining about a foul smell in the hallway. As they entered, they saw something slip away down one of the palm fronds on the balcony.
THE CHARLATAN
How she hated this fake clairvoyant, with her tent that reeked of incense. All the paraphernalia of her phoney trade: the turban of silver and gold, the crystal ball, the Tarot cards, the manufactured mystery and gloom. Yet every year for the past five years she had come to the Spring Fair and had her fortune told by this charlatan in her shabby heap of canvas.
Her fortune told by her rival, her successor.
She herself had never needed to descend to such cheap theatrics. Because her psychic skills were genuine and she’d been famous throughout the town. Then this fraud moved in with her box of tricks and slowly her clients trickled away. On the surface she maintained friendly relations with the newcomer, as two exponents of the paranormal supporting each other in the face of a disbelieving world. She knew how to put on a smile and hide the truth. But she’d only been biding her time.
Now that time had come. The astrological moment was right. All she had to do was steal something from her rival which she could take away and use to place a curse on her.
She cut the pack of Tarot into three, as she knew she would have to do. Years ago she’d had a magic act, so it was simplicity itself to palm a card. The charlatan was too engrossed in her fakery to notice.
She thanked the phoney psychic, smiled and left the tent, her secret prize cupped tightly in her hand.
She told herself she had no reason to feel guilty. It was wrong to use these gifts for evil purposes like this charlatan did. And anyway she didn’t even have a genuine gift, just a talent for cheating and lying. She deserved whatever she got.
She hurried past the man at the shooting stall, his row of ducks clunking left to right, his stuffed teddy bears contented on their shelves. He flashed her a suspicious look, as if he knew what was hidden tight inside her palm. Then she glanced across and saw a group of people had gathered around the charlatan’s tent. The fake psychic was standing outside and calling out to the other stall-holders.
She had to get away from there, and fast.
There was no one taking money at the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors. She slipped inside. She was safe. No one knew she was there and she could sneak away once everything had calmed down. She stared into the first mirror. She looked thin and gaunt as a skeleton. She hurried to the next. Her head was swollen and shiny, like an enormous plastic doll from one of the stalls. She stared at the circle of reflections all around her, each of them seeming to taunt her with its grin. She couldn’t bear to stay in that cell of shiny silver. She gripped her neck with her free hand and scurried out.
Right next to the Hall of Mirrors was the roller-coaster ride. She bowed her head in her chest to hide who she was and paid to take a seat in one of the cars. She clicked shut her safety belt and let out a sigh of relief as the ride shuddered to a start. Soon she was high in the sky, looking down at the fairground below, down at the silly little ants milling around. Then the passengers screamed as the roller-coaster plunged towards the earth.
As it cruised along the ground before starting to climb once more, she caught a glimpse of the strongman who challenged men to hit the hammer and ring the bell. Why was he there by the roller-coaster ride instead of next to his stall? Did they know she was on the ride and waiting for her below?
A wave of panic swept over her. She could let go of the card still tight in her palm and no one could ever prove that she had stolen it. But, no, she wouldn’t – she just couldn’t – let it go. She gripped it tighter. She’d waited so long for this moment, when the charlatan finally got her just desserts. But she couldn’t quell the nausea in her stomach. The roller-coaster swooped and the sickness leapt into her mouth.
The strongman was still there as her car passed by on the ground for a second time. She looked away to hide her face. She had to get off this ride and somehow sneak past him. But her car was already heading back up to the sky.
She unclipped her belt and stared down to try to see if the strongman was still there. She had to get off this thing, get off and run away. She looked at all those ants, those little people longing to know what the Fates had in store. The people who used to come to her before the charlatan arrived in town.
The roller-coaster plummeted one last time, but on this final swoop the screams came from the crowd on the ground below. A body had tumbled from one of the cars and smashed against the concrete. It lay there, a bundle of rags, a shattered voodoo doll.
Gripped tightly in its palm, a Tarot card. The strongman grabbed her fingers and forced them open. The card fell out. The Death card.
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