Cliven ran frantically through the streets. Where had Nogard gone?
If I were a baby zombie dragon, he asked himself, where would I go?
Before he could answer, he heard a whoosh, a shriek, and a giggle.
Nogard flew by overhead, trailing flames, carrying a pudgy six-year-old in a tiara.
“Grandmother, what big eyes you have!” said Little Red Riding Hood.
“The better to see you with, my dear,” said Grandmother.
“And what a big nose you have!”
“The better to smell you with, my dear.”
“And what big teeth!”
“Fusspots,” muttered Grandmother. “I put in your grandfather’s dentures again.”
The whispered words tiptoed from his lips and swarmed her mind, some filtered down into her subconscious and made themselves at home.
They lay dormant at first, but when they woke up they danced with her deepest fears…
He stole her silence and she would never forgive him for it.
This guest story comes from Honest, who loves to create, mostly with words, and hopes to inspire and be inspired. You can follow Honest on Twitter at http://twitter.com/Honestlyspeakin. Honest also wrote The Invisible Man.
I gave my dad a pair of socks for Fathers’ Day. They were gray and had a mouse face on them with whiskers sticking out from the toes.
They were a gag gift, but he wore them all day.
I also paid to reattach his toe after the cat incident.
It must have been a joke, Herbert decided. How could a letter opener cause a twenty-five percent fatality rate?
As Herbert closed his car door, there was a crash, followed by screaming. The parking lot erupted in green flame and Herbert’s car went tumbling through the air.
He passed out.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Herbert stopped. “Yes?”
“You forgot to take the complimentary safety manual for your new steel letter opener!”
“Don’t need it,” grumbled Herbert.
“The statistics beg to differ!” countered the cashier.
“Statistics?”
“Nearly twenty-five percent of letter opener injuries are fatal.”
Herbert rolled his eyes. “I’ll be careful.”
Herbert Cralston thought queues at office-supply stores were an insufferable, stress-fueled convening of frantic, Blackberry-wielding, over-caffeinated Deputy Thises and Assistant Thats with crooked ties and runs in their pantyhose, frequently all seeking to purchase the same object.
It made Herbert feel stabby; he bought a letter opener made of steel.
“Here it is, sir,” Herbert said, plunking a stapler down in front of a mahogany placard which was embossed with the name “Sir Dr. Willifred the Ninth VanDerGilder the Third, PhD, MA, MSc, BA, with an A-minus average since Grade 4.”
“I asked for a letter opener,” said the Boss.
“Cralston! Bring me a letter opener!”
Herbert Cralston blearily lifted his head, fished around inside his desk with one hand while haphazardly tucking his shirt in with the other, slipped on his leather shoes, then stood and wobbled into his boss’s office.
Too late, he realized he’d forgotten his socks.
He appeared out of the shadows. “Money,” he demanded, his knife cutting down the need for explanatory conversation.
Panicking, I explained I had no job, no life, and definitely no money. He apologised for bothering me and left.
I punched the air happily. The air took it like a man.
This week’s guest story comes from Jamie Middleton. He declined to attach a tagline or description of himself, which leads me to believe that he is either celebrity, a secret agent, or both. Rock on, Jamie!