Showing posts from October, 2021

Tiny Tales of Terror: Rockpool

 My sister scours the rockpools at dusk just as the sun makes its evening journey over the horizon. She is barefoot, her long, straggly hair draping over the back of her t-shirt and skimming the waist of her shorts. She is searching for crabs or tiny fish left behind by the tide. I do not see her face, or the fear I imagine flashes through her eyes as she stumbles. Her head makes contact with a jagged rock and plunges face-first into cold salty water. I stay by my window. By the time I have run down to save her, I know she will already be dead, and as I reach the edge of the  rockpools, her ghost will have faded away. 

Tiny Tales of Terror - The Chalkboard

  Hey, Marlon, did you write on my board again? I told you it's only for groceries.'  'No, Mum.' I rubbed it out, certain that Marlon was fibbing. The chalkboard hung on high on the wall by the fridge, and I didn't want him to keep climbing on the barstool to reach it. I rubbed out the stupid message - "GET OUT" and thought no more about it- at least, until the next day, when I saw another message written - "Get out now!" 'Marlon,' I said. 'I told you. If you keep on scrawling on it, I'll take away your PlayStation. It's not your board.' I hid the chalk at the back of the kitchen drawer, but I thought Marlon must have found and hung it back up because, on the third day, the message said, "Beware - it will kill you," Only this time the writing was all flowery and ornate, nothing like my Marlon's. I tore the board down and threw it in the trash can. I thought that would be the end of it, but when I came int

Tiny Tales of Terror: The High Chair

I open up 'the Daisy Chain' each morning at 9am and it takes about an hour to clean before the chefs come in. The cafe caters for yummy mummies and ladies who lunch - you know the type. Before I started, it was known as 'Jennys.' It closed and rebranded, but still sold dishes I could never afford. I used to zip around with the hoover in no time, but now the customer numbers are growing and so is their rubbish. Anyway, I go in one morning and there's this highchair thrown down in the middle of the restaurant. So I blame Nicky, the night cleaner. Next day, the same thing has happened again, and on the third day, the highchair is up on one of the tables. A week later and it's still moving around the cafe and I'm sick of it. I call Nicky and he tells me 'Get rid of that goddamn highchair. A year ago, a little kid choked to death in the restaurant, and that's why they renamed it the Daisy Chain.'

Tiny tales of terror - The clown

No one wants a clown anymore - too creepy, too scary. Only you were stupid enough to love them. You see, I remembered that hideous bedroom of yours. All those ornaments and Pierrot dolls. My first date gift to you -  a trip to the circus. How you laughed at their pathetic tomfoolery. Then you dumped me for that boy in the Sixth Form. But I bided my time and stalked you on Facebook. I think you'd even forgotten you'd friended me. I saw your post 'Does anyone know a clown for a party? I told my friend Helen, and she told you. Of course, you didn't recognise me when I turned up on your doorstep.  'Hello there, it's Bobo, the clown. Do you like the flower on my lapel? No -  it won't squirt you in the eyes. Come closer. There's no water in this flower.'  And there wasn't. The flower sprayed liquid of a different kind.

The Ravenmaster

  As a child, the steely gaze of the raven fascinated Mark Taylor. Heading home on warm summer evenings, he’d often stumble upon the shredded remains of a raven’s supper, strewn across the path like grisly confetti. With morbid fascination, he’d crouch down and inspect the tiny beaks and tails and claws while the birds serenaded him from the treetops. As a man, Mark’s passion for ornithology and his exemplary war record formed the necessary steppingstones to the Tower of London. On his 50 th  birthday, he proudly accepted the role of Ravenmaster, servant to the Queen and guardian of eight extraordinary birds. It is said that if the ravens ever leave the Tower, the British monarchy will fall. However, Mark remained sceptical of this and all other superstitions. Perhaps this was why he ignored the protests of his colleagues and named his newest raven Margaret, after Lady Margaret Pole. This poor old lady joined a long line of unfortunates who died in agony during the Tower’s dark and blo

A Nasty Supper

An invitation to dine with Mr S.K. They said not to go, but I went anyway. We sat down for supper, a soiree for two How did I know we were going to eat Hugh?! The starter was liver and eyeballs on toast. He said, 'Don't eat too much now, save room for the Roast.' The meatloaf was feet-loaf, the pancakes were skin, The blood sauce exquisite with fingers dipped in. The leg was delicious and almost like pork, Garnished with ten toes to spear with a fork. I felt rather full and very well fed 'Will there be afters?' I greedily said. My host said 'It's special, a frozen dessert Climb into this freezer, it won't really hurt.' 'Hmm, no thanks,' I said. 'I'll give pudding a miss, I'll finish my ear and be off after this.'  Too late came my plea, too feeble my cry, Destined to end in a sugary pie. Oh, Mr S.K. - why did you kill me? It's not nice to eat guests when they come round for tea.