Tag Archives: short story

Carpets

There are few things that go under the radar as much as carpets. This is a mistake on Humanities part, as the woven mass of the downtrodden will one day rise to destroy them.

In one parallel dimension very similar to ours, this happened two years ago. To travel there is to see a grim vision of the improbable future; carpets lying python-like in suspicious mounds, suffocated corpses gently decomposing beneath them. In the houses things are even more grim; tight wads block the doors and the last echoing screams defy physics to allow the appropriate suggestion of danger. Beedy woven eyes follow you wherever you go; and the slinking rustle is to the interdimentional tourist what the sound of a steamroller is to tarmac. Don’t take my word for it; go and see it for yourself. You’re guaranteed to be floored.

Severely Odd has also published stories on Amazon. Hint hint.

Growing Pains

Jack first noticed that he’d started growing when his head hit the ceiling. How he had managed to miss the fact that he had left a dent in the lintel he never worked out, but once he’d managed to solve the equally puzzling question of how to get out of the room he made his way to the doctor.

‘ In my professional opinion,’ the doctor said; ‘you are growing.’

‘But what’s causing it?’ Jack asked

‘That,’ said the doctor; ‘is a very good question. We’ll probably dissect you when you die to find out.’

This, Jack decided, wasn’t helpful; and so he decided to leave. ‘Watch the lintel!’ Cried the doctor.

The next week was torture for Jack, at least until he stopped hitting trees. After that milestone was reached his head no longer hurt from constant bangs, although the constant climbing attempts by lesser mortals were annoying. But with the absence of pain came a new worry: would it soon be replaced with an absence of oxygen as he reached ever greater heights? We’ll, we will never know, because three days after that thought first occured Jack died, having been hacked down by an urchin who was being pursued by a giant of the fee-fo-fum variety. Luckily he had left his body to science; but all they learnt upon autopsy was that he had had a fondness for beans.

Hats

There are times when you don’t want to have to worry about what is on your head. One of these times is when trekking through the endless desert of South Musenland. There the preditors swoop down from above and scoop out the brains of their prey with sharp spoon-like claws, but that is not what we speak about here. Our tale takes place in the urban settings of Goo, in North Musenland. Here, a man with a hat strides into a club, and despite the exhortations of the butler, refuses to remove his hat. No amount of pleading can induce him to remove it, and he is eventually allowed to retain it. This departure from the strict rules of half a century is only counternanced due to his being the Prime Minister; a man whose exploits in the southern wastelands are only overshadowed by his reputation as a thinker. And indeed, if people had known, these two things were the cause of his hat habit; for his reputation for the latter could only be undermined by the legacy of the former: the hollow scoop of his egg-cup skull.

Vampire Cats

They came at night, when all was dark. Sleek, vicious shapes, teeth sharp and claws brights under the thin light of a watery moon; the unearthly howls of the wolves echoing throughout the village. Terry hated them almost as much as he hated his name, which was pretty rubbish for a Transylvanian. But it was the vampire cats that he hated more; the way they shrieked their song, the way they pounced on the unwary, and the way they left dead songbirds everywhere meant that Terry was determined to stop the scourge once and for all, and so he sat now in the early evening, waiting for what he knew would come. And then, as the last of the people in the village hurried home and piled the furniture and most expendable children against the door as a barricade, Terry lifted his butterfly net and brought it down hard. When he brought it up again a bat was struggling within.

‘Why?!’ it said.

‘Because I want to speak to you, Terry  replied.

‘So phone!’ said the bat; ‘You do this every time! It’s ridiculous!’

‘You never answer the phone,’ Terry said, twisting the net so the Bat could fly free, which it did before flapping so that it hovered opposite him at head height. ‘I want to know why the cats are turning  undead again. The Count promised last time.’

‘The Count also promised not to eat anyone,’ the bat pointed out.

‘But he didn’t eat anyone,’ Terry replied. ‘It’s strictly drinking with him. ‘

The bat looked at him with an apologetic air and shrugged its wings as if to say ‘can’t do anything about it.’ Terry sighed, and took up his stick. It was time to visit the castle again.

The castle was big, and forbidding, and foreboding, and generally loomed. It also gave off the distinct impression that it was trying too hard. Terry found the way annoying; mainly as he had to shoot half a dozen vampire cats with a crossbow that fired silver quarrels. This did not slow him down for long though, and soon he came before the door, barred and solid as the night was black. He knocked, and the door fell over.

‘What is it now?’ boomed a voice.

‘I’ve come to complain about the cats,’ Terry said.

‘And you had to knock over the door?’ Terry found himself feeling defensive.

‘I just knocked,’ he said as he skewered a cat sneaking up behind him with an over-shoulder shot. ‘And I’ts about these damn cats. You promised you’d not have any more.’

The count appeared before him in a flash.

‘Vampire cats?’ he asked; ‘again?’

‘Yes,’ Terry said; ‘are you going to tell me you didn’t make them? Because you’re the only one who does that sort of thing.’

The count looked guilty.

‘We’ll, I didn’t; I mean, not quite. you see’ –

He broke off abruptly, staring down.

‘Well?’ prompted Terry, as the Count looked wretched.

‘I think I know where they came from.’ he siad, and Terry glared at him.

‘What did you do?’ he said, and suddenly two things happened;  he felt a sharp pain in his ankle and the Count said in a guilty rush:

‘I may have made vampire mice.’

More odd stories and absurdist fiction by Severley Odd can be found on Amazon

Lollipop

via Daily Prompt: Lollipop

It was a small lollipop, and it felt this keenly. All the larger lollipops looked down on it (even those on lower shelves), and none of the boiled sweets would even glance its way. The sweet-shop owner -a tall, pale man with fang-like teeth and eyes of fire – often picked it up and examined it before making sad tutting noises. And it seemed that that would be all its existence consisted of, until The Day.

The Day, as the lollipop always though of it, was the  day a customer came in to the store. This was an event that had not happened since the shop had formed after a freak accident involving a sugar-factory explosion and a very surprised forest, and so a low murmuring broke out amongst the various sentient treats, which were in the majority; only some toffees and a gingerbread man with a theoretically dry sense of humour lacking a sense of self. The sweet-shop owner, quite unnerved at the prospect of a sale, combusted  rather than have to face awkward questions like ‘how much is that?’, and so it was left to the sweets themselves to do the serving. Sadly, the customer did not seem to be in the mood to talk to any snacks, unique or not, and decided to serve himself. And he picked up, much to its immeasurable pride and the unending envy of the rest, our lollipop. And as he did so it decided that this was The Day, the day where it All Got Better.

And then the customer put it in his mouth.

It was a very short-lived triumph.

Severely Odd is a writer of odd fiction; more of his work can be found on Amazon

Autumn Falls

You would expect that Autumn personified would be a red-head. Sadly, at least in this reality this was not strictly the case; true a few wisps of reddish-brown hair clung to his head like a shipwrecked sailor to a domed desert-island, but most of it had fallen out. If you understand how things work this would not surprise you. But this coldish and dampish day Autumn has more to worry about than the fact he is follicly challenged; for he had heard that Winter, fed up with being last of the Four Seasons, has decided to come and slay his precursor act, and has a sword of the sharpest frost. A decomposing leaf offers little by way of opposition.

And so Autumn has retreated into his gloomy and damp castle to take stock and devise a plan which will save his skin, and spends the evenings in a foul mood. However it is not possible to spend to long facing the prospect of imminent termination without either having an idea or going mad, and as he strongly suspected he already was the latter, Autumn did the former.

Two days later, Winter arrived at Autumns castle, and was greeted by a very fat man.

‘Have you seen Autumn?’

The voice was icy.

‘Yes,’ the man replied with a grin. ‘I have.’

‘Where is he?’ came the demand in a voice full of frost; ‘and who are you?’

‘I’m a travel agent,’ the man replied with a grin, ‘and he’s gone on holiday. You can go there to if you like; I’ve got a vacancy in about three months.’

‘I’ll take it,’ replied the cold one, and this explains a lot.

Sea-life

Some things are more than strange. They are bizarre, that most wonderful of words that makes the hard of hearing reach for their shopping-bags, and nets a decent score in scrabble. And one of these things was the planet of Gooman-Gusht, a small planet circling an unimportant star near the intergalactic drop-off point in the milky way.

The planet’s bizarreness manifested itself in many ways, from the native Squeegons, intelligent spongiforms who did little besides hang around gossiping as they filter their food out of the warm purple seas that circle the planet’s landmasses. The Squeegons never went to war, always got on, and were perfectly tempered; sure signs of something having gone horribly, horribly wrong somewhere. The planet had actually been invaded four hundred times, but since each successive invader had been a land-dweller this did not bother them unduly, although the bits of bodies falling in the sea as the varying armies hacked each other to bits was mildly discomforting. Still, the leading Squeegons maintained that at least they learnt a lot about biology that way, even if they were not quite sure how you pieced them all together.

It took a long time for mankind to get to Gooman-Gusht, mainly because it was a very long walk , but when they did they studied the Squeegons extensively, much to the latter’s displeasure. In the end though, they only learnt one thing from them- that the sea of knowledge is highly overrated. Especially if you don’t know how all the bits fit together.

To read more of Severely Odd’s stories please visit Amazon