Archive for the ‘Jonathan Wood’ Category
Oliver Twist and ZOMBIES
Thursday, October 29th, 2009
Oliver’s feet quaked. He felt the dead weight of of the other boys’ eyes upon him. In his cold clammy palm he held the short stick that he had drawn. His nerves were deadened as he lurched up the aisle, his empty bowl clutched in the other hand.
Mr Bumble, the beadle, looked down upon with disdain, as a gentleman might were he to find the rotting corpse of a mouse lurking in his salad.
“Yes, boy?” he said. “What is it, boy?”
“P-p-p-please, sir,” Oliver’s voice wavered.
“What is it, boy? Out with it boy!”
“P-p-please sir,” Oliver’s failing voice, hitched, paused, then continued, “may I have some more?”
“More?” roared Mr Bumble. “MORE?” He swelled with indignation. That a boy in his care, one with the good fortune to benefit from the graces of he, the Beadle, should ask for more, more than God Himself had seen fit to give the boy, why the thought angered him beyond all reason. He built up for one more explosive ejaculation of the word-
However, he got no further, for at that precise moment, the boys leaped up as one, fell upon his and feasted upon his brains.
THE END
Bad Business
Wednesday, October 14th, 2009
Business is bad in fairyland. Someone’s mixing iron filings with pixie dust and I can’t shift my stash for love nor money. Troll construction workers are rioting again too–renegotiating their contract they say. The only one’s hitting the street are the Sidhe union busters.
So, when the door’s kicked in, I’m a little bit taken aback. I’d pretty much written the night off. Sheckel’s already so strung out she’s summoning will-o-the-wisps to bring her bowls of cereal and I was thinking of indulging myself, except Sheck used up the last of the old stash and the new stuff is suspect due to aforementioned messed-up mixology.
But in the doorway are two trolls looking to unwind after an evening’s negotiations. One is holding his own broken horn in one hand.
“What can I do for you fine gents?”
“Want me to pluck your wings?” says one-horn.
“Fix you up shall I?”
“How much for the girl?” says the one who’s head is still mostly in tact, though what that counts for I don’t know.
“Who says we’re paying?” says the other. They both chuckle and snort.
I fill the baggies fast as I can while they circle Sheck. She’s giggling and they’re pulling at the sheets. I push back the shower curtain that hides my little shop and pretty much hurl the baggies at the troll’s heads. Both of them tear them open and inhale deeply.
Old one-horn sits down hard, eyes rolling. The other one grins, pulls on the power he just inhaled and a particularly large gun appears in his hand. Not his first trip apparently.
Still, pointing it at me is about as far as he gets. He’s already gray around the gills. His fingers shake and then freeze. He manages to roll his eyes to look at his comatose friend before even they seize up.
Then all I’ve got is two huge stone statues in my room. Turns out the new stash has been spiked after all.
#
Business stays bad. Spiked pixie dust stays on the streets. My stash stays unsellable.
On the other hand, though, turns out the stone Troll too market is booming. A rare commodity, I’m informed, highly valued by the Sidhe. So all in all things aren’t so bad for Sheck and me in fairyland.