Your Grandmother lived in this blocked of flats with no elevator, and when she turned sixty your mum tried to make her move out. She stood there, biscuit tin in hand, holding a photo of your Granddad as if your mum was a demon and he was the bible. ‘This is my home!’ she said, and in the end your mother gave up. We cheered. Back then it was easy to side with the little old lady who told us stories and fed us cake. We didn’t see the grizzly side of getting old. That bit sneaks up on you.
‘A calculated risk,’ he assured me. Then popped three of his knuckles on his right hand and spat his gum into the bin next to the desk. He leaned back and watched his three screens, smiling softly. My husband occupied the middle one. Dirty and oil stained. Ex-husband? I wondered.
“You know what they say!” Phil grinned, edging his toes closer to the edge. “If at first you don’t succeed-” “Not again Phil!” Lilith snapped. “This is literally the definition of insanity.” “Maybe,” Phil shrugged. “Or it might work.” “You’ll die… Again.” “Or I’ll fly!” “No Phil. You’ll go splat.”
Have you ever seen the Spider Fairies? No, I suppose you haven’t. They slink about about on winter mornings just before the frost has time to melt, spinning the frozen spiders’ silk into balls of yarn to take back to their hidden homes. There they weave window frames and doors. You see, only frozen spiders’ silk can hold magic properly, if a fairy enchants anything else the power ebbs away until all that is left is the ordinary. Spiders’ silk however holds onto magic and so they use it to make their homes. To keep the humans from peeping in.
“You want me to build what?” Edwin spluttered, his voice bouncing off the open bonnet above him. Leaving his wrench on the engine he pulled himself upright and glared at the woman currently standing in his workshop. “I am not getting started with that crap again.” “Come on Eddie” pleaded Melissa, “Just one.” “No,” said Edwin. “Last time I charmed something for you Rome burned, and I mean literally.” “So I was a rebel teenager,” shrugged Melissa. “For five-hundred years?” “I mature slowly, but I swear I’ll behave myself this time!” “No Mel, it’s over. I’m not your witch anymore.”
“Swords!” panted Natalia, hands wrapped around her kneecaps and hunched in over herself. “Who the hell comes after a person with swords.” “I think it was a Scottish claymore,” said Michael. “Fifteenth century and in really good nick by the looks of it.” “I think you’re missing the bit where the chick with the pink Mohawk tried to take your head off.” “She had a good swing. I’ll give her that.” “HEAD! NECK! NEAR DECAPITATION!” spat Natalia! “Do I really need to repeat myself?” “Well at least it wasn’t machine guns this time and you were rather good holding your own against her,” Michael shrugged. “I had a piece of lead piping!” Natalia spat. “She nearly killed me!” “But we got the hard drive,” he pointed out. “Which crazy chick sliced in half with her sword before we took her down,” said Natalia dryly. “More like a third and two thirds.” “Same difference. It’s useless.” Natalia straightened up and stretched, popping her joints loudly and scowled when the muscles in her arms protested. “I really …
Eleanor Fallaway knew very little about art. What she did know was how to lie to a very convincing level.“Well,” said her boss, making his way around the empty podiums stationed throughout his museum. “It’s certainly interesting.”“It’s exactly what’s needed to launch ourselves into this previously untapped market,” Eleanor grinned, “A real head-turner. Did you know that ninety percent of teenagers don’t even know that art museums still exist!”“Really?” Her boss’s eyes widened. “You don’t say?”“Oh I do!” Eleanor nodded enthusiastically. “And this will bring them in will it?” he asked, gazing at the podium critically.“When the models are installed they will come flocking,” she assured him.“Flocking?”“Flocking!”“Good,” he said, turning to walk back to his office. “Oh, by the way,” he paused and glanced back. “What was it called again?”“The extraordinary within the ordinary,” Eleanor replied.“Hum,” nodded her boss. “Original.”
At ninety-five, Margery Yolk was pretty sure that she had made every wish that could be required in life. She let someone else see to the door, the steady stream of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren parading into her little bungalow in Ipswich, hugs and good wishes in hand. She kept to her armchair and wondered if perhaps she should have at least attempted to find her false teeth for this occasion… When the cake came she smiled, beckoning the youngest in close to blow out the candles for her. “You can have my wish,” she whispered.