strangelittlestories

[strangelittlestories]

Due to a recent encounter, I have been thinking about boundaries and friendships and dating.

And, because I’m me, I’m thinking about this through the lens of stories.

It makes me want, more than usual (which is already a lot), to be like a fae.

I want the rules to be written in books and taught to children in rhymes. I want the knowledge to be a warning.

I want all the tricks and traps to be spoken aloud. I want all the spikes to be worn on the outside.

I want to know that if you consume more than I offer, that there will be consequences

I want you to remember to *ask* if what you take is freely given. I want you to *need* to ask.

I want you to wear cold iron in a bottle round your neck and when you break it I know all treaties we’ve made are null and void.

I would like you to be able to hang a horseshoe on the door and know that you are safe.

I want to know that if the time comes that I must leave all I have to do is find my selkie skin, regrow my tail and swim away.

#shower thoughts #poetry #writing #this is a post in the same tumblr format I use most of the time when I have something on my mind and I don't want to squander the moment #fae #fairy tales

[strangelittlestories]

“Has anyone seen Bells?” Asked Queen Aisha of the Bloody Republic.

“The court jester?” Replied Monarch Estragon of the Everflowering Forest.

“Jest her? I hardly know her.” Quipped Aisha. Estragon groaned. “But seriously, yes, she’s gone missing and I need to find her before we all kill each other.”

Aisha paused, then added.

“And there is also a separate matter, a very serious matter, which I need to discuss with her.”

---

In the parliament of royalty, comedy was no laughing matter. Every nation of the world sent their king, queen or monarch to represent them; almost nowhere else could you find such an incredible concentration of power. Whether inherited, proclaimed or elected, every royal who was worth talking about was there.

And where there were royals worth talking about, you had best believe that you would also find a jester.

And not just any jester, but *the* jester. The winner of the grand satirical tourney. The mirthster with the sharpest wit, the most dextrous contortions of mind and body, and the constitution to withstand immense pressure and inevitable poisonings.

The current jester, known only as ‘The Bells That Herald Ruin’, would often claim to be the single most important person out of all the assembled political powerhouses. Only she was not bound by the shackles of diplomacy. Only she could speak the truth in that house of lies, damned lies and hubristics.

And she was currently lying facedown in the gutter.

---

“C’mon.” Queen Aisha said, lifting the bloody jester up off the floor. “It’s time to court.”

“Right, yeah…” The Bells That Herald Ruin mumbled through a mouthful of blood, whiskey and teeth, none of which she was sure were her own. “I’m the most imp’tant p’son there…y’know?”

“Oh, no. You can’t see the royals in this condition.” The Queen carefully wiped some blood off of the jester’s brow.

“You should see the other guys- demons- … fuckos.” The Bells That Herald Ruin abandoned her attempt to catergorise the entities with which she’d been brawling. She decided, instead, to concentrate on nestling as closely as possible into the crook of Queen Aisha’s shoulder.

“I could hardly miss them.” Aisha said as she stepped carefully over one of the other groaning and bloody bodies in the gutter. 

“So why’d you say it’s time for court if’n we’re not going … court?”

Queen Aisha took a moment to judge the jester’s level of injury and inebriation. She bit her lip.

“I said it’s time *to* court. As in, I’m about to start courting your ass.”

“You … you would court the court jester? Double court? Court squared?”

“We’ll start with coffee, doofus. And when you’re recovered, I’ll take you out on a date.”

“I’ll wear my jangliest hat.”

“...please don’t.”

#microfiction #writing #flash fiction #short story #pun #puns #puns puns and statistics #writeblr #wtwcommunity

[strangelittlestories]

My last manager once coined the phrase ‘bare maximum’ to describe the amount of work our team had been doing.

And I kind of love it?

Like, the oxymoron of bare (as in sparse/empty) with maximum? Very pleasing.

The added layer that bare is British slang for ‘lots’? Enjoyable wordplay.

But also just the logical meaning of the phrase: “I am doing the bare maximum”.

E.g. “I am doing the absolute smallest amount of all the things. I have piled the truly tiniest quantity of total excess onto my comically undersized plate. I am utterly overburdened in the most controlled way possible.”

I can imagine a vampire/revenant/lich saying: “I am greedy for life … in moderation.”

Or a fairytale curse or prophecy telling a queen: “And the world will render unto you the smallest slice of every iota of creation.”

‘Bare maximum’ is, if I’m being honest, kinda how I live my life.

To quote the great Swedish hip-hop act Henry Bowers: “All I ever wanted was a little bit of everything.”

#shower thoughts #wordplay

[strangelittlestories]

Tag yourself.

I'm the fucko who found out they were a goblin by wandering into a goblin convention and getting called out by the narrator

Number of Goblins, ranked

One Goblin - That's just a goblin. He's probably just getting his groceries or something. Leave him alone, you asshole.

Ten Goblins -- That's a fairly normal amount of goblins. There's generally around ten goblins in any given situations. They're just here for aesthetic, so you know it's a fantasy world. Remember to tip them when you leave.

One Hundred Goblins -- Ok this is too many goblins, but this is a reasonable amount of too many goblins. Like, this is maybe an army of goblins or something? My point is that they're probably here for a good reason. Best not to mess with them, they're likely load-bearing in some way.

One Thousand Goblins -- This is probably a goblin town, in which case this is really more a case of One Human, which is a completely different list only available on goblintube. If not, all these goblins are lost. Return them to the goblin town. The orcs are worried.

One Million Goblins -- A million goblins? I'm not sure I've even seen a million things in my life , and now there's a million goblins? That's, like, all the goblins. Why are you at a convention of all the goblins? Are you a goblin? Actually, no, that would make sense. Yeah, that's probably what's going on here. Sorry you had to find out this way.

One Billion Goblins -- Ok, look, at this point you have clearly been sent to a future time where humanity is extinct and goblins have inherited the earth. I can think of no other explanation for a billion goblins. This sadly means that you're the weirdo, and you have to go be a cryptid now. At least you can find a phone and read the goblin creepypastas about you.

One Trillion Goblins -- How? What is happening? This is more goblins then there are birds, and they'll all in your house? How is your house this big? Wait, forget the goblins, how is your house this big? Are the goblins here to guillotine you? Probably! Move out of your stupid mansion and let the goblins have it, you weird rich bird-hoarding freak.

One Quadrillion Goblins -- One quadrillion? I'm only like 80% sure that's even a real number! Luckily, you won't have to deal with a quadrillion goblins for long, because soon they'll collapse together under their gravity, forming a far more manageable single planet-sized goblin. Picard's not gonna be happy about this one!

More Goblins -- Fuck off, you do not have more then a quadrillion goblins. Why are you lying? Are you worried I won't like you if you don't claim to have an implausible number of goblins? Don't worry. Your worth is not dependent on your goblin numbers. Go back to the actual number of goblins secure in the fact I love you, no matter how few goblins you have <3

#these are all the correct number of goblins

[strangelittlestories]

If that year’s winter had not been cold enough to crack the air, or if it had not overstayed its welcome like a troublesome relative, then the village never would have called upon the woman with all the skulls.

But the warmth came late and, worse, when it did it brought the sickly sweet smell of blight on the wind. The people tried to hope it away, but it clung in their nostrils, the ghost of future hunger pains.

When spring finally limped into view, the first long-term crops emerged shrunken and sickly. Barely thawed earth was dug up to reveal blackened roots beneath. The farmers toiled to get their first plantings of the spring in the earth, but a second snap of frost killed their progress and many of the seeds.

So, with a hard and hungry year promised, Evelyn (the village librarian) volunteered to make the journey to the Tower of Skulls and Soot.

Evelyn was no fool. She took all reasonable precautions. She brought gifts: a small jar of her own baby teeth, saved by her parents in case she ever saw such desperate times; and a parcel of old poetry books that no-one ever checked out as they were long past the fashion. 

She took protection too: from beneath the library’s floorboards she excavated the Quiet Stone, a worn piece of marble that resonated with all the silent moments of revery that echoed above it. With it, she could take any place she travelled to into a library. She also brought a knife (because some people didn’t respect libraries).

When she reached the tower, she was struck by its strange appearance; the impossibly elongated femurs and humeruses of its pillars; the lightning blackened spire; the hanging baskets of death-pale flowers. Inside herself, she noticed a new feeling squirm at the sight and it was … not unpleasant. She gulped and raised a hand to the jawbone knocker on the front door.

The door creaked open, revealing a light and airy corridor - totally empty. Most people would have asked, in a similar situation: well, who opened the door? Evelyn was left wondering: how on earth does a hinge made of cartilage creak?

Soft whispers coming from nowhere and everywhere guided Evelyn through the hallways and winding stairs (mostly made of stone, but with some bone accents). The way was lit by skulls mounted on the walls, with small patches of glowing fungus growing from their mouths. Eventually, the gentle susurrus guided her to a solar near the top of the tower. 

Evelyn had never been in a solar before, but had read descriptions in books and had always thought they sounded most elegant and sophisticated. She was glad to see she was correct, as this room was spacious but not gaping, well appointed but not gaudy, and comfortable but not too cosy. It was filled by crisp morning sunlight that spilled through a huge window that took up the entirety of the east wall.

Sitting by the fireplace was the lady with all the skulls. She rested on a chair with a frame built from the skeleton of some fierce and hunched creature, but filled in with plentiful soft cushions. She wore a sleek robe of pure white; it looked soft.

“Greetings, fell mistress. I bring you a gift of-” Evelyn began confidently, before tripping over the final step.

The jar of teeth went flying from her hands and shattered on the floor. Molars and broken glass covered the floor.

“Well, that’s certainly an improvement on pitchforks and flaming torches.” The lady’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly. “But your aim certainly needs work.”

She flicked a finger in the direction of the teeth, which transformed immediately into a dozen tiny creatures that began to gobble up the glass. They were like a cross between cats, ferrets and tiny dragons. The shards went crunch in their teeth (Evelyn’s *teeth* had *teeth*).

“I, uh, also brought poetry.” Evelyn held out the books. “It’s quite old, I’m afraid. But I like it.”

“A poorly flung tooth grenade *and* classic poetry?” An eyebrow was arched. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to assassinate me or court me.”

Evelyn blushed.

“If I might ask-”

The lady waved a hand.

“I already know what’s on your mind. And yes, I will raise your village’s crops from the dead.”

“Actually,” Evelyn continued to blush, “I was going to ask you where you got those robes. People in towers - especially with so many skulls - always seem to have robes. And I’m sure no-one nearby makes them. At least, not ones so fine as that.”

The lady looked at Evelyn properly for the first time. Once more, Evelyn felt that strange squirming sensation and again realised that she didn’t mind it.

“I keep a small colony of zombie silkworms. They’re picky eaters, mind, but they do make the most delicate threads.” She paused, noticing something in Evelyn’s eyes. “I could gift you some, if you like.”

“Um…”

“Now come on, let’s get to your village before they think I’ve eaten you or harvested your clavicle or some nonsense.” She rose. “I swear, folks may think all the skulls are a *bit much*, but … when the killing winter comes, they remember they need a necromancer.”

---

With thanks to Character of the Month member Ellie Williams for the character of Evelyn.

Want to join the Character of the Month club and suggest character pitches for my stories? Support me at £10/month on Ko-Fi! https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #wtwcommunity #writeblr #creative writing #character of the month club

[strangelittlestories]

There came a day when there were two mortals, one beloved by Dyonisus and another by Hermes, who fell in love.

They decided that, when they were wed, they wanted to both be united in worship of the same deity. However, they could not find a fair way to decide which.

So, on their wedding day, they communed with their gods. They did this by consuming a quite astonishing amount of mind-altering substances.

(This went largely unremarked upon by the guests of their tastefully rustic ceremony, as they did so during the photos. Thus, everyone was busy with Instagram and/or fistfighting that one uncle who had really had it coming.)

Being quite thoroughly stoned - to the degree that they were not only *out* of their gourds but that if you asked the gourds about them then the gourds would have denied them three times - their consciousnesses drifted up into the firmament to walk upon Olympus.

Hermes and Dyonisus agreed that they would settle this in a game of poker.

The couple nodded and smiled beatifically, happy to be valued so highly as to be chips in a cosmic game (also, snacks were provided, which was a real win).

The two deities locked eyes over the poker table, their two drugged up devotees between them.

"Well, I think we can agree on one thing." Said Hermes, stuffing cards up his sleeves.

"Oh yes." replied Dionysus, as he spiked Hermes' ambrosia.

"The stakes have never been higher."

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #feghoot #puns #mythology #dyonisus #hermes #Dionysus

[strangelittlestories]

Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.

#for reference #saving for later #tumblr folk tales #for my own reference

[strangelittlestories]

This NPR interview with with Angela Saini about how race science never really left the global scientific consciousness is super interesting! I’m gonna read her book!

[strangelittlestories]

A little late on my monthly update post (apologies). A few bits and reminders:

1) If you're a member of one of the Strange Little Clubs on Ko-Fi, please fill in the prompt form for this month: https://forms.gle/U7crPCGVGLKwaXCR8

2) If you'd like to join one of the clubs (or support me with a one-off donation), then you can do so on Ko-Fi. I'm currently job-hunting, so now is a *very* good time to buy me a coffee! https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

3) I'm in the process of trying to get my old wordpress site fit for purpose again. So expect new stories to also be posted here, with helpful catergories to filter by (got a little catching up to do this month): https://strangelilstories.wordpress.com/

4) This month's fun monthly admin fact: I played my first competitive game of Roller Derby last month and it was very fun.

#strange little clubs #monthly update #writing admin #strange little update

[strangelittlestories]

Eos emerged from the pool and stretched and his spine cracked with a hundred years of spent tension.

“Sounds like you needed that.” Said Nyssa, who had been sitting by the pool, waiting.

Eos took in their surroundings for the first time. The two of them were in a cave, lit by a seam of glowing mushrooms overhead. The water reached up to Eos’s waist; the pool was black as space and just as cold. Strangely, they didn’t shiver. The cold was just a curiosity.

The water did not rippled as Eos walked towards its edge. Reflected in the pool’s perfect obsidian surface were Eos, Nyssa, and the fungal bioluminescence which turned the dark water into a cosmos. 

“I’m sorry … who are you?” Asked Eos, as they clambered up onto the rough rock floor. “For that matter, who am I?”

“You’re Eos. I’m Nyssa.” She smiled and her smile told a story of grief and mischief. “And this is Stinger.”

For the first time, Eos noticed the creature sitting in Nyssa’s lap. It was somewhere between a hedgehog, a badger, a wolverine and patch of weeds, with green leaves and barbs sticking up like fur.

“How did I get here?”

“We came in together. We were in a bit of a state, apparently. Your soul must have been more ragged than mine, as I crawled out a couple of days ago.”

“I remember fire like old rot. The face of a god carved in the wind.” Eos winced at the memory, like picking at scars on their brain. “And pain. Lots of pain.”

“Yeah, whatever did this to us tore our bodies to shredded hell. Nearly took our spirits with us.”

“You remember?”

“No. Stinger told me.” Nyssa stroked the creature, careful to only touch the soft underside of her leaves. “She’s a nettle possum. My familiar. It pays to keep some of your memories on the outside, apparently. The pool wipes them clean, otherwise.”

Eos started walking towards the tunnel at the back of the cave. Their legs wobbled like a drunken heron.

“We have to get back…”

Nyssa reached over to grab one of Eos’s ankles and they teetered for a moment, before grabbing onto the cave wall.

“Nothing to go back to. It’s been, oh, at least a full generation for the pool to restore us.”

The remaining strength in their legs gave out and Eos sat down hard on the floor.

“Then…”

“The world outside is what it is.” Nyssa shrugged and the shrug was the whole world. “For now, we have one job.”

“What’s that?”

“We teach each other who we are. Again.”

“How? My head feels ... unmapped. All my memories just roads leading I don't know where.”

“Well, they say the past is foreign country.” Nyssa smiled that sad menace smile again. “But there is no border a witch can’t hop if she really needs to…”

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #wtwcommunity #rebirth #friendship #tabula rasa

[strangelittlestories]

The first time he saw a sponsors' billboard at a music festival, Dionysus threw up on the ground.

He stood there for a moment, transfixed by the swirls of bile and wine and other glittering substances that fizzed and smoked against the earth.

He stared at the augury spelled out by his godly fluids and his eyes were wide as shotguns.

"D?" One of his followers had noticed that this was more than the usual moment of revery that followed revelry. She looked at his eyes. She gasped.

His followers had seen him horrified on many occasions. There were times, after all, when he had seen something awful and needed to be cradled to sleep like a child. Often, they were awful things that he had *done*. They had come to learn that his rages were just as beautiful as his sorrows - these were the times he was his most alien and his most vulnerable.

But this was the first time they had seen him *scared*.

"D, are you ok? Do you ... do you need a drink?" His expression was like a warning sign in a foreign language. "Do you want me to hold you?"

"What is this doing in my temple?" They had never heard his voice so level, so drained of music.

"That? It's just a beer company, D. They pay the festival to put the branding up..."

"Oh, it's not a brand, dearest." D clicked his finger and this particular follower - he thought her name was April, or maybe May or September, a month of some kind at least - fell to the ground, her body spasming in what could have been pain or pleasure but was most definitely ecstacy. "It's a *muzzle*."

Then Dionysus walked away into the forest, never once looking back at the revellers he left behind.

The press speculated on his disappearance, but never found anything concrete to say, just endless waves of speculation. Most of his followers moved on to worship other gods or celebrities, following the party scene.

Tuesday - the girl who had noticed D's fear and whose name he had very nearly remembered - left the scene entirely and became a computer programmer. Many of her employers have commented, over the years, on the vines that occasionally grow out of the servers wherever she works. But they always stopped asking questions when she fixed her eyes on them with that whipcrack of drunken intensity.

When asked what had happened to D, she would only say "he's coming back".

When the 8acchae announced their presence by streaming a live concert from a prominent bank's website, most dismissed them as just another Anonymous knock-off.

But some people recognised the name, or noticed the vines that decorated the ivory of their theatrical masks, or recognised the drunken stare of their shotgun-dilated eyes. And they began to stock up on tinned goods, for they knew the wild time that was coming...

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #mythology #greek mythology #dyonisus #euoi euoi

[strangelittlestories]

Okay, but I'm pretty sure the final D in ADHD is actually Demon.

That makes the lot of us tieflings and/or warlocks.

Like, sure, I'd love to finish that report for you. I just need to pray to Daddy Executive Function for more spell slots so I can cast Tenser’s Floating To-Do List.

What's that? I need to do the laundry? Sorry, I just *used* Hellish Routine and that feature only recharges on a short rest.

There's a meeting? Love to, but I'm down to cantrips so it's an eldritch e-blast or nothing.

The hell-touched are just built *difficult*. No, not ‘different’, *difficult*.

#adhd #dnd #dnd joke #showerthoughts

[strangelittlestories]

Not just good prompts, but excellent phrases to use in life cos consent is cool.

Asking for permission

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Is it okay to kiss you?"

"Can I hug you?"

"Can I call you later?"

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?"

"Can I touch your hair?"

"I would love to spoil you, can I do this for you?"

"Can I tell people about us?"

"Would you allow me to walk you home?"

"Is it okay to randomly text you?"

"Can I take a picture of you?"

"Can I use a picture of you as my background?"

"Is it okay if we cuddled while watching the movie?"

"Would you let me take care of this for you?"

"Are you okay with me calling you my girl/boyfriend?"

[strangelittlestories]

pssssst hey. hey. free and expansive database of folk and fairy tales. you can thank me later

#once more i reblog so i can find a writing resource later #writing resources #for reference

[strangelittlestories]

The City of Statues had been burning for days.

The smoke wisped up past the faces of granite gods and marble monsters; by rights, their eyes should have watered from the ash (if not from grief). But they shed no tears, just stood in silent judgement as they always had.

The air was thick with the tension of violence that had not yet reached its peak. It clung to people’s skin like a heatwave. It lingered in the ear like a symphony layered with the quiet screams of strings and woodwind, while the percussion and brass waited with breath baited by thunder.

Three days ago, the Followers of the Lady Who Smiles Daggers had carved their demands into the doors of the Palace of the Son of Progress. 

(Those priests who guarded the Palace - it was, after all, built into the stone belly of their god - had tried to resist.)

The night before last, Those Who Dwell in the Shadow of Tomorrow had gone looking for these dissidents in the foundations that spread like roots beneath the city.

(They had kept at the hunt past the warning bells and many were lost in the rush as the statues pulled their faith-nutrients from the soil that was the city sewers.)

Yesterday morning, the Cult of the Crying Trickster Child had become involved, pouring literal and metaphorical oil upon the flames.

It seemed that the whole city would be tinder in the coming conflagration, leaving just a charred ruin of silent soot-stained stony deities behind.

On the day the heavens were ready to open, riots spread through the town’s arterial streets like septic blood. Militias clashed in a steady violent heartbeat. Priests of different stripes stood on high monuments and chanted and made both roofs and pavements tremble.

Everyone waited for the crescendo. The thunder. The cracking cardiac event of a body made of stone.

But when the rain fell, the sky did not break nor the walls fall nor the ground rupture.

It fell gently. Softly. Quietly.

The heat of flame and summer and anger had performed some strange alchemy to the atmosphere. It had thickened, not to burst, but to transform.

As the rain fell across the great monuments that were the divinities of the City of Statues … they opened their eyes.

They stared down at their home and saw its pain and tears joined the raindrops on their time-worn faces.

People would wonder, afterwards, what could have caused this. What could have undone the old curse the Star Basilisk had laid down on the city’s titanic founders?

They may never know. But I will reveal the secret to you. All that tension, the heat and flame and smoke, the malevolence and vitriol and pain that had burned in the city below - it did something quite unpredictable above.

What do you get when you burn up all your rage? You reveal the care that lies beneath.

The rainfall was simply all the anger that had simmered in the city, coming back down as the compassion it had once been.

#writing #short story #flash fiction #compassion #caring #emotions #anger as thwarted care #writeblr #wtwcommunity

[strangelittlestories]

[cw: briefly appearance of a homophobic characer who uses a slur]

He looked like sunlight.

I'd never seen hair that colour before, that bright mix of platinum and and sunflower. I'd had a few beers by that point, and when I saw him across the dance floor I thought he was on fire.

The bar wasn't anything special. It was grimy, like I liked it, the dance floor had less room to move than some prison cells I'd been in (and considerably more sticky). I figured I'd have a drink, have a dance, have a fight, then have *another* drink from one of these drab buggers.

But there he was, lighting up the night. And I swear I'd never known the meaning of the word effulgent until I saw him.

“Mate, your hair, it’s…” I was slurring,

“It’s great, isn’t it? It’s called Platinum Blonde. Like the movie?”

“The Jean Harlow film?” I’d actually seen that flick back in the ‘30s. It made me have hitherto unexplored feelings about blondes. “She was biteable…”

“I know, right?” He nods at me and smiles and I want him doing that forever.

“Bloody right.”

“You’ve got a cute accent…”

When we left the bar, we didn’t just go to some convenient alley where I would drain him dry and move on. No, tonight was special. And maybe it was the cheap whiskey or maybe pollution or maybe it was him, but the night air shimmered as we passed. The streetlamps flickered wherever we walked, as they knew they could never be as bright as *him*.

We ended up at a late night drug store. He guided me through the brightly coloured packages like he was an alchemist and I was his precious student. I’d never had much time for that mystical shite like some of my type, but this was the kind of neon magic I could get behind.

“This one.” He said, fingers caressing a cardboard package on which a woman with a dazzling smile modelled even more dazzling locks.

“What the bloody hell is Clairol? Is that this bird’s name?”

“Nah, it’s the name of the brand, man. Bringing platinum to the masses.” He had one hand in my hair, tousling the mousy strands and I was incredibly aware of his pulse roaring through his veins. “Spinning straw into gold…”

He was still playing with my hair when we got to the checkout. The clerk gave us a look like he wanted to say something. I was feeling peckish by then, so I just licked my lips at him and pressed myself a bit closer against the living star next to me.

“Fucking fags.” I didn’t really give a bugger, but I saw my star’s face fall. Not much, just enough to make him burn a little less brightly.

Then my hand was around the clerk’s throat and he was choking.

The star didn’t say anything, he just put one firm hand on my arm. Gently. I don’t know why, but I lessened my grip.

“Apologise.” I said it slowly and carefully, drawing out every syllable, letting myself feel the word taut in the air.

He mumbled something that was close enough to sorry to make no odds.

We went back to his place.

I’d never had someone wash my hair before. It was a bit like what being bitten felt like. It felt vulnerable. Transformative.

And after we’d washed the chemicals out, I stood there and I looked in the mirror and … of course, there was no-one looking back at me. But the way *he* looked at me, I bloody well felt like a new man.

His hands were in my hair again. I smiled at him. We fell onto the bed with our hands tangled in each other.

I waited until the sun came up before I did it.

But as the first rays began to creep round the curtains and sting my eyes, I bit hard and drank deep.

And he tasted like sunlight.

#vampires #hair dye #writeblr #wtwcommunity #writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story

[strangelittlestories]

I boop out of mischief. But, in fairness, mischief is my love language.

(I will boop everyone who reblogs this post, for the record 💖)