Bright Blessings

There was a rustle, an inquiring squeak and then the front of the doll house was opened. The young father, about to pop a surprise doll inside for his daughter, never stood a chance. 100 mice swarmed out, chewed him down to the bone and made off down the stairs, the first one holding his car keys in firm jaws. They piled up, balancing mouse after mouse, until they could swarm inside the overcoat and baseball cap hanging on the back of the garage door. It took them a few treacherous moments to get the co-ordination right but soon they were tottering over to the Jeep; a slightly drunken figure who perhaps ought not to be driving. Various wriggles and slinks got the remote pressed, the door open and a neat split into three groups. The first group clambered down to the pedals, taking a little time to work out how many were needed on each. The second scampered up to the steering wheel forming a neat circle and using their hamster wheel training to get it moving back and fo...

They’d been discovered on an iceberg, floating along, happily minding their own business. Claudette often wondered who was the first person to gaze upon the gargantuan snails and think ‘I wonder what would happen if I stuck my face in their trail?’ With a sad inevitability, someone had and discovered the incredible rejuvenating properties of those trails, glittering with ice crystals, just begging to be admired and collected. ‘Age at a snail’s pace’ had become the slogan on everyone’s lips. The inoffensive creatures, eight in all, each the size of a mountain, had been dragged unceremoniously on their iceberg and confined to a penned area. Gunboats patrolled constantly and only a handful of personnel were allowed onto the berg to gather the trails. There was also Claudette. She’d been tucked away in a basement office, collating information about the snails of the world. Like the enormous beasts, she’d wanted nothing more than to be left along, sailing along happily on ...

Nigel stared at his boss, naked terror in wringing hands and flaring eyes. “Do we tell them?” Professor Lingstrom flicked his eyes to the cameras blinking silently in the corners of the room. “They know.” “What about the people?” “The military will decide.” “Will they survive?” “I have no idea if any of us will.” They stared at the leaves in Petri dishes on the lab benches; leaves from across the globe, all telling the same story of extinction. **************************************** The first sinkhole had opened under New York, under the entirety of New York. It had taken 35 minutes for the metropolis to vanish into the depths. A few people survived; those on the outskirts who were able to run for safety. Many had watched husbands, children, and friends, incapable of resistance to the pull of the earth, sucked into the maw, unable to help or to look away.   Most were left deaf for days after, deadened by the sheer enormity of the sound of crack...

Wind sang through the branches of the willows lining the drive. It whistled through holes in crumbling brickwork and shattered, glass panes. It rattled doors in their frames, set rotting wood to creaking and popping, and yet Rachel felt she was coming home. Her measured pace took her up the weed-strewn gravel drive, allowed her a slow circle of the decrepit statue of the founder before she turned to face what remained of Willowbrook Girls School – Established 1875. The sign above the vast double entrance doors hung yet, albeit by a single nail, but it clung. Rachel rose slowly up the sweep of cracked steps and placed her hand on the ornate brass handle of the left door. Another sign, newer, of less presence, hung to the right, warning of the unsafe structure, of danger to life and limb. The words circled a stern hand, held up, palm out; Stop!   Smiling, she turned the handle and shoved. The door proved awkward, clearly undisturbed for many years. A heap of general d...

Cindy and Mike loved the room instantly. It was formed from two attics, knocked through and lit by generous skylights. From their new home at the top of the house they could see clear across the city and the rent was ridiculously reasonable. To top it all, Mrs White – ‘Call me Martha, dearie.’ – Was a plum-shaped dream grandma as well as landlady. The house constantly smelt of baking, or soups and stews; food which was practically on a conveyer belt, on offer to both tenants and a couple of local cafes. Martha said she didn’t like to brag but she made a pretty penny from her dishes. Cindy’s only real complaint, and a petty one at that, was the décor. The room came furnished and it had more than a hint of twee old lady, replete with doilies, china ornaments and underlying whiffs of Lily of the Valley. Still, dusting the silly clowns and fairy gardens built in cups wasn’t the worst price to pay for such a sweet set of lodgings. The pair had been living at number 13 for a ...