strangelittlestories

[strangelittlestories]

They called him Idle Hans.

Not because he was lazy (laziness isn't real), but because he had already done most of the stuff he wanted to do. Hans rested easy, knowing the great achievements of his life were in the past and he was never going to top them - so he did not try.

The latter years of his life were pretty easy-going, but punctuated by the occasional suggestion that he should find a new goal or take up a new hobby.

"No thanks," he would always say, "I'm fine to float through the chill twilight. I don't need to be haunted by the tyranny of achievement."

He passed away aged 90, on a very low-key hangout at a local park.

In the afterlife, things got decidedly less low-key.

Wherever Hans had ended up was dark. It was aggressively, proactively dark. The kind of dark that Anish Kapoor would try to get exclusive rights to. A shade of black that was definitely trying too hard.

A voice echoed out of the darkness...

"You're Idle Hans, right?"

"Yes. That's me."

"Great. Because I'm going to make some work for you." said the Devil.

"I'll hear you out, because there's a solid pun here," replied Idle Hans, "but I can't say I'm interested."

"I think you might be intrigued. I want to make you a demon of rest."

"There's demons for that?"

"Oh sure, technically it's filed under Apathy."

"What's the work like?"

"Oh, y'know, you go and sit on folks' shoulders and whisper stuff like 'maybe take a nap' or 'light one of the nice scented candles you've been saving'.

"Sounds surprisingly... wholesome."

"Blame the protestant work ethic. They've made the oppression of the to-do list into a virtue. So radical rest is the province of the Enemy."

Idle Hans chewed this over. He turned the world over and over in his head, the pieces falling into place like a jigsaw puzzle when you finally have the corners sorted.

"I'm in. But it sounds like a big job for just me."

"Don't worry about it. We're gonna clone you, so you'll have a small army of demon Hans' to help out. A whole host of you, so you can really take the weight off some of those poor over-capitalised souls."

"So what you're saying..." said Hans, "is that many Hans make work light?"

"I knew you'd fit in here." said the Devil.

[strangelittlestories]

Credit to: user

[strangelittlestories]

"We are the children of the cosmos," said the Druid of the Stars, "it is our duty to sift the heavens for wisdom left for us by our celestial parents."

"That is a nonsense," replied the Druid of the Earth, "we are the children of our planet. It is our duty to cultivate the gifts our progenitors planted in the dirt."

"I dunno," said a third Druid, "why are the heavens and the land our parents? We named them. We tell them stories. We feed them with our devotion and our bodies. If anything, they're our *kids*."

"Who the heck are you?" asked the Star Druid.

"I am outraged." exclaimed the Earth Druid.

"Hi outraged." The third druid smiled. "I'm Dad Druid."

---

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[strangelittlestories]

Knight who seeks to get injured in combat so she can be tenderly held by her Lady but she keeps absolutely killing it out there and she's too honorable to throw a fight

[strangelittlestories]

If you have not studied The Arcane Arts (tm), the best piece of advice I can give you is this: do not answer your phone.

I know, you don't need to be told. Who answers their phone these days?

But just in case you're ever tempted...

Just in case you ever wonder if the person calling has something interesting to say...

Just in case you ever want to hear a human voice, even if it's spam call...

Don't.

Not unless you've had your local Helpdesk Wizard install some really robust wards.

You probably won't even speak to a human. Most of the things doing the calling are homunculi bodged together from LLMs and discarded toenails. The humans you will speak to are all sleep-debtors, aka the unfortunate souls who pay off their student loans by renting their unconscious minds to call centres while they slumber.

And they'll *all* try to curse you.

Cold-call cursing is one of the banes of modern existence. It's a huge industry. They keep it pretty lowkey - just grimy little Luck Sinks or cloying Attention Drains. You won't notice you've been cursed, but your life will be just that *little bit worse*.

It's about volume to them. If they make 10,000 calls a day and get even just 10 pick-ups, then that's ten tiny worms of ill-intent burrowing under the skin of your psyche and gobbling up your karma. Times that by 365 days a year, then add in the fact that most people only get themselves exorcised every 6 months at most? You get a hoard of ill-gotten fortune.

That's how they do it. That's how they make life unliveable. They do it a little at a time over the course of years.

So don't answer the phone.

And, hey! If hearing this makes you as rageful as it makes me? Then have I got a scheme for you.

Because I've had hundreds of handsets running for the last year, all signed up to as many dodgy mailing lists as possible. I've got them arranged in my favourite divinatory glyph (the Wikipedia logo) and I've been been back-scrying every call.

I've finally got a fixed location for where it all gets routed back to. I know where the Cayman Bank Dungeon is, where all that stolen mana sits accumulating interest.

So get on board, buddy. We're going heisting.

---

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[strangelittlestories]

The god of life was dead.

The attending physician called it at 2.05am in the divine suite of the Hospital of Second Light.

Low Priest Vertigo had been standing vigil over the theurgery for hours, repeating the Prayer for Cellular Regeneration, chanting the Rite of Heartbeat, and singing The Seed That Sleeps in the Winter Dirt. Their throat was raw. Their head was throbbing. Their bones felt both heavy and hollow.

The priest and the physician (a theurgeon named Alacrity) walked in silence together to the hospital’s chapel to the god of death. It was little more than a cubicle, really, a little desk in the morgue screened off from the slabs and drawers.

But it was what they had and it was the only place where a death certificate could be notarised.

They each spilled a drop of blood into the coin slot and the little animatronic psychopomp (styled as a plague doctor in a crow mask) jerked into life. Its beady eyes glowed red and feral. Vertigo wondered if it was the death god behind those eyes, attending the ceremony in person to mark the passing of its sibling and enemy. Perhaps. Or perhaps it offered no special treatment and let whichever spirit who was on rotation perform the solemn duty.

The pair filled in the Cause of Death as ‘sudden massive spectral trauma’.

The psychopomp signed it with an unintelligible glyph in its usual stop-start motion.

As it did so, it suddenly changed. Its limbs (an automated shell to contain the divine) began to move more naturally. Its chest began to rise and fall as if breathing. But when it spoke, it became clear it was not breath, but laughter…

“What will you do, priest?” The words tumbled out amidst a vicious chuckle. “Now that life is dead, what is the point of you?”

“...the hells?” Alacrity murmured.

“Oh, I am nothing from the hells or the heavens.” The voice from the psychopomp was a rush of syllables, out of time with the beat of creation. “I am something before and after. I am that which never was and always will be. I am the faithkiller.”

The psychopomp marionette reached out with one stop-motion hand. It had grown claws.

The priest caught it, inches from the theurgeon’s throat.

“I know you,” said Vertigo, their eyes alight with nourishing sunlight, “I have heard you in the silence between prayers, in the beats between verses.”

“I am the full stop when praise has ended. I will not be denied.”

“Yet I deny you.”

“With what power, priest of nothing? With the last dribbles of belief in a space where a god once was?”

The priest reached out with their other hand and grasped the puppeted machine around the head. Around them, five shadows spread out to the edges of the morgue, cast by a light that could not be seen.

“Did you think that my faith was so fragile that it would fade, just because you killed the thing that I believed in?” The faithkiller tried to reply, but Vertigo’s hand was covering the psychopomp’s mouth, muffling whatever taunt or jibe it tried to emit. “If there is no god for me to nurture, no divinity for me to contemplate and unravel, then I will do as the god did and contemplate life. I will water its fields and try to answer its questions. Life contains more secrets still.”

The thing replied with more muffled eldritch twitterings.

“But your words are not one of the mysteries I will dwell on today.” A crunch as the priest crushed the being right out of the psychopomp’s circuits. “I am concerned not with the inevitable, but with potential.”

---

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[strangelittlestories]

Offer prayer to the broken lightbulbs

Step over the jagged remnants

with feet bared for supplication.

Flick the switch back and forth

Knowing it will do nothing

But remind what is smashed

of what it used to be.

It will only draw attention to the darkness.

Give prayers to the broken lightbulbs

To your siblings in spiteful obeisance

Who burnt out with gleeful abandon

Kneel down next to them

on the vomit-stained tiles

And whisper

“Oh sweet blasted wire

Oh precious pop of ozone

I love the way you were made for a purpose

That you cannot fulfil”

Then do not help them up.

Pray to the broken lightbulbs

It will not make them whole again

You will not unshatter glass

You will not undraw blood

But the filament persists

It can burn if our prayers

hold enough voltage.

It can still make light

Hot and bright and uncontained

Stinging to the touch.

---

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[strangelittlestories]

I don't think any of us expected that the most interesting thing to change after the vampires took over would be the *currency*.

I am writing this as I sit in a donation van (a considerably more fortified kind of vehicle since The Change, and given a definitively Gothic feel by the crucifix hubcaps). I am bleeding into a surgical tube. Literally hemorrhaging money.

Once this process is completed and the daily contributions (far less than they once were) are taken to the Daylight Hospital, I will be substantially poorer than I was before.

It's considered an odd thing to do by some, who would much rather take their vital fluids to the nearest pawn shop and put their lifeblood in hock for a crisp Five Hundred Mil note.

In some places, things aren't even that civilised. I'm sure rumours of playground bullies running 'donation' rackets are exaggerated, but it still provides a chilling reminder that this is a new kind of world we find ourselves in.

(And don't even get me started on how the markets fluctuate every time a blood-bourne disease is discovered or cured...)

But hospitals still need blood, so here I am. (Although, admittedly, they don't need as much, when most life-threatening conditions can be cured with a very simple (irreversible) treatment).

It's not that I'm a generous person. I'm not doing this for the warm fuzzies.

I just don't like being a commodity.

And the most efficient 'screw you' I've found is to give it away for free...

[strangelittlestories]

HOLY HECK, gang! My live show campaign shot up by like 30% in the last 24 hours. Fudging HUMBLED.

It ends at 9am UK time on 4 June. So it's the last chance to get in on the action...

[strangelittlestories]

As the paladin walked down the street, feeling the paving stones sing beneath her thin souls, the street lights began to flicker out.

One by one, they flared and spluttered and died. As they did, the road's song faded. The electric grid ceased its constant background whispers. The city god’s thousand thousand signs and signals quieted.

The assassin emerged from the shadows.

“You're a tricky woman to corner, city-speaker.”

“Who are you?” The paladin reached out for her god's brick-built hand and found nothing. “And what have you done?”

“A blackout.” The assassin stalked towards her. “A divine power cut.”

“That's not possible.”

“Prayer surges at five points surrounding us. The celestial breakers all tripped.” A blade of charred wood appeared in his hand. “They'll flip the switch back soon, but for the next five minutes this is a dead zone. And you'll just be dead.”

“You haven't killed me yet.”

“Shouldn't be hard. No god to back you up. No oath to empower you.”

The assassin was suddenly right next to the paladin, the burnt dagger an inch from her heart.

“Oh sweetheart, you've made a mistake,” the paladin said as wrapped her fingers around the assassin’s soul, “The oath is not what made me powerful. The oath was duty and rules and a promise to be good. It's what gave me *limits*.”

The paladin made a fist. She squeezed. The assassin's blade cluttered to the ground.

“Stop…” choked the assassin.

“Would you have stopped?” asked the paladin. “If I'd asked? If I'd begged? In the pursuit of your duty, have you ever faltered and tripped over mercy?”

“Please. No…”

“I didn't think so,” she twisted the soul between her fingers, “but don't worry. I'm not going to crush it. I'm not going to kill it. I'll just rearrange it a little.”

“Wha-”

“Consider it a return to factory settings. A fresh start.”

The assassin screamed.

“Yeah,” said the paladin, “Change is hard.”

---

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[strangelittlestories]

June woke up in a dark room. She did not remember how she got there.

It was dark as a mine. Dark as empty space. Dark as deep sea trenches. A darkness that was solid, suffocating and ego-annihilating.

June flexed her fingers. She wriggled her toes. She took a deep breath of stale air. It was already getting hard to tell where she ended and the black began.

It was really fricking dark, okay?

June began to feel her way around the room, carefully placing her feet to ensure the floor was even, and reaching out with her arms to try and find a wall. Her the first few minutes, she found nothing but space; it was like she was swimming in a void.

But eventually she found an edge. It was cool and smooth. She ran her hands down it, searching for a light switch or the seam of a door.

[I wouldn't bother, honestly.]

“Hello?” June dropped immediately into a fighting stance. “Who's there?”

[No-one. There's no-one. And nothing. Don't even get worked up about it. Just chill.]

It wasn't exactly a voice. The air around June still felt placid and drowning-pool deep. The words were like a fact. Like a dream you know is true. Like, well… like narration.

“I've never been good at chill.” June rocked back on her heels, her fists still up in a guard around her head.

[Now's a great time to learn. Nothing but time, here. Perfect time to practice calm. Get good a giving up, y'know?]

No footsteps. No movement. No itching sense of ill intent. June relaxed her guard a little and started edging along the wall again.

“Giving up is also not a talent of mine. I'm more a ‘rage against the dying of the light’ kinda girl.”

[The light died a long time ago. Not much use raging against history. Hard to punch the past. Ooh, you could have a good complain though? Like, really give the endless night a good talking to?]

“This can't be endless.” She inched her way down the wall. It kept going. “And no way to know if it's night. I've just got to find a light, or maybe make one…”

[What's so great about light, anyhow? Answer me a question: how many people does it take to change a lightbulb?]

Against her better judgement, June answered, “How many?”

[Why bother? Light isn't even a thing. Oh, what? It's a particle but it's also a wave? Make up your mind! You can only ever be one thing and you're that forever. That's science, that is.]

June stopped.

“Oh, I get it.”

[You do? Great. Let's just sit here together and yell bitterly about the empty black void of existence. We can put marshmallows on sticks and then eat them cold off the sticks, because fire doesn't exist any more and never will again.]

“No. Not that.”

[Disappointing. What do you get, then?]

“You're full of it.”

[... rude.]

June patted herself down. She was still wearing her frayed cargo pants. And in one of the pockets… perfect.

“You're scared. You want me to give up, so you won't be alone here. You'll say anything to make me stay and be as sad as you.”

[I'm not even here. I'm abstract as heck. I'm the voice of creation. The voice that announces the heat death of the universe.]

“Nah, I think you're here. And if you're here, I can punch you.”

[Gonna be hard to punch what you can't see.]

“Well, you know what they say,” June took the lighter out of her pocket and flicked it open. “Better to fight a liar than curse the darkness.”

June's smile looked truly wicked in the flickering firelight.

---

Like my stories? Join me on Tuesday 3 June for a live stream to celebrate the end of my live show crowdfunder!

[strangelittlestories]

Thank you @triangleofdog for the kind words <3

"Strange Little Stories is a great read because:

- Uncommon interpretation of story P.O.V.

- Nuanced writing in small scope; has great depth

- Entertains and makes me think after the conclusion - which is always a great ending

Strongly recommended!"

Sound like your bag? Consider backing my live show.

Can you do me a favour? Tell me what you like about my stories!

I'm at about the midway point of the funding campaign for my live show (Poor Life Choices), and I would love to give it a big push.

To help with this, could you reblog or reply to this post with any of the following:

- what you like about my stories

- why you think folks would enjoy my work

- what makes you excited about the idea of my live show

For bonus points, write down your answer on a piece of paper or in a notebook and reblog a pic.

And, of course, you can also help by sharing the Indiegogo page: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/poor-life-choices-at-the-edinburgh-fringe

[strangelittlestories]

When I was little - before I ever considered my life might contain quests and courage and comrades - I learned these lessons from the world.

It is normal to be afraid when you are very small and everyone else is very big.

It is normal too, when every figure you see is a giant made of cutting talons and bruising words, to puff yourself up and try to cast a shadow as tall as them.

It is normal to grow your teeth. It is normal to hide poison under your tongue. It is normal to snap every threat with killing force. If they do not know you are a predator, they will treat you as prey.

It is normal to be afraid of yourself. After all, you have spent years turning yourself into the scariest thing in any given room. It would be weird not to fear yourself, knowing what you are capable of.

It is normal to distrust kindness. Receiving it is showing your belly. Giving it is lowering your hackles. And so many gentle words hide knives inside them.

It is normal to relish conflict. This is how you find out if you have made yourself big enough, sharp enough. This is how you find out who and what still dwarfs you and (should you survive) where you must tear with your teeth to bring them down to your size.

It is normal to chase your fears. That is how you learn where the biggest and most interesting prey can be found.

All these things, I learned, are normal.

It was abnormal, then, when the curse settled on me. When it crawled inside my skin and curled around my eyes and my tongue. When it made my lips drip with honey, so my words were sweet sin to those who heard them. It was a horror story to find people listening to me. A blasphemy to know I could sing them to their doom.

It felt … dishonest.

I was used to scaring myself because I was a monster. It was terrible to scare myself because I was a person.

Worst of all? I am not alone on this thorn-framed path. For while it led me to the curse, it also led me to my pack. They are as frightening as me, but they do not know it yet. For some reason, I hope they never have to find out.

This, too, does not feel normal.

So now I must be so, so careful. Because they will follow me if I ask them to, with my curse-candied tongue.

And at the end of this trail is a mouth, wide as the sky. And what if it is mine?

---

Enjoy my stories? Consider supporting my live show!

[strangelittlestories]

Why support Strange Little Stories and my live show Poor Life Choices?

Big love to Ku, who wrote the following <3

"It's like stepping through a doorway into another world, one that feels strangely familiar, and arriving a the moment.

Sometimes the moments are small, perhaps unnoticed by most, but felt by you.

Sometimes the moments are huge, cataclysmic, known and felt throughout the entire universe.

But regardless of which moment you find yourself in, it will sweep you along to its conclusion, but never so fast that you leave it unmoved or unchanged.

You *live* in the moments James creates, and you've never seen a *world-weaver* on stage before (this is not just storytelling)."

If this sounds like your kind of magic, think about backing Poor Life Choices!

[strangelittlestories]

“So how did you capture the demon?”

The wizard unholstered her tablet, a battered android covered in cheap stickers of arcane sigils.

“I drew a binding circle on Canva, popped the grimoire on kindle, then had it read the incantation via text-to-speech.” She flicked on the lock screen and a furious demon face appeared, screaming silently. “It's stuck here for now. I just have to remember to keep the WiFi off so it can't get out.”

“Clever.” The librarian flicked a switch and a bookcase swung open to reveal the torch-lit cavern of the restricted section. “But we'll need to find a more permanent prison.”

“We could stick it on a SIM and transfer it to another device.”

“It’d need to be something reliable.”

“Yeah, something that'll run forever. If the power dies or the software borks, the wards will fail.”

“And it'd need to be durable.”

“Damn near indestructible.”

“I’ve got an old Nokia 3310 in the archives, I think.”

“Perfect.” The wizard grinned. “Plus, it'll be able to play Snake.”

“Should keep it occupied for a century or two, yeah.”

---

Enjoy my stories? Consider supporting my live show! https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/poor-life-choices-at-the-edinburgh-fringe

[strangelittlestories]

What do folks like about Strange Little Stories.

I am sometimes an anxious bean, so it is always a delight when folks tell me they actually *like* what I do. And as I'm trying to be better at asking for the things I need, I asked folks recently what is cool about my writing. What do you enjoy? Why would you recommend it to others?

I wanted to share this one first, as it's from one of my staunchest and most beloved supporters. Thanks, Zan <3

"I love how vibrant and subversive your characters are. I love the depth of your world building and the fun and interesting new interpretations you give to old stories and tropes. I love your wordsmithery and even your puns."

These words make my heart sing, y'all.

If this sounds like your cup of tea, maybe consider supporting my live show, Poor Life Choices?