Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 24-09-2013
For his birthday, Dracula’s most recent wife (the one who fronted the indie band) gave him a t-shirt printed with “I’m so Goth, I’m Visigoth” on the front. The cleverness pleased him as well as its historical accuracy; it reminded him that he should probably return to Rome the things he’d taken when they’d sacked it. “I might wear this for my audience with the pope,” he said with a dry chuckle and they both smiled.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 08-06-2013
He studied the papers by candlelight after pouring himself a generous brandy. “Attempted to detain”. “Attempted to question; escaped questioning.” “Not successfully detained.” “Failure to take into custody.” “Prematurely released (unsure of process).” Houdini laughed and sipped, relaxing fully on the settee. “Now you see me, now you don’t,” he whispered, his eyes bright. Returning to the police station and replacing the file in the records room would be a most satisfying challenge.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 27-05-2013
He listened to the speeches with the others, standing proudly on a random battlefield with the men, women, and children who were being remembered for their contributions and sacrifices down through the ages. “Honor is always agreeable,” Lincoln said to the wisp of a boy standing next to him, “even if the oration is less elegant than back in my day.” He laughed, and the boy took his hand.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 21-12-2012
Dillard (Duly) Constant marveled at how Salem was going to hell in a handbasket of its own design. The trials were a waste of public resources (not to mention a waste of good people’s time). “Mea culpa,” Duly murmured to himself, locking the door of the secret room behind him. He had completely misjudged these seemingly dour folks; their propensity towards hysteria unnerved him. He started a fire under the cauldron and began to assemble the parts of the spell. He would cast a pall over the town, cursing them for a wee bit – crops would fail, families would move away, etc. The land could rest and be rid of its human embarrassment for a time. Afterwards? Who knew? Perhaps his descendants could do something touristy.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 20-11-2012
“You’re insane!” exclaimed Maypen, his tone a race to the finish between peevish and flummoxed. “Yours is the customary reaction, but what I’ve said to you is true: the woman in the photographs is NOT Queen Victoria; it is a third rate comedian named Boddy Dowd in an assembly of ridiculous ladies’ dresses.” Gables freshened Maypen’s drink. “They dressed Dowd up on a lark and took royal photographs – to amuse her, the real queen. The pictures were leaked and, of course, no one had really seen her in years (since her husband’s death). They attributed the changes in her appearance to grief and that was that.” Maypen tipped the whiskey back until ice hit his moustache. “My God, man,” he mumbled in his drink. “Dowd was summoned to the palace. The people, as a whole, found him regal and imposing – exactly the kind of queen they needed. Boddy was then obliged to be the queen at every event for every photograph. It quite ruined his life.” “And the queen? The actual queen?” Maypen whispered. “A force of nature who, with this unexpected freedom, went out into the world and saw it in its great beauty and ugliness for the first time. Served as a hospital nurse for a bit; was tutored in philosophy and rhetoric at Oxford in a secret classroom there. She was brilliant.” “This is … uncanny,” Maypen remarked softly to his remaining ice. “Oh, and one more thing,” Gables said with a smile, “she was stunning – a delicate, fine-featured beauty.”
(For John, who wanted something about an historical ruse.)
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 02-11-2012
Yewdrop took a Sunday afternoon to read through the collection of her uncle’s letters and felt a wave of affection wash over her. His candor, intelligence, and wit could not be denied. As for the more practical advice and admonishments, she felt mildly amused; the approach was rudimentary, the language archaic. “Dear Uncle Screwtape,” Yewdrop sighed into the room, her lids closing on eyes the color of flame. “You were so Old School.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 18-09-2012
“That moment – watching Helen finally understand,” the preacher marveled, “must have been completely life-changing.” “Oh, it was,” Anne Sullivan Macy responded with a smile, “but not in the way that you suppose.” She took a deep breath. “Helen is a soul reader, Reverend. Not only did she pull sign language out of my touch, but all of my past, present, and future. She tells me that I will fall into a deep sleep and die in 1936.” The preacher’s mouth hung open. “I am her teacher and lifelong friend but, more than this, I am her jailer. I love Helen, but I cannot permit her to touch anyone else.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 04-07-2012
“An’ then, freedom,” Cotton whispered, explaining to Gypsy how the Underground Railroad worked. “And then, freedom,” Churchill said aloud, closing the most recent intelligence on camp atrocities. “And then, freedom!” the note read, lying against a dozen red roses dressed with white and blue ribbons near the site of Ground Zero. “And then, perhaps, freedom,” Hawking dictated, suddenly moved, when he thought of the worlds beyond this one.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 16-06-2012
“And I do take it as a personal mandate,” he said gravely,“to continue the work of liberty – to carry the banner of freedom forward as Abraham Lincoln did before me.” “Freedom from poverty and uncertainty, Mr. President?” Von Banks inquired. Teddy Roosevelt turned, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Hell, no, man! I’m talking about the vampires!” He turned away from the reporters, stunned that so many could be so daft.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 19-05-2012
She loved parties – the drinking and dancing and attempted murder! Someone would invariably serve her a glass of punch laced with some horrible thing, but she’d been ingesting poison in trace amounts since she was a child; she tolerated everything. She’d drain her glass, bite the callus on her tongue to make her mouth bleed, then have arrested all who looked her way eagerly with delight. Lucrezia Borgia would wipe her mouth, giggle, and order them decapitated. “Amateurs!” she would yell out to the crowd, laughing.