House Hunting

“So, this next house, what do you think?”

“It’s smaller than what we were hoping for.”

“Yes, I know you’re looking for another bedroom, but there’s a lovely sea view and a good bus route nearby.”

“The garden’s also lovely, Gwen; I know you’ve been wanting some space for a few projects.”

“I know dear, but what about the ghosts? The building’s only a few decades old and there’s hardly any spiritual presence.”

“There is a cemetery within walking distance, and there are local community seances.”

“That sound good, but it doesn’t beat having a ghost in your own home.”

Baking

“So, Lord Abyssal, what are you making for us today?”

“ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴜsɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟs ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴍɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ-ᴛɪᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ..”

“Interesting choice of ingredients. Souls have a tendency to sink to the bottom of the mixture; how do you plan on keeping the cake light and airy?

“ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴡʜɪsᴋ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴏᴜsʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴsɪsᴛᴇɴᴄʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴜsᴇ ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴍɪʟᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠɪʀɢɪɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅ ᴅʀʏɴᴇss.”

“Have you thought much about final decoration?”

“ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴ ᴏᴜᴛᴇʀ ʟᴀʏᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ɢᴀɴᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀʀᴢɪᴘᴀɴ ꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀs.”

“That sounds delightful, but be sure to keep an eye on the clock.”

Funeral

It was a nice funeral, all things considered. A good turnout, lots of heartfelt speeches. Even Great Aunt Joan made it down, and goodness knows she didn’t get about much in her age.

Good choice of coffin too: redwood, with a plush satin lining. Not what she would choose, but very fancy nonetheless.

Sarah kept to the back during the service, a black veil over her face. She knew it had been risky, but she couldn’t resist, she had to be sure she had pulled it off. And besides, it wasn’t every day you got to watch your own funeral.

Watch

The pocket watch sat on the side of the desk, quietly ticking away. It was brass, polished to a shine, its intricate cogs and gears visible through the face. Engraved on the back were the words ‘To many more years, my love. Yours, David’, enclosed within a heart. A pricey timepiece, and clearly loved. Adrian studied it for several moments, turning it this way and that, seeing how the light glinted off it, before slipping it into his pocket. He wouldn’t sell it in the city; too recognisable. But it would provide a handy fortune in the months to come.

Pockets

Various knifes. A matchbook. A business card for a gardening service. Several decaying leaves. A small figurine of an owl. Four candles. Nine different wallets for nine different identities. A small umbrella, carefully folded. A toothbrush. Two tubes of toothpaste. Five tubes of lipstick. Another business card, for a graphic designer. An assortment of pens, too many to count. Eight notebooks. A small book of poems. A spare toothbrush. Fork handles. Three sets of headphones, tangled together. Dental floss, also tangled. Dog treats. Scraps of paper covered in doodles. Two communication devices. A change of clothing. Four pairs of sunglasses.

Plants

The flowers cover every surface. The tables in the living room, the desk in the bedroom, the mantelpiece, the bureau, the kitchen counters. Lilies line the hallway, orchids along the window sills, honeysuckle climbing the walls, tulips clustered together on bookshelves. Five different varieties of roses fight for space. Even the chairs seat them, their cushions smudged with dirt. Petals cover the floor in a second carpet and start regrowing the moment they fall, their fragrance mingling with a hundred other scents and smells. Roots spill out over pots and jars and tubs, tumbling down and seeking, seeking, for water.

sharing a drink

The tavern is always quiet this time of evening; most of the tourist types have left, and the first of the locals are beginning to trickle in. It’s a moment to catch your breath, a brief reprieve before the night’s frantic rush. You take the weight off your feet for several minutes, a half-bottle of wine between you and your fellow barmaid, and enjoy the steady glow of the fire.

precision, chalk, distant

The gunshots grew closer with each passing day; first the walls, then the outskirts, then finally the heart of the city was filled with fighting. The city emptied of civilians as soldiers marched through the streets, as bodies piled up, as bullets were fired with accuracy and precision.

Professor Furbank stayed in his office at the university, the smell of old chalk his only companion as he waited for the end.

03 – Lemonade

“Thanks again for letting me letting me stay,” said Mark, accepting the glass of lemonade Wesley gave him and drinking it thirstily.

“It’s no trouble at all my dear boy, I’m glad I could help,” Wesley said, sitting down next to Mark. “Dreadful business, just dreadful. A saboteur, you say? Who would have guessed? Do you have any idea as to who it is?”

“I have a few leads,” Mark replied, pulling out a handkerchief to cover a brief fit of coughing. “I plan to investigate further within the next several weeks.”

“Could it be connected to your recent visit to Europe? I know that was a dangerous trip.”

“Europe?” Mark coughed harder, spots of blood splattering on the handkerchief. “I wasn’t aware you knew about the Europe connection.”

“No? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He watched as Mark began to choke. “My dear boy, did you really think that was just lemonade?”