This morning, it being icy and cold and I being up since three a.m., I decided to do an impromptu micro fiction even on Twitter! This is where the thread starts.
The response was fantastic, and I had so much fun writing these little stories! (I did not get to everyone’s replies due to time/lack of brain by the end of the day, but there are thirty-seven little fics in four categories totalling roughly 1,500 words.)
For your enjoyment, here are all the micro fictions from my thread, orginized into each category: ghost, monster, angel, devil.
The old man always forgot where he put his keys, so the ghost found them. The man’s husband often got too warm, so the ghost adjusted the air temps.
One day, the men set the table for three and invited the ghost to share tea. “We noticed. Thank you.”
The phantom sighed. “You need to be mindful of where you’re breathing when you sing.”
The ghost flopped dramatically across the organ. Notes blasted through the opera house, discordant.
Erik decided then he’d only teach human singers.
The message from beyond our galaxy sounded eerily like whalesong.
We asked the whales what it said.
“Those are ghost-songs from ocean planets long-dead,” the whales answered. “They warn us what will become of our world.”
We are the future’s ghosts.
Red wasn’t afraid of the woods or the wolves or the men who hunted both. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
She skipped along the path to Grandma’s house, her ghost entourage—of men, of trees, of wolves—trailing her. Her crimson cloak dripped in her wake.
The first rule of Ghost Club is don’t admit you’re dead.
That just kills the mood, you know?
If you must acknowledge corporality, the correct phrase is “limited physical existence.”
Second rule: have fun! Carry on with life! You’re dead, not entombed.
The ghost hadn’t meant to get stuck in a glue stick. It’d been fine with the bedroom wallpaper when an unsupervised toddler got into art supplies.
Years later, when the glue stick was needed for a project, the ghost happily haunted the diorama instead.
It’s a misconception that only human ghosts cause inconvenience.
Have YOU ever dealt with termite ghosts? I had to rebuild my haunted house three times. Let’s hope this ghost-lumber will bite the bugs back.
The trees sing under the moon; the stumps hum of trunks long severed, of boughs cracked, of leaves forgotten.
The living trees catch these songs and pass them down to rooted memory.
A day will come when there are no axes or saws and the dirges fade.
When we talk of the heat-death of the universe, we never ask: what becomes of the cold ghosts of moons, the wraiths of suns, the wights of planets?
Where do the shades of the universe’s atoms drift when there is no one left to mourn?
A white ribbon danced in the void, an unmoored ghost. It was the sum of all the power in the universe, ripe for the taking.
Each astronaut tried to grasp it—with hand, with machine, with ship. All failed.
The ribbon ate those who tried, and it danced.
In the aftermath of the final showdown between Captain Magnificent and ShatterVoice, only rubble remained—once the villain’s lair.
That, and the ghosts of both supers.
“What is this?”
“I will never stop,” ShatterVoice replied. “And neither will you.”
There’s no need to retrofit a dead whaling ship for space: ghosts don’t breathe.
The sailors gather on deck, ethereal and cold, white as salt.
“We go to the stars,” the captain cries. “We are the first defense for this world—for we cannot die again.”
Under the bed is cold. She shivers, trying not to cry. She left her bear in the kitchen when Mom said: hide.
Something scaly brushes her elbow. Teddy appears beside her, safe and warm.
“Wait here,” the monster says. “I have one intruder left to eat.”
It’s tricky being a make-up vlogger when you’re a vampire. *Technically* cameras have mirrors; that doesn’t stop your voice from transmitting. With a solid layer of foundation, some contacts, and fake-teeth, you can do it. Your channel is a killer hit.
If you walk down Barnaby Lane, never step under the gutters.
It’s not water that drips from the roofs; it is not puddles that form on the sidewalk.
The liquid connects to itself, spreading across the city, a monster hungry for the unwary and the lost.
Dust swirled about the monster as it rumbled awake. A cough startled it and it peered through the moss growing over its brow.
A human child sat on its stoney knuckles, holding a book. “Sorry—”
“Forgiven,” the monster said. “Will you read to me?
“Are you sleeping?” asked The Thing In The Night.
“Yes,” said the Closet Monster.
“No,” said the Underbed Monster.
“Maybe,” said the Branch At the Window.
“Not anymore,” I whispered, and turned off the light.
The girl pets her monster’s flank. It growls, toothy and sharp.
“You sent a beast to kill me,” she says. “Bound it, hurt it until it obeyed.”
The king cringes at her feet. “You defied me!”
“I did. And so does my friend.”
The monster begins to feed.
“The ad said ‘monster wanted,'” she says, eyeing the man skeptically. “It’s for a documentary about—”
“I’m plenty monstrous,” he leers, advancing on her. “I’ll prove it.”
“Not again, you won’t,” she says, and she unleashes her siren-voice upon him.
The rich fled into the stars once humanity learned what dwells in our deepest oceans. World-ships launched into the cosmos, carrying those privileged few.
The rest of us were left behind with the monsters came from the waters.
We were the lucky ones.
Each day Bri goes to work at the clinic, her stress levels jump.
Finally, her guardian angel snaps. It appears before the hateful crowd: fiery wrathful wings and so many terrible eyes. NO MORE, the angel decrees. Crowds flee.
Other angels take note.
The angel wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t a celestial warrior; it didn’t have a trumpeting voice like the archangels; it wasn’t robed in glory and didn’t carry a flaming sword.
But it stuck by its human, tail wagging, heart full of love. A good dog.
The Predator’s ship dropped into Heaven’s orbit and de-cloaked.
Having exhausted the prime hunting grounds of humanity and xenomorphs, the Predator needed more challenging game.
It heard that archangels were top of the food chain.
We never knew the true nature of the deeps.
There are eldritch gods we worshiped when they rose. But we did not ask: where are the unspeakable angels and indescribable devils?
That was our folly; for the deep angels and devils will not be ignored.
The soldiers called themselves seraphim. Heavy mech armor, probability-edged claymores, rocket-powered wings: they descended on the world with the wrath of heaven scorned.
The ex-general grit her teeth and rose. Only she could stop her fallen angels now.
The angel is made of stars: it fills a galaxy, its eyes burning suns, its breath solar winds, its wings dust from comets. Planets speckle its body like pores. The angel’s size is matched only by its pride.
The god from the void is bigger. And hungry.
The angel drew its sword and prepared for battle. Its task was clear: none shall enter the Garden.
The horde of undead roared closer.
Within the Garden walls, the last of humanity fortified together.
This time, the angel swore, it would not fall.
The angel sits in a cage under the throne. Its wings were ground into flour for bread. Its blood became a tea. All to give the king everlasting life.
Soon, the king’s wings will grow—he will be theirs. The angels will teach him pain for eternity.
The monster burst out of the woods, covered in burrs, leaves, and matted fur. Its eyes blazed; its teeth gleamed. Alice gasped.
The monster bit her stalker in two.
“Angel!” She hugged her monster. “Impeccable timing, as always. Same time next week?”
When the war ends, the last angel drags themself slowly through the ash-strewn cities.
A child plays in the street, spinning a dented halo like a top. The child offers the angel the halo.
The angel shakes their head. “Keep it. Do better than we did.”
The angel stands guard by the child’s bed; when nightmares attack, the angel fights—but sometimes, fragments escape and slip into the child’s dreams.
One night a voice under the bed says, “I eat nightmares and I’ve been hungry. Want to team up?”
“Impressive craftsmanship,” the antiques dealer said, setting down the puzzle box. “Devilishly good.”
Pinhead smiled. “You could say I put a lot of work into the detail.”
“Get ye behind me, Satan,” his boyfriend said with a smirk as Lucifer joined him in the shower. The Devil was happy to oblige.
“Morningstar Cruise Lines? Really?”
The Devil escorting the dead soul shrugged. “I needed to class the place up. A ferry wasn’t cutting it.”
“Isn’t it a bit arrogant? Using your own name?”
“Darling,” the Devil said, “do you even KNOW me?”
Satan appeared when summoned: he wore a silk bathrobe and held a mug of coffee.
The mage blinked. “I expected something more…impressive.”
“Look behind you.”
The mage did. He screamed, then died.
“Nice one,” Satan told Cthulhu. “You’ve got the job.”
The devil’s hot, strong hands caress the angel’s hair.
“What’s wrong?” the devil murmurs.
The angel’s voice breaks. “I miss when we were together. Before…”
“Before we were made to choose?”
“We can choose anew, love. Stay with me?”
The Devil went down to Georgia but it wasn’t for a soul to steal. Really, the Devil just wanted to fulfill a random dream he’d had: to make a cameo as one of the zombies on the final season of The Walking Dead.
Of course, a few extra souls wouldn’t hurt.
If you enjoyed these stories and would like to support me, I have a Ko-fi! ❤ Stay warm and always remember to be nice to the monsters under your bed.