Poppet & Putrid

Enjoy Poppet by Mace Styx.

(Almost whispering) “In reality, in real actual life, that kind of magic doesn’t belong to one group and the object doesn’t have to look like them at all.

It doesn't even have to look like a person. As long as you wish, dream and know hard enough, it can be anything. A stick, a leaf, a piece of fruit, a candle. My Grandmother used to do with an egg.

She would write the name of the person onto the surface of a hen’s egg and then...picking up a rock she would smash! Smash! Smash! the top, so that it fractured and dented, yolk spilling and oozing out everywhere!

(Quietly) The next day you would hear that the named person had experienced a very nasty accident.

Enjoy Putrid by Mace Styx:

Standing in a room filled with sharp and heavy objects I had seen some form of I don’t know what, an apparition? A ghost? Yet, I had not been harmed. Standing stock still, I considered. In those stories, those urban legends and public warnings about the dangers of discarded appliances there was no malevolent element, no wicked long toothed demon emerging through the wires. Shaking my head and sure that I would probably regret the decision, I did possibly the bravest and possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done. I went back into the room.

The fridge door was still wide open, the gaping chasm and its grisly contents shielded from view. Holding the top of the door I stepped around it and again reluctantly peered inside. Lank, innocent celery, days old bean salad and the same squat, mocking tomatoes. Nothing sinister. I closed the fridge door and was oddly unsurprised to find that the letters had changed once again. This time, to a name. “David Franks”, and a set of numbers. Numbers, I almost recognized.

© 2022 Mace Styx (Hljóðbók): 9781667093895

Útgáfudagur

Hljóðbók: 11 juni 2022