Other people’s milkmen only brought them dairy products. Ours delivered milk and magic right to our front door. Once he pulled a live flamingo out of his cap for Mum. Another time he conjured up a whole kaleidoscope of giant butterflies. Poppy and I would cheer from the hallway while Mum laughed into her dress sleeve. We loved him for that – the way he made her face all pink and giggly. That was the best magic of all. But after he and Mum did their disappearing act together we cancelled our account. That’s when Dad started taking his coffee black.
Author’s Note: Buying your milk from the supermarket is much less magical. I’ve never once spotted a flamingo in the dairy aisle.
Sorry, Mrs Peterson, but you kind of had it coming after what you wrote on my second grade report: I fear Rhona will never amount to anything in life. The girl lacks brains and determination.
You were right, of course. I never amounted to a single thing. I flunked my exams. I dropped out of school. I did the same brainless dead end job at The Fried Chicken King for sixteen years. And then the zombies got me. But you were wrong about the determination. Because I need brains more than ever now, and I’m determined to start with yours.
Author’s Note: I was wondering (as you do) whether a zombie would remember enough of its previous life to try and settle old scores, post-zombification. A mean teacher would be pretty high on the list, I think.
Sir Lancebit galloped into the dragon’s lair, hollering, “Say hello to Spike!”
The dragon smiled. Another ridiculous human. And the ones who gave their swords names were the silliest of all.
“I’ve done my research,” boasted the knight, riding full pelt towards him. “I know your weak spot. Take that, Sucker!” he yelled, plunging Spike into the soft fold below the dragon’s chin.
“Thanks,” said the dragon. “I could do with a new toothpick.” He plucked Spike from Sir Lancebit’s fingers, then got to work on the little knight’s own weak spots – namely his head, body, arms and legs.
Author’s Note: I’m often surprised by how easy it is to kill an enormous fire-breathing beast with impenetrable scales. I suspect if dragons were in charge of note-taking the stories might go a bit more like this.
It was something of a relief to Carol when her smug nephew ripped off his human covering to reveal the pulsating green flesh beneath. Twenty years of guilt vanished away as he roared out his plans to “lay waste to the paltry pestilence that is mankind”. So she wasn’t a bad aunt after all, just an impeccable judge of character.
She stepped over the sobbing mess that was her sister, and rammed the kitchen knife in as deep as it would go.
“You were one ugly baby,” she screamed into his flaming red eyes. “And your thank you letters sucked.”
Author’s Note: I’d just like to state for the record that I have the very nicest of nephews and nieces.