I thought it was strange – the night too still, too quiet, too cold to be right. It was as if the gods themselves had sucked the air of the night in a gasp of mischievous anticipation.

Hollow footsteps echoed in my mid-night day dreams. The occasional speeding car breaking the slow distant Rumble of a city almost asleep.

Almost asleep.

With One eye open to the possibility of some wretched infraction the city purred and waited.

And I continued to walk home.

To the broken wet tap-tap of worn out trainers.

I had just pulled a twelve hour shift in the cinema where I cleaned auditoria of discarded cartoons of overpriced popcorn and barely drunk buckets of flat soda.

I didn’t like my job. Don’t like my job. Hate my job.

But I gotta eat and there’s worse things to be doing.

Better also.

But I am lazy, stoned most of the time and apathetically inclined. So unless I get fired there is little motivation to move on.

And better the devil you know eh?

And they pay weekly.

And I am very good at cleaning.

I passed under the orange sodium glare of a flickering street Lamp.

It clicked on off on off to the sound of dull metal striking against dull metal. Inside the glass dome of the street lamp the worn-out phosphor and metal wrestled with the light – one last fight before being replaced by the cutting light of LEDS.

But it wasn’t the electro-chemical reaction making the noise or causing the noise or the light to flicker. Something pinged about in there, desperate to get out. Something was thrashing about furious about it’s predicament.

An insect? A moth.

No, too big.

I looked closer – maybe a bat? A little bat?

My eyes struggled against the orange glare of the lamp – the flickering, pinging sound now becoming a tiny almost imperceptible thumping, but it was clear. Something like tiny fists thumping against glass.

To my astonishment that was exactly what it was – tiny fists thumping against glass. A creature not 12 inches tall  – the size of an action man doll -on its hands and knees banging on the lamp glass banging at me, desperate for my attention. A naked woman – with wings. Tiny bat like wings. One bent out of shape.

Was this a faerie? It was not the pretty elven thing of children’s stories but a malnourished street kid with the look of a wild junkie.

But it was a faerie.

She stopped her banging and wiped some condensation away so she could get a better look at me.

“When you’ve finished staring at my Tits, how about you get me the hell down from here?”.



Categories: Short Story (Prose)

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