Good Night, Human

I wrote a short story last night. It's one of my snarky little stand-alones that I fantasize about publishing on my website when I'm a famous author, just so people can have their occasional fix of ME! and my crazy writing while never buying a single book. I'm not like that all the time, but sometimes it helps.

Since I'm not a New York Times best-selling novelist yet (hey, a girl can dream, can't she?), and I don't have a fancy author's website, here is my short story. It's entitled Good Night, Human, in a kind-of parody of Goodnight, Moon. Sometimes, I love ripping my cherished childhood memories to shreds and stuffing them into odd, disjointed short stories. Sometimes, but not always.

Good Night, Human

One of Those Stupid Aesop Fairy Stories That Try To Teach You A Lesson (Updated for the 21st Century)

Maria sat cross-legged at the top of her bed, leaning against the headboard with her laptop on her lap. She was perusing the blogs she frequented. In the background, Michael Palin belted out The Lumberjack Song into her ear buds.

She shuddered. It was like a shadow had passed over her soul.

"How cliche," she murmured, not looking up from the screen.

"Maria Clivingchen," rasped a voice like fingernails being scraped across a chalkboard, "you are about to experience Death, with a capital D. And this is the last sound you'll ever hear."

" 'fraid not." Maria ripped the headphones out of the jack. "I think you'll find that the last thing I'll ever hear is a Monty Python song."

"You invite me to defeat you," said the seven-foot-tall shadow with claws. "And I must oblige."

"You dumb cluck," she said in a tone she had learned from William Shatner. "What kind of sick, twisted, Genre-Blind fool kills without giving their victim proper send-off music?"

The field rubbed his claws together nervously. The sound grated on Maria's ears and she rolled her eyes. 

"Well, I guess Monty Python isn't very appropriate, is it?" he mumbled.

"Damn straight. You can sit down and wait. I've got iTunes on shuffle."

He sat down awkwardly at her desk. 

"So…how're things?"

"Pretty good." Maria glanced up at him. "Dear Lord."

"What? Is it the hair? Because I can change that, easy."

"No, It's just that… You look like the love child of Animal the Muppet and a Weeping Angel. In a suit."

"Oh." 

The song changed, and he stood up, joints creaking. 

"Maria Clivingchen," he said. "Bonne nuit, mon ami."

"Bill Harley? For reals?"

"All right."

"And, y'know, the French thing doesn't really work for you. You're a seven-foot-tall Muppet-Angel. Also, I was never your friend, so you can't tell me 'Good night, my friend'."

Time passed. Maria switched from reading blogs to skimming a few social networking sites. By now, it was long past midnight. Every few minutes the Muppet-Angel would stand up, toss off a pre-asskicking one-liner, and Maria would point out that the song playing at that moment was completely inappropriate.

He was getting agitated. And very, very bored

"Is this your whole iTunes library or…?"

"Just a playlist. Why?"

"Because I swear I've heard Come On, Eileen at least three times." 

"Cool."

The apparition slumped in the chair, twiddling his claws. 

"How long ago did you make this playlist?" he asked. It wasn't out of curiosity; he was just making small talk. 

"A few months."

The clock ticked on. The cacodemon finally decided he couldn't take another moment of this. It was worse than the time that little boy in Boston had challenged him to a game of chess for his soul, and the little boy won. He had taken the soul anyway.

With a roar that could have shattered concrete, he drew himself up to his full height and let his tentacles slither across the floor.

"It says here," Maria said of the article she was reading, "that we aren't punished for our sins, but by them."

"I'll punish your face!" 

Before the bogey could seize her, Maria snapped a picture with her mobile phone and tossed the evidence out the window, smirking.

"What was that supposed to do?" he chuckled. "You honestly think you can defeat me with a camera phone?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "Lots of people would kill to get their hands on that photo. Moulder and Scully, for example. Or the Doctor. Or Dib. Or, to a lot lesser extent, the FBI. When I'm missing in the morning, they'll all come poking around here. Someone'll find the phone." She snapped her fingers. "Commence surprise ass-kicking for you!"

"That photo, which you just threw out the window," he said. "Won't it break?"

"Pfft, aesops care not for logic."

"Right," said the black shadow. "I'll just be going then."

"Good night, demon."

"Good night, human."

And good night, humans everywhere. 

(The Moral of the Story: Be prepared, or the Slender Man will steal your soul.)

 Maybe one day I'll publish an edition of my collected works with author annotations, like "Google Translate saved my butt," or "I like referencing the many kid's cartoon shows that I watch on a regular basis."

This has been a long and pointless post by the queen of long and pointless posts,

Me