Transient Tales Volume 3

By Michelle Ann King

The third in the Transient Tales series collects 12 short stories of science fiction, fantasy and horror, totalling 20,000 words and ranging from light to dark and all shades in-between.

Volume 3 features demonic spiders, robot wolves, witches, doppelgangers, carnivorous plants, reclusive psychics, immortal gang bosses, apocalyptic survivors, alien voyeurs, flesh-eating criminals, clairvoyants, and God.

Sweetie
Sweetie's changed, since the days of the travelling carnival. But she still knows how to teach an audience respect.

Wolf, or Faith in the Future
Language evolves just like everything else. There are different words, in the future. And a different definition of horror.

Never Leave Me
Katrine knows her story is supposed to end with happily ever after. But what happens after that?

The Portal to a Lost World
The phone call comes every year. 'Where are you?' Tollie asks, but she never gets an answer. She hopes she never will.

Seeing Red
Even though they're not living on Earth any more, Halden's family are still human — still the same people they ever were. Unfortunately for him.

An Object Lesson in Misanthropy
Zoe's never been able to work out what nice guy Bill sees in her bitter, reclusive mother. Today, she's going to find out.

Getting Shot in the Face Still Stings
A lot of problems can be solved with a gun. But not all.

No Past, No Future, Just Now
The world might have suddenly become a strange and confusing place for everyone else, but Louisa's used to it. She knows what to do.

Game Over
Adrian's sick of providing free entertainment for the passengers in his head. He's not going to carry on performing unless he gets something in return.

You Don't Want What I Get
Richie suspects he's being cut out of a sweet deal, and he's not happy about that. He wants his fair share, and he's going to get it.

There You Are, My Love
If Marcus sees enough clairvoyants, will one of them eventually channel his father's spirit? And is that what he really wants?

For Your Safety and Comfort, Please Keep Arms, Legs and Tentacles Inside the Car At All Times
Katie gets worried when her best friend says she's found God — especially when she realises Lia means that literally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Ann King
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310155475

Michelle Ann King

Michelle Ann King writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror from her kitchen table in Essex, England. Her stories have appeared/are forthcoming in over seventy different venues, including Strange Horizons, Interzone, and Daily Science Fiction.She loves zombies, Las Vegas, and good Scotch whisky — not necessarily in that order — and her favourite author is Stephen King (sadly, no relation). She's been a mortgage underwriter, supermarket cashier, makeup artist, tarot reader, and insurance claims handler before having the good fortune to be able to write full-time.Her first short story collection Transient Tales is available as an ebook and paperback now, and she is currently working on her second. See www.transientcactus.co.uk for full details and links.

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TRANSIENT TALES VOLUME 3

12 stories of science fiction, fantasy and horror

Michelle Ann King

The third in the Transient Tales series features demonic spiders, robot wolves, witches, doppelgangers, carnivorous plants, reclusive psychics, immortal gang bosses, apocalyptic survivors, alien voyeurs, flesh-eating criminals, clairvoyants, and God.

Published by Transient Cactus Publications at Smashwords

www.transientcactus.co.uk

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © Michelle Ann King 2014

Sweetie

AUDIENCES HAVE SO little respect, these days.

Admittedly, my little travelling show isn’t what it once was. We’ve been on the road for a long, long time. But I like to think that for the discerning customer, we still provide value for money. An experience you can’t get from the computer screen—the modern freakshow—despite all its tricks and special effects.

Of course, it’s a different world from the one we started out in. You can’t just blow into town, set out your stall and start yelling ‘roll up, roll up.’ There are rules, now. Regulations. Local councils, who want risk assessments and reviews and background checks. Public liability insurance, for fuck’s sake.

Time was, I’d parade the streets with Sweetie as a Sumatran tiger padding at my side and grinning at all the fine ladies until they swooned themselves into hysterics. We’d dance with bears and go pickpocketing with monkeys, and everybody oohed and aahed and couldn’t throw down their money fast enough. Couldn’t wait to see what other wonders I had in store for them.

But those days are gone, now. Instead of wild animals I have beetles and cockroaches and corn snakes. And Sweetie, of course. I still have Sweetie.

We don’t parade the High Street now, or line people up outside a huge, gaudy tent. We travel in a Transit van and squat temporarily in vacant outlets sandwiched between charity shops and Poundstretchers, and hide from Community Support Officers on the lookout for unlicensed traders.

But for all that so much has changed, some things—some people—never do.

It’s not the kids—they’re fine. I like the kids. They’re excited, wide-eyed, thrilled to get up close. They love Sweetie, even when they’re pretending to be scared, and she loves them right back. Lets them stroke her back, her legs, with shivering fingertips.

‘She won’t hurt you,’ I tell them, and they usually grin and nod and pose proudly for mum or dad to take a video with a smartphone. But they’re still ever so careful with her. They respect her. Because deep down they know—I can see it in their eyes—that I might be lying. And that’s good. That’s a worthwhile lesson for them to learn.

So no, it’s not the kids. It’s the ones who think they’re adults. Big men. Tough guys. The ones who think that because they’ve seen the world on a screen, they know how it works. The ones who think that if there’s anything to be scared of, it’s them.

Bless their hearts. Bless their deluded, juicy little hearts.

‘No,’ I tell this particular tough guy. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

He blinks at me. We’re in a seaside town this time, for some reason a place that attracts these roaming hordes of young men, sloshing around in clouds of alcohol fumes and testosterone. Time was, they’d have ended their nights out by being press ganged into service on a Navy warship. These days they tend to get swept out of disreputable nightclubs in the cold hours with the rest of the rubbish. But either way, the middle of the spree has to be filled with fun. Specific definitions of that word might have evolved over the years, but the general translation of trouble for someone else hasn’t changed much.

‘Fuck you,’ he says, this little pumped-up runt. ‘I want to hold the fucking spider.’

I give him a considering look, making a show of it. ‘I’m not sure,’ I murmur. ‘The tarantula experience can be a little intense. Perhaps I might suggest...?’

He follows my gaze to the glass case of stick insects, and his eyes bulge almost as much as his biceps. His companions snigger. Do people still die of apoplexy, in this age? I hope not. It would be wasteful.

‘Are you kidding me?’ he says.

I attempt to assure him that I am not—that I am thinking only of his safety and welfare. It doesn’t seem to soothe his ire.

He looks at the poster on the wall, a blown-up photograph of Sweetie sitting on the outstretched palm of a previous customer.

‘That kid is about six years old,’ he says. ‘Are you saying six-year-olds can handle it and I can’t?’

One of his friends slaps the back of a hand against his upper arm. ‘Fuck it, Chris, let’s go.’

‘No,’ he says, and points at me. His fingers are square and chunky, yellowish staining on the underside. I would have blamed nicotine, once, but I suspect it’s more likely a tanning solution. ‘I want the spider. It’s the only reason we came in here in the first place. You said people can hold it, so I’m going to.’

I compose my expression into reluctance and take a typed disclaimer out of a plastic tray on the side. He slaps it out of my hand and it drifts to the floor. Perhaps that’s just as well; it’s a prop, like the fake bamboo in the cases, and makes no sense whatsoever. Although I’m not sure he would realise that even if he read every word.

‘I won’t sue you,’ Chris says, the words barely getting out through clenched teeth. ‘I might nut you one if you don’t stop fucking me about, but I won’t sue you. All right?’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ says the other young man. He looks jittery, pulling on the collar of his shirt. There are sweat stains spreading out from under the arms. ‘Can’t we just leave it?’

Maybe it’s chemical, this edginess—maybe he just wants to rush off towards the next fix of his regular poison. But there’s something in his eyes that reminds me of those sensible children who knew when to be scared. Maybe this one really does understand something of the world, after all.

The rest ignore him. I get the impression that Chris usually