Narrators needed for readings of short stories 2 (Varied)

As the newly-licenced Las Vegas Minister Conor O’Connor re-read the cue-cards handed to him by the strange Yorkshireman, he considered if this was the profession for him. The pair stood before the chapel’s alter and O’Connor gestured to what the Yorkshireman was holding. It was oval, covered by a yellowed bridal veil. Something stirred inside it. 

“Read t’cards,” said the Yorkshireman. “Start w’(1).” 

O’Connor shuffled through the cards, finding (1) and paused. He was dressed in his ceremonial golden 3-piece suit, the Yorkshire man had donned a tweed cap, chequered sweater, and corduroy trousers and a pipe. “I understand this is Vegas, but there’s a limit.” 

The Yorkshireman stared O’Connor down, chewed hard on his pipe and adjusted his cap. “I’ve come ere, t’Vegas, t’renew our vows, what’s t’problem?” The Yorkshireman’s accent was thick. O’Connor struggled to follow, but that wasn’t the main issue. 

“But a bird?” 

“Aye, this ere bird”. The Yorkshireman pulled away the veil, revealing the Lyrebird in the cage: brown like a pheasant, wings curved, rufous in colour and the bill, legs and feet were black. 

“Sir, with respect…” O’Connor began, “I don’t think –” 

“Yer’ve got yer money, do this, please.” O’Connor looked at the Lyrebird with curiosity and sympathy. He shared the bird’s sense of being trapped. 

“This ere bird, copies any noise it ‘ears. Trained it t’copy wife’s voice. Spent fifty-years recording ‘er with camera, spent last three training Vanessa. Vanessa, t’real wife, died, four year ago. Promised ‘er one day, we’d renew our vows in Vegas. Cancer took ‘er before we had chance.”

 The Yorkshireman’s eyes started to well up, the pain still raw. “Respect our marriage, please. I just want t’pretend that’s she still ere with me, to renew ‘er vows with me, please.” 

There was a pause as O’Connor attempted to take in all that he had just heard. “Okay.” 

“Now, those cards I handed t’yer, it’ll answer if yer read out t’cards as I wrote them, yer understand?”. The Yorkshireman brought the Lyrebird to eye-level. “Hello Vanessa” he said with old love in his eyes. 

“HeLlO wALtEr.” Replied Vanessa.

/r/ImmoralThrills Posted by CleanCurtis 

Inspired by all of your wonderfully disgusting memories, allow me to share with you a favourite thrill of mine and a memory. I call it “The Thrill of the Fail”. 

It is required to know, before I begin, that I’m a qualified first-aider. All of the opportunities the training’s provided me to indulge in my /ImmoralThrill, have been absolutely incredible. Would 100% recommend. 

My thrill, to be completely blunt with you, is: Allowing someone to die whilst their loved ones cling to the hope that I can save them. For me, the thrill comes not from the act itself, but from the surrounding emotions. I feed off their desperation, inevitable disappointment, and grieve. In these vulnerable moments, they cling and beg, putting their trust and faith in me. To break that faith, destroy that trust, right as their beloved fades before them, it’s pure ecstasy. Nothing like it. 

I remember one man; who’d had a heart attack in his car. His daughter had pulled him out and laid him between two cars. She called out and I came. I said all the right things from training to get her to believe in me. As she called 999, I did the counts “1..2..3..” all the way to thirty, but pressing gently on his chest, giving him no compressions. The daughter was in such distress that she never noticed that I was barely-moving. I stared into his eyes, wide-open yet-unresponsive. I spoke to the paramedics over the phone, talked the talk. Three quarters of an hour later, the paramedics declared-the-man dead, and thanked me for my assistance, despite the result. Death was the only result I assisted in. I always go and talk-to-the-family afterwards, give them my condolences, hug them if they request it. I look into their eyes and revel in their despair and loss. 

My count so far is twenty-seven, with no plans in stopping. I’ll leave with one piece of advice for any readers visiting the UK anytime-soon. IF you are ever in need of emergency medical assistance, never accept help from a British-man in aviator-shades and a dark-green-jacket, that’ll be me, and I won’t try and save you.

As I lay in the dark with you, my love, at my side, our old digi-clock struggles to remember that the new day starts in zeros. Funny old thing. Today was our best day in years. No low blows in-front of the boys, only laughter. An echo of what we were like before. I’m listening to your breaths, waiting for you to drift off. No poorly-hid tears or furious sighing tonight, only peace. Content. 

In just a few short hours, I’m going to ruin everything, and all I can think to say is sorry. 

The hardest part for me, my love, comes now, my own sleep. I’m hesitating, holding onto the day, holding onto consciousness. My heart, my head, they’re well aware of what the morning brings, and they’re stalling. 

The bacon’s still in the fridge, yeah? 

I know that you wouldn’t have stood for this, which is why you don’t get to choose. You cannot protest in sleep. Tonight, you and the boys treated me like the richest man alive, hearts and stomachs full, that’s how I want to be remembered. I know it’s not who I really am, but you can’t blame a man for wanting that. 

I’m a good man. I know I am. Down deep. 

It’ll be painless. I read about it online, takes less than an hour to fill the whole house. You won’t even know it’s there, the mono. The bacon will cover it, mask it. You’ll think it’s just me, having myself an early breakfast, you’ll ignore it. We’ll all go together. 

Painless. 

I know you’d ask why. It was the debt, my love, it was like a wild dog, gnawing at my leg. It caught up with me, ruined me. Tonight was the last of it, all that was left, a final bang, a send off. 

It was wonderful tonight. 

No more begging for loans, or empty Christmases, no more shame and guilt, hand-me-downs or charity lunches. Tomorrow we’ll be free from all that. Tomorrow will bring with it only peace and the promise of a long lie-in, like the one’s you’ve always wanted. 

A rest you all deserve.

The last-ever shot rang out. Fired from the last loaded handgun. Fired by the last loyal soldier. 

The last-ever shot had hit its target, the soldiers own temple. 

The last loyal soldier felt nothing, death was instant. 

The last-ever projectile, a 9mm, entered the cranium, and the nerves shut down. It penetrated through to the frontal lobe. Tissue macerated and swelled. The projectile travelled its trench straight through the skull. Shattered bone and loose matter spread across the open field. 

The last thought of the last loyal solider was of their family, a flash of memory, a photo from a better day. The last loyal solider now rested upon the crimson dirt, joining the others, whose flags no longer wave in the wind. There are no more lands. No more winds. 

The last ever shot rang out, then no other sounds were ever made again.

William Weston-Wexler wanted to BE something, wanted to BE someone. He was default in all the important aspects: appearance, ability, appetite, and attitude. Basic. Besides his name, which when initialized was the acronym for the internet, there was nothing remotely interesting about the man. That would be until tonight. 

WWW stood before a dodgy-looking dark-market dealer of exotic organs, looking hesitant. Actually, something of note: WWW was the person that I knew of who suffered from buyer’s remorse BEFORE buying something. It was something that would consistently cause frustration to those that had the misfortune of interacting with him. 

A very illegal alley-way deal had been arranged, with the help of a mutual friend. The friend and dealer had attempted to capitalize on WWW’s only abundance: nativity. Especially when it came to the complexities and costs of VEX implanting. WWW wasn’t too clued up on the VEX or the MERGE. 

It had been five years since the MERGE, the near-apocalyptic event when nineteen of our infinite multiversal neighbours COLLIDED or MERGED together with ours. Most people knew that this event brought with it, besides the countless deaths and destruction of property: all new histories, technologies, and new lifeforms; lifeforms that could be harvested. WWW had been told that the organs of the VEX, one of earth’s many new inhabitants, were not only compatible with human physiology but were also cheap, dirt cheap. WWW liked cheap and dirt. 

Looking into the clear-plastic back compartments inside of the van marked ‘SIMPLY THE VEX’, what WWW saw gave rise to a great many thoughts and ideas. There was so much here that WWW desired. So much potential. Laying before him was the default-change that he had looked so desperately for, for so desperately long. 

VEX skin gave access to new sensations; a VEX voice-box expanded our communication options; the VEX sexual organ allowed its wielder to pleasure a wide variety of creatures, big and small. 

WWW took a deep breath and spoke slowly and softly. 

“Erm… Do I need to make a decision right now?” 

It was going to be a long night

“I want a Hate-Bouquet. You do those?” A silence followed his question, and it lasted a little too long. He repeated, and no, Daphne didn’t. It wasn’t what her flower-shop was for. She was Daphne O’Dea, local green-finger, owner of FLOWERS-FOR-FRIENDS. Hate wasn’t what she grew. 

However, for some reason, Daphne’s tongue had slipped, and she responded with a “Yes.” 

Oops. 

What unsettled Daphne more than the request itself, was the WAY this stranger had asked. Lingering underneath the words was an insidiousness, an unnerving intent. Both customer and question were unwelcome in her flower shop.

“I need them to repeat a message, a very SPECIFIC message. Can they?” the man asked, in a similar sinister tone. Again, Daphne had panicked and responded with “Yes. The Whisper-Lilies can.” 

The man leant in, as if to reveal a secret. “My…friend, just came out of surgery. Extended Bifrontal Craniotomy. Everyone’s so happy for them. So many get-well flowers. I want the Lilies to give them THIS message, and ONLY at night, after visiting hours, okay? I only want THEM to hear it.” 

The stranger gave Daphne a handwritten note, and she nodded, her neck disobeyed her much as her mouth had. She gave the man the order-total and told him it’d be ready the next day. The customer gave her a haunting smile that lingered in her mind long after they had left. 

It wasn’t really until THAT very moment, when the customer had left, after hearing THAT request, that she had ever thought about intent. 

Flowers in this place, which is like here but not quite, naturally made sounds, ones that very-much sounded like words. They could be trained to say pretty much whatever a person wanted, and most people used this fact for gift-giving. For cute and funny birthday messages, for songs, for poetry recitations to friends, family, and colleagues. 

Never had she thought that someone would want to use her gifts for anything less than wholesome. This was all meant to be harmless, fun, safe. 

She read the note and what she’d agreed to: 

“It wasn’t enough. They didn’t get it all. You’re still dying.”

After the discovery of THE LONG DREAM, by a hobbyist with questionable motives, it was hard to find a quiet or even a peaceful moment at your local cemetery or graveyard. Packed like post-pandemic concerts, patrons held tightly to those silly rubber tubes and mason jars, digging into the dirt, as if the smoke itself held any further answers, instead of just raising more questions. 

Resting in Peace? No. It doesn’t feel like quite the right phrase to use anymore, does it? Passing the time? Maybe? Being dead isn’t as final as the old books and songs believed it once thought to be. It’s the modern times now, things have changed. Although, it still feels weird to acknowledge that the dead dream now, or perhaps the dead have always dreamed, and it’s not until now that we’ve had the insight to understand that they did and how to see them. But when do the dreams start? 

Here’s the current theory: 

The dreams start at the moment of death, like the start of a film or video. But! Unlike a film or video, these death-dreams keep going, they keep playing, perhaps forever. These dreams don’t loop or repeat, it’s all new, all the time, new experiences endlessly experienced by the dreamer. It’s too early to know, but the dreams are believed to be the first real evidence that something happens after death. After the eyes close, and the chest exhales for the final time. 

The dreams, we’ve observed, emanate from the skull, like a clear smoke, unseen by the naked eye, but sensed in other ways. A leakage from what was once our imagination perhaps? Breaking out? Escaping? Begging for the light? Right now, we cannot say for certain why or how. 

Since this discovery, many poor and desperate souls, unable to move-on from or simply wait for death, console themselves through the stealing of that smoke. The smoke of the recently deceased. Their recently deceased. They collect the smoke in jars or in tupperware boxes, as it passes from the overflow of the coffin through those rubber tubes, that are dug deep into the dirt of the graves. If treated properly, as has been recorded, if the dream-smoke is captured in the right conditions and with the use of the right chemicals, those dreams can be absorbed, to be dreamt again by the living. Some have seen this as a way to relink their relationship with their no-longer-living friends and family. 

To get a glimpse at the eternal, to share in the Aftersleep. Some believe that the dreamers may not be able to consent to having their dreams shared with the living, that they are unable to object, or filter-out their dreams content, since they are unaware of their outside observers. Additionally, for now, these dreams do not experience the full dream, only parts of it. For some this is enough. For some it has eroded the fear of the dark, of the end. It shows, to some, that there may not be an ending. That there might be more, that one day, we will all be dreaming, maybe even the same dream. 

Either way, whatever is believed, no longer can anything be said to be a silent as a cemetery.

Forty-eight to seventy-two hours. In that time her beauty faded into rot, one thing becoming nothing. I know for certain that Derek McCannon murdered my Denise, I know because of the peaches. 

Peaches when kept in the warm and dark, conditions favourable only to the devil’s Ivy, they begin to decay. It takes around two days. The pantry where I keep mine stays at a constant 70 degrees Fahrenheit - for efficient decay - I need that daily dose of rot. 

Before the dawn, in the dark, I enter the pantry. The heat inside blasts me awake, I’m reminded of her, of her torn-apart dress, of her defilement, of the evidence left behind, of that rotten peach. 

My peaches are in various states of decay, and I take only the most-mealy of the peaches, wrapped in a clear plastic lunch bag. 

I’ve lived this routine for eighty-five days: Dark – Peach – Clothes – Lock up – Walk. 

Unemployment has few benefits, but it affords me flexibility. I’ve got no reason to be across town, past the trailer parks and women’s shelters, to be on Bartlett Rd, where he is. Every morning you’ll find me there, doing what I need to do.

The routine always includes him. He is my routine. 

No evidence. Bah! There was plenty, the blues were asleep at the wheel. 

No evidence meant no arrest, no conviction, no justice. Can’t have that. 

We all know he did it. The guy actually GROWS peaches, has NO alibi, harassed Denise WEEKS before her death, has an assault record LONGER than the local census. Two plus two EQUALS four, McCannon MURDERED Denise. 

He thinks he’s invincible, those types always do, thinking they’ve gotten away with it. He’s not allowed in town until November, that doesn’t stop me from paying him a visit, no it doesn’t. 

Each morning, I leave a peach, for him to discover, like we discovered her. 

He gets the message, he knows. It’s just a reminder, something small, something silent, a little thing. 

Given enough time, enough peaches, he’ll either leave, kill himself or turn himself in. 

Today is peach eighty-six.

What can be said, Rick? Except that you’re dead, Rick. I know, that was a-bit-much. But facts are facts. Some guy once said something about how facts don’t care about feelings. Feels true, to this situation at least. 

Well, I’m here now. 

Can we both admit that too much time’s passed between our last-talk and today? 11 years is too long of a time for anything. Yeah? 

You were always in my thoughts though, Rick. In every reflection, I’d see you there. The hairline, the eyes, the voice, the scar. All you. Part of me hates that.

Like, shouldn’t this be all me? My everything? Why you? You’ve had no-input there, yet there you are. For most of my life you were just a name. I was fully prepared for it to stay that way. Felt fair. Square. 

Yet, even now, you’re there. 

It’s not hurt for a long time, by-the-way, the burn, that forever scar that lives rent-free on the flesh of my arm. Stopped hurting physically when I was around 2. That would have been about 14 months after the “accident”. The word you were looking for was ‘Neglect’. Emotionally, the burn rages on. I won’t forget. I hope you never did. 

You remember, or weren’t you there? Were you disengaged again? Caring more about the football than where your own child was? You had no idea that your own child would wander into the kitchen and pull a boiling kettle onto themselves. But! If you were any kind of decent, you would’ve paid attention to me, or would’ve stuck around after the hospital stay. You wouldn’t have abandoned your 10-month-old son, who suffered because of and in your absence. 

I shouldn’t be here, should’ve left you alone. It’s what you deserve right? A little bit of karma, a taste of irony? You won’t ever leave my thoughts, which is a good as being remembered. 

JUST stay here and think about everything you could’ve done differently. I’ll be living, over there, far away, from here, from you. 

MAYBE we’ll talk again in another 11 years. 

#YahwehBeSilent. This thread could be over 50 parts long, but I'll try and keep it brief for my own sanity. You are witnessing the birth of the #YahwehBeSilent movement. I won’t be taking questions at this time, but I will be providing something of an explanation. 

Having never been the biggest fan of podcasts, so being spoken about on one, in such detail, with so little lack of consideration. They’ve not won me over to their side yet. 

As I type this, just to be clear, I am #StillofFaith. The only requirements or barriers, as far as I can tell, for making a podcast are owning a microphone, having an opinion, and knowing that the internet exists. When the barrier is THAT low,  subterranean levels of low, imagine my increasingly deficient amounts of surprise when I learned that Yahweh of all people had not only started a podcast, but had used me as the subject of their first episode. If their first episode were going to be about anything or anyone, good money would have been on me. I did try and sue him after all. 

'Yahweh or the highway' launched about three days ago on, where-else, Spotify. Capitalising on the historic supreme court ‘Deity Confirmation’ case, which forced deities to either reveal themselves before March 1st 2023 or risk having their followers become eligible for suits on ‘Deity Neglect’ grounds, Yahweh took to the digital airways to voice their feelings on the subject. 

Of course, none of us were surprised that Yahweh immediately used his omniscience as a gimmick on their show. Of course, Yahweh would spit their bile about the things they witnessed. Of course, Yahweh would mention every minute that led to my divorce, on air, for all to hear, for all to judge. 

I will not be commenting on what happened, besides the fact that I will no longer be supporting #CamillaTheClowngirl’s business. I do not support #HarlotsinRainbowAccentedSlacks. You shouldn’t either. 

Call it petty, I am. Call it optics. Yahweh knows that what they did crossed a line. So, in very brief summary, @Spotify cancel the #YahwehHighway show. Spread the hashtag #YahwehBeSilent, follow me for updates and let them know that just because they’re finally here, doesn’t mean we want them here.