The Other Ghost (flash fiction/parody)

Things are pretty crap at the moment. I have no money, my home is being run by this grieving airy-fairy American artist, my family and friends are gone, I don’t get out much. And I’m dead. Nobody talks to you when you’re dead. Nobody even knows I’m there. Even that “psychic” she hired can’t see me. Just to clarify: she’s a fraud. A total fraud. She can’t contact the dead boyfriend, he isn’t even here! It doesn’t matter what I do. She can detect diddly squat! By God she’s milking my roommate for all the money she has.

So I’m having a bit of fun with it, you know, poltergeist spooky stuff. Smashing the odd plate, scattering Cheetos on the carpet, writing scary stuff in blood on the bathroom wall, well almost. On my way into the hall, I see her manhandling the clay on the pottery wheel. Probably going to make yet another modern art monstrosity, or something. All those sculptures cluttering up my flat! I have half a mind to take a sledgehammer to all of them but those things are harder to move than potato chips.

But this time instead of having that screwy determined expression while she works, she’s all hot and bothered. The kind of hot and bothered she gets when she reads those Black Lace Novels. She’s squatting on that wooden stool, all heavy breathing like someone’s touching her.

I don’t see why you’re looking at me. I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole. She probably thinks it’s her gooey, sickening husband from beyond the grave. I have never laughed so hard in all my death.



Always hungry, Never sleeping. Mind, eaten- decaying. Lucky to speak. Feed me. Where am I? Help me. Move slow, like corpse. Move by smell of food. Many corpses- like me, around. Rotting as walking. Guts hang out. Food moves. Food talks. We catch food. It has body like mine. It screams. We break it with our teeth. Devour.

Another food screams for his brother. “No!!” We turn. More food. This food has a stick. Bang! One falls. Stick kills. We don’t care if we drop. We reach, trying to grab food. Bang. Now black.




Featured text and image by Jen Hughes (c)

In Praise of Wickedness

Let’s get real here:

Who really wants to be the good witch?

“Look at how helpful I am! I only use my powers for good.”

(Stupid whining bitch)

It doesn’t matter how whiny, annoying and ungrateful they are

You’ve signed up to help them, they wished on a star.

Why float on a bubble,

When broomstick is clearly more practical?


And come on ladies

Who really wants to be the princess,

Being nothing but sweet and helpless?

Stuck in a tower,

Picked on by your stepmother

Who destroys your only nice dresses

Has tried to poison you

Stop you from going to the party of the century,

Just because she’s a totalitarian auld coo.


And who wants the prince?

Some entitled, stuck up white boy

Who will never find the clitoris,

Thinks that foreplay is a kind of sword fight,

And that you’re there to give him an heir

While he works his way round every woman in the kingdom.

But he’s so handsome. Look at the palace he has

He’ll save you from your martyrdom,



Wrong. Be wicked.

When you’re wicked, you can hope for so much more.

Crash all the parties and dance like a whore

Play elaborate pranks on everyone you know

Keep, toads, black cats, flying pet monkeys

Have a sex beast of a boyfriend who rides a Harley

Turn your ex into a frog

Put curses on everyone who irritates you


Come on, admit it

You want to be bad.





Pigs in Blankets

In a little cottage made of stones, there lives a Mummy Pig and her only piglet Percy. Each night, Mummy Pig tells her child a bedtime story.  This night was no different from any other night. Percy was tucked up tightly, and raptly listens as she begins tonight’s tale.

“The Three Little Pigs: Penny, Paul and Peter, all leave their Mummy behind to build their own houses outside the village. They bought their materials at the market and skipped down to the forest and got building. Penny built her house from straw. Paul built his house from sticks, whilst Peter built his from bricks. He was always the smarter one. They built them up, and were happy for a while. They didn’t even send their Mummy a letter, and were blissfully unaware of the Big Bad Wolf stalking around…”

 “Like the Big Bad Wolf who gobbled up Little Red Riding Hood?” Percy pipes up.

“The exact one!” Mummy’s eyes widened. “The Big Bad Wolf was HUNGRY! So he went to the first little house, and banged the door. Little pig, little pig, let me come in, he said. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin! Penny cried. So the Wolf huffed, and puffed and blew her house down, and then ate her alive!”

The piglet gasps. “Ate her alive?”

Mummy nodded, “And then he went to the house of twigs. Little pig, little pig, let me come in! the wolf shouted. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin! So the Wolf huffed, and puffed, and blew his house down. Paul was a fast runner, but he couldn’t outrun the wolf! And he…”

“He didn’t… eat him alive, did he?” Percy stammers.

“Yes, of course he did. The wolf was too hungry to wait for them to cook!”

Percy squealed, but Mummy Pig was unphased, and continued her story, quickening her pace! “And then he got to the house of bricks, where Peter lived, and he tried his usual huffing and puffing routine but it didn’t work on the little brick house. Peter was always a little smart arse. He could hear the Wolf coming from miles away and knew he’d come down the chimney. But as the pot boiled, he could see the Wolf circling around the house. What was he doing that for, Percy?”

“I don’t know…”  Percy snuffled, choked up with tears.

“Because he thought he was so smart, didn’t he Percy? He placed all the straw and twigs from the other houses all around the edges and then doused it all with petrol before throwing a lit match onto it. Peter Pig was burned to a crisp! The Wolf smiled as he watched the brick house burn to the ground…”

Percy couldn’t even utter a word of disapproval. He loved his Mummy. But this story made him so upset and scared.

“Those little piggies had the gaul to leave their poor mother without even a letter! You’re not going to be like those little piggies, are you Percy?”

Percy shook his head. “No, Mummy.”

“You’re always going to stay with Mummy, aren’t you Percy?”

Percy nodded, “Yes, Mummy.”

“Good.” Mummy Pig smiled, as she kissed her piglet on the forehead. “Goodnight, Percy.”

“Goodnight Mummy.” He whimpered.