WhimFairies

1938. Indonesian Archipelago. Tim swam furiously. This was bad. Reaching Coelacanth High Command he rapped on the door with a lobey fin, leaving it there for support while he gasped for breath. "Enter!" came the gravelly response. Less a voice and more a rumble of tectonic plates. Tim did so, seawater still barrelling through his aching gills. There in the tiny office was a desk littered with papers, all weighted down with seashells in the gentle but persistent current, and a yellow-edged world map that covered the back wall. Before it in a high-backed swivel chair sat an ancient, greying mound... "Commander!" Tim wheezed, "One of the West Indians just got picked up in South Africa." The Commander surveyed him through lidless, staring eyes. Wide, but narrowed in spirit. "Say that again," he croaked. "Commander, one of the-" "I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID," roared the Commander, throwing the papers in front of him into

Myri climbed her farm, negotiating mountainous thorns as she did so. As she sucked up the sweet, honey-like secretions of her herd, she dreamed of betterment. “One day, Nemo,” she said, “we’ll be able to give up this place, and serve the Queen herself!” The nematode wrapped around her antenna clapped the ends of its body together in approval, and squelched out some words only Myri could understand. “What’s that Nemo, you have a present for me back at the colony? Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Myri curled a mandible around her pet in a makeshift hug, and returned to milking her aphids. Suddenly Myri felt the ground beneath her shift. Her farm was on the move. Myri clung on for dear life while Nemo wound himself tightly around her buffeting feeler. “Don’t worry Nemo!” she cried, “It’ll be alright, I promise!” Then, as suddenly as it had started, the quake ceased. There was a violent jolt, and Myri watched in horror as dozens of her herd plummeted to their deaths in the wa

I trudged through the mist. White lines criss-crossed before me while dew-tipped grass blades slithered over my shoes, the heels of which sank an inch or so into the soft earth with every step (I'd been told it would be wise to make use of my feminine wiles - what few of them I had - and in the chilly weather a low-cut top and short skirt was out of the question). Eventually, I reached what I presumed to be roughly the centre of my makeshift stage, and set down the easel I'd been carrying. I wondered which direction it ought to face, then decided it made no odds. It too sank into the mud, but with three feet to my paltry two, slightly less than my ill-judged stilettos. I looked around. I was alone. Time to commence phase two. Gingerly at first, for fear of the mud claiming one of my expensive pumps, I began to dance. Then with mounting confidence, I launched into an elaborate soft-shoe. "Taps would have been better" I thought to myself. But it didn't seem to mat

Jeffrey’s vision began to clear. A few moments before he’d been walking along, minding his own business and minding it hard, when a sound from above caught his ear. He looked up to see a mighty fireball ballooning across the sky, then his world turned black. Now he found himself sprawled on a bank of earth dark as jet, gazing out across an expanse of inky water, beneath a sky of incarnadine clouds... “Over here!” came a cry from the water’s edge. Jeffrey looked on, bemused, as a man in a white flowing gown and even flowier beard strode up to him. It wasn’t until he’d hoisted him to his feet that he noticed the ostentatious halo perched on his head. “Um, where am I?” said Jeffrey, groggily. “The Styx, dear boy,” said the stranger, “but a more pertinent question is “WHAT are you?”. And WHAT you are is dead.” “Dead?” repeated Jeffrey incredulously. “As indeed am I,” said the stranger, “Saint Peter, pleased to make your acquaintance! Now, shall we get on?” Jeffrey, now recogn

The Prime Minister strode down the corridors of Whitehall, advisors in tow. His neatly cropped beard twitched triumphantly, his eyes steely with resolve. “Congratulations on your victory, Prime Minister!” said an intern before being swallowed up by his entourage. The PM continued to walk with purpose. His head advisor drew level with him. “Prime Minister, can we discuss the new cabinet?” “Certainly George, follow me.” The PM swept through a side door and into the crisp, autumn air. A car was already waiting. He gestured for his advisor to follow. “This won’t take long,” he reassured her. His advisor’s brow furrowed, but she climbed in after her premier, and they set off. The journey, contrary to the PM’s assertion, was long, and unfolded in a tense silence. Well, tense for the advisor, whose head was awash with urgent questions. The PM remained remarkably sanguine. Eventually they came to a stop outside a woodwork factory in Islington. The PM, chipper as ever, headed in

“Watson, come here, I want you,” said Bell wistfully. He had been daydreaming and spoke, quite by accident, to the wall that separated his and Watson’s rooms. The mouthpiece on his desk had other ideas, however, and had transmitted his absent-brained plea straight to the ears of his colleague, who started, then leapt to his feet and ran through the corridor to Bell’s office. “I heard you, Bell, I heard you!” he exclaimed, red of face, and panting with exultation. Now it was Bell’s turn to start. “You … heard that?” he said, bemused, and somewhat worried. “Yes! By jingo it works! The device works!” Watson beamed, placing a hand on Bell’s shoulder. Bell’s body bristled and his beard twitched with barely concealed nervousness. “Terrific, yes,” he said distractedly, “but - we must ensure it transmitted with absolute clarity. What was it you heard me say? Exactly?” He leaned forward. Not too much. Watson cleared his throat dramatically, aiming for the exact