Short story: Valentine’s Card

“A heart on a card is traditional.” She offered almost apologetically.

“A picture of a stylised one is more generally expected and acceptable than an actual organ dripping on the floor. I only just cleaned that too!” I adopted a mock stern expression to hide the sheer panic bubbling behind my voice.

She advanced on me, carrying the card like a platter. The heart looked fresh, blood still dripping from the openings. I hoped it was a sheep’s heart from the local butcher or something and I wasn’t going to find the remains of a burglar at the bottom of the stairs again.

This is the problem with trying to integrate ethically-divergent entities from exo-valued dimensional spaces into the general populace. They don’t have the social contexts we’ve grown to assume, and adopt a frighteningly literal interpretation of events around them.

Take ‘Alyssa’, who had startled me in my own kitchen with what I assumed was a valentine’s offering. In less enlightened times she would have been banished or burned by ecclesiastical cohorts as a succubus of some description. The horns and tail are generally a good giveaway.

Ever since a small accident with a summoning circle, a backwards-played Cliff Richard single, and a chicken that died unexpectedly of a heart attack while the candles were still being lit, she’s been stuck here and we’ve been trying to pass her off as an au pair from Belgium.

Why Belgium? I panicked when the police came round to investigate the noise complaint. It seemed a good idea at the time, and pretending it was a BDSM session was an easier way of explaining her penchant for calling me Master than identifying her as a denizen of hell.

The local constabulary may look down their noses at kink, but it does stop them asking questions. I might even have saved their lives and possibly immortal souls into the bargain. I’m considerate like that you know.

I reached out and took her somewhat gory tribute from her. My smile softened at how pleased she looked. I was probably safe to sleep in my own bed tonight.

Probably.

About Tim Maidment

Writer, House Husband, Library Person, Raconteur, Poly, Queer and Bon Vivant. You were expecting something simple?
This entry was posted in Fiction, short story, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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