story prompt story

And now, for something completely different.

Before I continue, I should clarify something. Eric and Gilbert are in London. The people you are about to encounter are in Bedford. This isn't too important, but I feel it is necessary, so you understand that these men are separate to the other men! (Also, everybody here so far are men. I'm not sure why either.)

Two men perched upon a ceiling fan. It was an unusual sight to behold, and it was not made any less unusual by their appearances. One of the men was sat casually, or as casually as you can conceivably sit when you're on the blade of a ceiling fan. This man had an unfortunate face, to put it politely. It was long, stretched out unnaturally and to a disconcerting degree. His eyes were far too high up, and small but wide open, yet somehow his eyelids remained disproportionately prominent. His flat, broken nose covered almost half of his face, unfortunately. The slit which would be a mouth on a regular human was lower than any mouth should ever be. If you ever carried the burden of marrying him, your mother would lie awake at night, shaking, wondering where she went so damn wrong. His broad shoulders, splotchy skin and straw-like blonde hair, which was bent into curls, did not assist in the paradox that was his appearance. However, the somehow more confusing contribution to the paradox was not his yellowing toenails or his protruding knees, no. The thing that made him stand out was his ridiculous outfit. The first layer was a red toga, which was then covered by a Roman-esque suit of armour, which was then also covered by yet another toga. Why he was wearing so many togas is truly a mystery, nearly as much of a mystery as why he wore a toga in the first place.

The other man looked much more human than his counterpart, but that was no difficult feat. He was draped over a blade, his arms and one leg (along with his coattails) hanging off over-dramatically-- although, I would be dramatic too if in the presence of the sub-human thing on the fan with me. This man had a much more round, nearly perfectly oval face, with large-ish eyes, permanently worried-looking eyebrows, a regular button nose and somewhat large lips. He was very smooth, and looked like a poet or, at the very least, an actor in musical theatre. His black hair was also smooth, and looked as if he spent 3 hours every morning maintaining it. This man would be rather normal, if not for his deathly pale skin, glossed over eyes and, again, his outfit. The massive black coat, with coattails and all, wasn't too bad, but grouped with the velvet waistcoat, pocket watch, far too large belt and ruffles, it seemed like he walked straight out of 1863. Which, of course, he did.

You see, there's something I've been neglecting to tell you. The men on the fan were truly a sight to behold, but nobody would ever behold them. Because they are dead, buried and currently ghosts. Being ghosts, why wouldn't they perch upon a ceiling fan?

The lad who was lying on the bed below the fan was texting his friend about some hot man he saw outside of the Pret a Manger in the local train station. Perfectly regular in comparison to the men, he had mild acne, an unconvincing fake tan, ridiculously long legs and just a few too many teeth. Still, he was a practically bog standard 16 year old boy, and was, naturally, blissfully unaware of the ghosts above him.

The pale ghost made a dramatic heavy sigh.

"Alas, boredom continues to sweep over us like sand on a.... Wait, no. Like a tide over sand." If you thought he looked posh, then hoo boy, you should hear his voice. It was ridiculously '19th century English poet' esque, and the words accompanying his accent were just as fitting. The Roman banged his head against the blade, presumably due to annoyance.

"Oh, will you shut up?" He had a voice that you would expect from the (debatably) human equivalent of a crushed and blended slug.

"I am simply trying to add some interest into this lazing around. It's unbearable, being stuck in this tiny, stifling house with only you for company! Not that I dislike your company." The pale one disliked the Roman's company. Also, the house was reasonably large. On another note, the Roman was also bored.

"I wish we could just give up on existence. If I could kill you, believe me, I would." He meant this in the nicest way possible.

"I would slaughter you too, my friend. It would be more enjoyable than hearing what Otto has to say to his small friends."

"Just call them teenagers, ya weirdo. And hey, I like the kid!"

"He is a good child, but must he be sooo boring?"

"He ain't boring! He's doing that... Dragging queen thing! Where he dresses up like a woman?"

"Doesn't he refer to himself as a 'femme boy'?"

"Yeah, right."

The ghosts didn't notice, but the plaster above the fan began to crumble. Otto didn't notice either.

The Roman looked confused.

"Hey, fop..."

"Hm?"

"Why are we sitting on a fan?"

"I see no reason for us to not be draped over this contraption! At least it's a new spot,"

"Yep, sure."

The pale ghost looked up, and noticed that the fan was about to fall. At first he didn't register it-- it was simply another bland occurrence at this point. Then it came across in his mind that Otto was directly under the fan, and if it were to fall something seriously bad may happen. However, by the time this was understood the fan was already falling rapidly towards Otto's bed, so his conclusion was to swear. "Ah, shit," he remarked.