Ghost stories and strange tales

I really loathe my pointy teeth, They stick out when I smile, Thank god I can’t be photographed, My selfies would be vile. My skin’s a deathly shade of pale, My breath would kill a cat, There’s woodlice living in my cape, My trousers smell of rat. My nails are sharp like razors, My eyes are bloodshot red, I once was drop-dead gorgeous, Now women just drop dead. My jet-black hair is streaked with grey, My six pack’s disappeared, The zombies laugh when I walk past, The werewolves think I’m weird. So please send your donations, Support this poor dead freak, Ten pounds will buy me makeup, (I only wear Clinique).

Stravinsky, Shubert and Tchaikovsky. Jacob's violin honoured their memory in the cold street for an hour. Perfect pitch, not a single note missed, not a semibreve off-key.   Beads of sweat peppered his collar despite the chill. His concentration never wavered; the intensity of sound heightened by a sense of sweet revenge, edging closer with every sweep of his bow.   Catgut, metal, horsehair and wood. Sticky resin irritated his skin, yet on he played until the last strains of the Shubert melody died away. On the final note, the metal e-string snapped and recoiled like a spring. Pain seared through his fingers as the string curled around the violin’s neck. Always the e-string.   In the distance, Big Ben struck seven O’clock. Jacob bent down, inspecting the empty fedora hat at his feet. The commuters of London showed no love for his music, but he played for himself, not for them. His violin returned to its case; Jacob walked the short distance to the Cellar bar he had ch...