Speaker 1: Welcome to micro Terrors, scary stories for kids where it's
always the spooky season, full of chills, thrills and spine
tingling spooks. Micro Terrors are family friendly frights for those
ages eight and up, and while our stories are for
younger years, we are still talking about things that go
bump in the night, and some children may not be
able to handle what others can. Parental consent is recommended
now for tonights micro terror.
Speaker 2: Lyrical Velcrow written by Fiona Cosgrove. Mick was leaning across
his desk, staring at the playground outside his classroom. The
air outside it turned frosty, snow lingering on the edge
of the horizon. Across the yard. The monkey bars were
coated in a sheen of fresh rain, glimmering like fine tinsel,
and pools of water were collecting along the court, decorated
with basketballs like orange bobbles. Mick gritted his teeth basketballs
like orange bobbles. It was still over a month until
the red hatted man slid down chimneys, but ever since
last week when Mick woke up with a sore ear
and the two catchy chords of jingle bells stuck in
his head. He was having a real hard time thinking
of anything but Christmas. At basketball practice on the weekend,
he'd missed a crucial pass because he was thinking of
one hole sleighs. At dinner the night before, he accidentally
ate half his napkin because he was dreaming of bells
jingling in the snow. And almost every night since this
Carol phenomenon began, he'd woken up at exactly midnight with
the incessant chorus on repeat from his head. He could
not shake it, and school was no different. Beneath the table,
Mix's foot tapped to the rhythm of bells and sleighs.
He hummed his first few lines, rubbing his ear as
he gazed off into the distance. Michael. The sound of
his name ejected from his teacher's mouth with all the
force of a jet plane, jarred him out of a stupor,
and he jumped Bob Tel's ring. Micka blurted out, having
already made it to the second verse. Giggles of laughter
flitted around the room, and by the time Mick realized
where he was, his teacher, Miss Bassey, was glaring at him,
arms crossed tightly over her brightly colored dress. Michael, she said, again,
her accent, clipping all the vowels in his name. The
class is up here, she tapped behind her to wear
paragraphs of sentences, words underlined and crossed out, decorated the whiteboard.
Not out there, all right, Mick said, nervously adjusting himself
on the plastic seat. Miss Bassie's nostrils pinched as she
gave him one last glare, then turned her retention back
to the lesson. It was something about spelling, or comprehension
or math e Mick didn't know. He couldn't seem to
concentrate on anything other than dashing through snow and spirits
being bright. The holiday season was ringing loud in his ears,
like some kind of infection slowly taking over his body.
Drey's friend whispered next to him, tossing a folded piece
of paper on the mixed desk. Mix slid the note
into his lap. After he made sure Miss Bassie was
deep in teaching mode, he leaned back and opened the paper.
Drey was an excellent artist, and more often than not
used his powers for evil. In the middle of the page,
drawn in expert shades of life pencil, was a picture
of Mick, his black hair blowing in the make believe
wind as he rode a horse drawn sleigh down a
snow covered hill into a giant trash fire. Dray had
even drawn Miss Bassi yelling at Mick from the top
of the hill, and giant jingle bells dancing around Mick's
head like cartoon birds. He had titled his piece of
artwork lyrical velcrow. That's what Dray had called it. The
song so catchy it gets stuck in your head. As
Mick looked at the giant bells, he was powerless to
the words forming in his mind dingle bells, jingle bells,
jingle all the way. Oh what bond is to ride
into one horse open sleigh? Hey? Without meaning to, he
punctured the chorus out loud with that joyous hey. As
soon as the sound left his mouth, he snapped his
attention to Miss Bassie, his cheeks blooming red next to him.
Dray smothered a laugh. Miss Bassie stopped mid sentence, abruptly
swinging around to look for the source at the outburst,
But before she could throw another verbal grenade at Mick,
the lunch bell rang. Finally, a bell that didn't make
Mick want to claw out his brain. It's up with
you and Christmas, Dray said at lunch over his tray
of mac and cheese, And not Christmas exactly, said Mick.
Who what's up with you and Christmas songs? Dray corrected himself.
It's really just the one song, said Mick. Bell's still.
Mick nodded. He took a mouthful of the cheesy stuff
as their friend Mallory sat down. Can you feel Christmas
in the air, she said, peeling open her strawberry milk carton.
I can practically smell the snow. Nobody can smell snow,
scoffed Dray. I can, said Mallory indignantly. Oh yeah, said Dray.
What does it smell like?
Speaker 1: Then?
Speaker 2: Mallory popped a straw into her milk, then paused her nose,
lifting to the stuffy, grease filled sense of the cafeteria.
She wrinkled her nostrils and half closed her eyes, as
if really getting into the nostalgic smells of Christmas's past. Finally,
she enlightened Dray and Mick. It's like crisp air, she said,
with a hint of electrical charge. She lifted the milk
to her mouth, pausing briefly only to add one more
note to the delicate layers of oh to snow and
just a smattering of cinnamon. Drey and Mick looked at
each other. I've ever smelt cinnamon in the snow, said Mick,
have you never?
Speaker 1: Agreed? Dray?
Speaker 2: You're probably not concentrating hard enough, explained Mallory, before taking
a big gulp up her strawberry milk. So what's new,
Mick shrugged, pushing bits of elbow and macaroni around on
his plate. Nahing, nothing, said Dray, staring wide eyed at Mick.
You sure about that? Mick shrugged again, try and desperately
to ignore the rising verse about what thun it was
to ride and sing from escaping his lips. Drey turned
to Mallory, our boy here at the case of lyrical belcrow.
Malory had her spoon a mound of mac and cheese
piled onto it, halfway to her mouth. Lyrical What now,
it's nothing, said Mick nervously. Just these Christmas tunes, they're
so catchy, oh, said Mallory with a nod of her head.
Totally get that. All I want for Christmas is a
total hook infection. Look what said Mick. Hook infection, repeated Mallory,
shoveling another mound of lunch onto her spoon. You know,
like a super hooky song that just infects your brain.
Hook infection, lyrical velcrow, whatever they wanted to call it,
Mick totally had it. After lunch was creative Arts, where
the class was making pencil holders out of clay. Mick
had started shaping a robot, working on some tube shaped
arms and solid rectangular legs. He was half way through
hollowing out the head to hold the pencils when he
started to sway to an unseen melody. Mister Rain, the
art teacher, was all about freedom of expression and encouraged
the kids to talk during class. Conversation encourages collaboration was
one of his favorite mantras. With all the chatter and
noise in the class, Mick didn't notice the tune growing
in his head or what his robot had morphed into
until mister Rain appeared at his shoulder. Oh, Michael, mister
Rain clapped his hands together. Oh, very festive of you.
Speaker 1: Black.
Speaker 2: Mick blinked back to jingling sounds in his head and
looked at the robot he had made a rounded, barrel
like vehicle with swirling curved edges, sat on two long,
decorative runners that looked perfect for traversing snow covered hills.
Ah Man, Mick swallowed the thick lump in his throat.
I don't think anyone has ever made a slave pencil
holder before. I love it. Mister Rain then began to
hum a bar of jingle bells to himself. Mick stared
horrified back at him. Mister Vrain giggled, Christmas carols are
such ninja tunes, aren't they. Mick was too scared to
open his mouth in case he started singing a verse
or two. Really, just sneak into your nuggin, explained mister Rain,
before sacheting off to another student, leaving Mick reeling over
the lyrical belcro hook infection ninja tune Living rent free
in his head. Mick was still thinking about the robot
turned sleigh when he walked into his house after school.
He was so engrossed in the sounds of jingle bells
swelling inside him like a rising flood, he didn't notice
his mum carrying a freshly baked tray of gingerbread until
he barreled right into her gingerbread. Men and women fell
to the floor, their mouths frozen in a white iced scream.
Mick mum yelped, staring at the sweet smelling debris now
laying in pieces on the floor.
Speaker 3: What is going on? You've been walking around like a
zombie all week. I spent ages getting those gun drop
buttons just right. The cacophony of bells rose and ma
his head. Exhaustion had crept into his bones from trying
to smother the melodic tune all day, and finally, in
the safety of his house, he succumbed. Dash she through
the snow and on hearse, op and slay over the heels.
We go, laughing all the way. Ha ha.
Speaker 2: Mick's mom stared in silence as Mick belted out the
rest of the verse, even grabbing his belly to really
emphasize the ha ha ha. Della's on bobtails ring, making
spirits bright. What fun it is to ride and sing
a slave song tonight? Oh, Mom sighed and tilted her head.
I see what's going on here, she said, placing the
now empty tray onto the counter behind her. Jingle a bells, jingle, bells,
jingle all the way Oh, what fun it is to
riding one horse open slay. Mick continued, his eyes watering
as he felt the compulsion of the Carol screaming in
his mind. His mom walked over to the kitchen cabinet
and pulled open the medicine drawer.
Speaker 1: It's been a while since I've seen this.
Speaker 2: Used to happen to your father all the time. Though,
nothing to worry about.
Speaker 1: But Mick was worried.
Speaker 2: It was like an incessant demand in his brain. The
claws of the Carol had dug so far into a
cerebellum he was scared it would never come out. Jingle bells,
jingall a bells, jingle all the way. Oh, I'd fine
it is.
Speaker 1: Do you ride in?
Speaker 2: No one on ourself and say mix, sung, the joy
and excitement in his voice wavering as the noise built
to a point of no return. Mick's mom returned a
wide smile on her face. This will only hurt for
a moment. Then she grabbed Mick's head, tilted it to
the side, and dug a pair of silver forceps into
his ear. Mick pressed his eyes tightly shut as the
jingle of bells morphed into squeals, the verses turning into
a scraping sound that made Mixed teeth itch, and the
chorus disappeared in a flood of guttural groans. Stop Mix screamed,
and a moment later it did. Mix's mom let go
of his head, and slowly he righted himself. The incessant
hum of the carol had disappeared entirely. All that remained
was a welcome quiet. His mom stood in front of him,
apron around her waist and foresaps held triumphantly in front
of her. Struggling and squirming between the shiny silver prongs
was a red and white striped worm, its tail whipping
furiously back and forth in the air, and the high
pitched shriek of jingle bells wafting from its open mouth.
Ear Worm said Mick's mum. Tricky little things, most common
around the festive season, really burrow right in there tanks
to happen overnight while you sleep. Your father had a
terrible case of white Christmas.
Speaker 1: One year.
Speaker 2: She walked over to the stovetop, lit the burner and
torched the little beast in the tendrils of smoke that
filtered through the house. Mick thought he could hear the
gentle jingle of bells and flutter of snow, but he
gladly ignored them as he sunk onto the couch and
day half mingled gingerbread Man in perfect unjoyous silence.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening to micro Terrors. Join us each
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