Category: writing

Drifting

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She had arrived earlier that day
Weary and lost, exhausted and nervous
They had kindly offered her a place to stay
Provided she came to their service

She agreed and happily met the preacher
Who showed an icon of their God
A statue of a dripping creature
She laughed at what she thought was fraud

The boat is gently pushed from the dock
She sits still in her seat, face grim
Terrified as the boat gently rocks
Her limbs tied so she cannot swim

The boat floats to the centre of the water
Following a deep and unseen tide
From the shore she hears chatter and laughter
And there is torchlight on all sides

She had sought safe harbour
but knows now she will never leave
And as boat rocks harder
she sees something stir beneath

Bump

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Pete had never been a slim man, so when he gained a few kilos he hardly noticed. A few more and he started to blame Christmas and New Years celebrations. Weirdly the only physical change was a swollen stomach, but that was not large enough to justify the extra kilos on the scales.

A few more weeks and even his most polite friends started expressing their concerns. He just slapped his expanding gut and joked about needed to run off some baby weight at the gym.

In private, he chose to ignore the growth. He hardly looked in the mirror, walking directly from the shower to cupboard to find some previously baggy clothes to wear.

He had convinced himself that it could not be too bad, as he had felt no pains, although he could swear he felt it shift sometimes. He refused to see a doctor, telling loved ones not to worry, that he would go if it got more serious. In his mind, the uncertainty that only flared up when he thought about it was better than living with the constant reminder of a death sentence that a doctor might give him.

The pain started below dawn. It was quick.

Pete lay in his bed, on his side. His stomach had burst, but he was unable to moved. He lay in a pool of his own cooling blood, paralysed by the pain. He looked at the phone on the nightstand, and impossible arm’s reach away. He heard skittering beneath the bed and saw a glimpse of something that stared back at him, before hiding again.

It had his eyes.

Two Sentence Stories (Part 15)

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It was absolutely mortifying, coming home from preschool with the wrong child. Still, looking at the label on their clothes, this one’s parents could afford the ransom just the same.

She wasn’t sure what kind of creature ate the scraps she left in the backyard, but she liked the gifts they left. Her favourites were the bones, spending hours comparing them against her mother’s human anatomy textbooks.

Hearing the echo in the cave had been fun at first, but now he was in loop: “Help!” “Help!” “Help!” “Help!”
He swore that as he stayed in the dark, his replies quieter and quieter, that the echo was now moving towards the exit.

Uncanny

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Lucy had stopped leaving her flat weeks ago. The thought of what she might see terrified her, almost as much as who might be looking back at her.

It had started small, looking at her friends’ Instagram posts. Some had smoother skin, brighter eyes, whiter teeth. Old friends now wore unfamiliar faces, reshaped into symmetrical strangers. None of it was quite right. She had assumed they were trying new filters or programs to alter their looks, but they did not look quite right in person any more, either. Features highlighted in their photos were unnatural in real life.

As she sat in the restaurant with her friends, two began to debate on ways to improve their smiles. One, and she could not longer recognise who they were, wanted a wider smile. The other agreed and pulled a knife from their bag. A moment later, the other said she wanted higher cheekbones. The other gushed through bleeding lips that it would look great on her, and helped angle her head on the table, so that the force of her bodyweight being dropped on top would use the table as a chisel, pushing the broken bones into place.

Lucy was silent in horror at the sound and the lack of reaction. She stared at her food and tried not to look up at her smiling, weeping friends.

Lucy stood in the bathroom, days later, looking at the photo one of her friends had taken of the group at dinner. She was smiling, of course. It would have been rude to look sad in that sea of perfect faces. A friend she no longer recognised beamed widely with bright red lips. Beside her, another with high cheekbones smiled lightly, wearing too-dark rouge. She looked so out of place with her bumpy skin, yellowed teeth and uneven features. But between what she had gathered from her garage and under the sink, she had found everything she needed to fix it.

Quarantine

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I’m now just over halfway through my hotel quarantine in Sydney. I have a headache and honestly I don’t have an idea to write tonight.

Tomorrow, however, I am going to get out the drawing tablet and draw a series of “helping hands”. I would be happy to hear any suggestions on what a friendly house with hands might get up to!

A Helping Hand

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The steam had set off the smoke alarm for the third time that morning.

Tom had only rented the carpet cleaner for 6 hours and was starting to get frustrated. He could not simply remove the batteries in the alarms, as they were hardwired into the electricity. He could not just ignore them either. Between the night of celebrating his last evening with his parents and the long drive to his new home, his head was pounding and the alarms were only making things worse.

Tom looked through his supplies, for something that could help. Pulling out a packet of something yellow and rubbery, he had an idea.

Several minutes and too many rickety chair climbs later, the alarms were now all wearing rubber gloves. Fully covered, the alarms did not sound again while he finished cleaning the carpets.

On his way out to return the steam cleaner, Tom high-fived one of the hanging gloves. He swore he felt resistance in the empty rubber.

Later, finishing unloading his furniture, Tom forgot completely to take the gloves back off. They surprised him each time he entered a room, seeing a disembodied hand, but then he found them amusing. He was nowhere near the stage of cooking for himself, so he did not worry about the alarms being unavailable.

Tom slept deeply that night, unaware that his fallen covers were pulled back up over him as he shivered in his sleep.

Little Brother

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My little brother has the biggest bedroom
Which I do not think is fair
He takes up the entire basement
and Mum says I’m not to go alone downstairs

I sneak down some nights
After my parents go to bed
He cries until I visit him
And stroke his soft forehead

Other nights he waits quietly
His joy barely restrained
He rushes to hug me when I visit
But I tell him not to pull at his chains

He is not in the family photos
Hung upon the walls
and when I ask my parents why
they say visitors would not understand at all

For a little brother, he’s very large
Taller than mum and dad
But he’s gentle and he’s happy
Unless something makes him mad

Mum is trying to show him
How to brush his teeth
But he has far too many
For any brush to reach

Dad still tries to teach him
How to read and speak
But it’s hard to form words
With hard lips, like a beak

I tell my brother I have a surprise
As I turn the key, the chains unlocked
I hold what I think is his hand
Tonight, for the first time, we will go for a walk

Exhaustion

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She had to stay awake.

Carol felt her eyes drooping and bolted to her feet, swaying and immediately dizzy. Her fast and heavy heartbeat told her that she could not have any more caffeine. Her hair was still wet from her most recent frigid shower. She began to jog on the spot, hoping to keep herself awake, just a little while longer.

Outside her bedroom it was a bright and sunny day. Families walked past, laughing and smiling in the spring breeze. A car drove by, playing music she remembered from her teenage years. The colour of the car was familiar.

The same family walked past again, the opposite way. They little girl was giggling, riding her father’s shoulders. Her hair was the same colour as Carol’s.

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Rise

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Ghosts can only haunt the places where they had died. This was why he was so careful to never kill anyone in his own home.

He was clever and well-connected enough to not be concerned about being caught, but a haunting was something that terrified him. He refused to be at the mercy of something that he could not fight. Most sensible people did not believe in ghosts, so it was unlikely that he would be able to seek help if he were to find himself so assailed.

And, to be clear, he was a sensible person. He was simply also a person who knew ghosts existed. The first time he saw one he had spent too long at a scene after he had finished. His meditation was interrupted by a woman’s weeping. The very same sound that he had permanently ended hours earlier. For a moment he saw the woman, whole and standing and impossible, and he had fled. He had needed to hire a cleaner for that one, which was embarrassing, but he could not return.

In the following weeks, walking the streets of his city, he began to feel unsafe for the very first time. Faces in windows were staring directly at him. Some he recognised.

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Four Sentence Stories (Part 4)

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All of the windows and doors were gone when he awoke, finding that the walls now continued uninterrupted in their place. He tried to scream for help, but was horrified to find that his mouth was gone, the lower half of his face now smooth, continuous flesh. He tried to quell his panic by closing his eyes and counting to ten.

On the eleventh second of darkness, he realised his mistake.

The intruder alarm blared as the couple raced to their panic room.

Sealing the door, one turned on a screen to see a masked man at the front door, who now ceased prying at the door and waved cheerily at the camera. The other tried to call the police on the landline, but was horrified to not hear a dial tone.

Neither noticed the cupboard door slowly opening as man in an identical mask slowly emerged.