Tag: writing

Four Sentence Stories (Part 3)

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It is hard to tell who is an android or a real person some days. Most evenings it isn’t until I arrive home that I realised no one I spoke had blinked or breathed. I am always relieved to see my spouse and children carrying out these comforting reminders of humanity.

I paid extra for that feature.

She knew that no one would believe her. They would say that she had post-partum psychosis or severe sleep deprivation, but she knew that the child in the crib was not hers.

She decided to not tell anyone, and felt glad to have the much calmer and quiet baby. She just had to keep anyone from seeing the full set of teeth in his smiling mouth.

The castle was well-defended. High walls, thick gates and a moat no one could cross. Guards patrolled outside its barriers day and night, refusing to allow anyone to cross. There was a terrible illness that could not be allowed to cross the walls. So the king and his closest subjects languished in isolation, unable to pass the defences set up to keep them safe.

Sunken

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I know it has stopped raining outside
and the sun has come back around
The day is warming and bright
But please stay on solid ground

There are pools of water
So dark and so deep
that if you try to jump in
They will rise well over your feet

You will feel yourself gripped
Like vices upon your feet
And it will be only moments
Before you are pulled underneath

I walked once with a friend
Between puddles besides a stream
She laughed as she leapt
And in a moment began to scream

I remember that frozen second
Thinking of how to save her
but all I could do was watch
As the hands pulled her underwater

I cannot forget her calling for help
In the moment before she was swallowed
I see her now in every pool
But now she calls for me to follow.

Ditched

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Have you ever gone to the door to answer the bell, only to find no one there?

Timothy had a very similar and very recurrent problem. The bells would not stop ringing in the graveyard outside his house.

He had checked them, of course. When he first moved into the lonesome cottage, he would race to check why the bells rang, as was his duty. But there was no one who could be ringing them.

The graves were empty.

They were supposed to let him know if someone was buried alive. He reasoned that alive or not, the buried part was clearly not an issue. So, never one to raise a fuss, Timothy simply removed the clappers from the bells and never said a word to mourners leaving flowers at empty graves.

His concern was only with the dead who wished to rest.

The Tunnel

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It was so dark in this tunnel, but still he pressed onwards.

He could not sit and rest, as the walls and floors were covered in something corrosive. He could feel the impression of the ground beneath his feet as the soles of his shoes slowly wore through. It was soft, so he imagined green moss as he walked through the darkness. In the light, he thought, this tunnel would be filled with moss and flowers. It would explain the humidity.

He could see light ahead, jagged beams shooting through barbs. Stalactites and stalagmites, he reasoned. He could break enough to get out, then he would need to find his way back to the car. He had parked a fair hike from the cave, but he was sure fresh air would give him enough strength.

The ground was even softer now, shifting beneath his feet. He could feel a breeze blowing in, cool and refreshing. Then he felt another breeze from behind him, warm and rank.

Finally he was at the entrance. He pushed forward, trying to to slip on the wet and shifting ground.

At last at the barrier he realised, with mounting horror, that his way was blocked by teeth. He had yet to fully realise what this meant when the giant tongue moved beneath his feet.

Locked

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It was not Phillip’s job to pay attention to the guests.

His sole duty was to patrol the grounds surrounding the house and prevent anyone from passing through the gardens.

He tried not to pay attention to who arrived, how they were dressed, or how many entered through the large doors.

Despite his attempts to ignore the guests, Phillip heard their laughter as they approached the house. He saw the invitations held tightly in the hands of beautiful people and heard laughter and familiar conversations about who would be there and how long the party might go for.

He had done this job for decades, night after night. His pay had not risen in all that time. The same amount delivered as a cheque in his mail box every day, regardless of whether the post had arrived. He never saw who delivered it.

It was 7:02 and Phillip made certain that he was around the side of the house, hidden from view by the immaculately trimmed bush. He heard her laughter, heard the scuff of shoes on gravel as she nearly tripped in unfamiliar heels. If he stepped out, she would greet him cheerfully. She would be wearing her mother’s red dress and the necklace he bought her for her birthday. But he refused.

His daughter had been invited to the party.

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Familiar

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Do not follow strange creatures
Do not listen to their call
A friendly form with sweet promises
Will soon have you enthralled

Her mother warned of familiars
Of a witch’s faithful servants
creatures that heeded wicked orders
and stole children from their parents

The girl followed the small black cat
She had never walked so far from home
Though she did not recognise the route
It was better than walking alone

It led her to a small house
Made of something sweet
The cat pushed open the door
and sat at the witch’s feet

Between work and forced feeding
The days passed in a blur
But the girl had a friend
That whispered beneath a purr

The day finally came
The witch stoked the coals
Waiting for the oven to heat
The girl knew her role

The cat rubbed against the witch’s legs
A move the witch ignored
At last, it was time to cook
And she opened the oven door

The cat remained still
braced against withered feet
The girl pushed as she was told
and the witch fell to the heat

The cat pushed open the door
and told the girl that she had only dreamt
It knew better than to keep the child
For familiarity breeds contempt

Spiral

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He ascends the stairs once more
Following the familiar path
Counting another flight
Turning clockwise out of sight

The number does not matter
He has nowhere else to go
He follows the path’s bend
But the ascent does not end

He stands on another landing
A very brief respite
He considers refusing to go
But footsteps can be heard below

The briefest pause on the bottom step
But fear overtakes his resolve
A man follows the eternal flight
As he ascends, he comes back into sight

Two Sentence Stories (Part 13)

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I had wished to be safe from all physical harm. Immobilised in soft restraints in an endless void, my last sane thought is that I probably should have included mental harm too.

There is a face pressed against my bedroom window. This would be scary in and of itself normally, but it is held aloft by a hand, not a neck.

When I told my parents that I trapped a monster in a chest, they pretended to believe me, even giving me a padlock to keep it shut. It was months later that they finally got around to clearing out the attic and found the bones, safely locked away.

Narcissus Reversed

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There is a hall of mirrors somewhere
Not where it should be, but there all the same
It waits patiently to see who shall visit
who to reshape and remake in their gilded frames

A stranger now wanders amongst them
Reflected, elongated and compressed
They follow their shifting form throughout
They are amused if not very impressed

They have inspected the mirrors
Reflections to amuse or abhor
Certain they have seen all on offer
But the worst hangs upon the exit door.

The one mirror they must pass to leave
And within is absolute perfection
The stranger stands, entranced and ashamed
Staring at their much-improved reflection

There is no argument to be made
The stranger has no reason at all
Why they should be allowed to leave
While a better version remains in the hall

The world would be so disappointed,
Says the image with kindness and grace
For the stranger to return home
When a better version could take their place

A stranger exits the hall alone
Confident and sure in their selection
The only right choice had been made
And the halls have a new misshapen reflection

Unobserved

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The moment is coming.

I know it will be fleeting, but weeks of preparation have gone into this and I will hold onto these few seconds for years.

The bags previously stores in the boot of my car were thrown away miles back. The ID was burned in a service station bin. I pulled into a hairdresser in a town so small that I don’t believe it extended even one layer away from the highway. I asked for something new. I wonder if I will like it when I next look at myself.

I have pulled over at a crossroads. The road here is blanketed in red dust, then occasional vehicle kicking up clouds of the stuff. It is perfect.

It has been five minutes since I last saw a car drive past. I have kept watch over the four directions the crossroads go. The small cloud will soon disappear out of eyesight, and so I will be alone.

I will, for one moment, be completely unobserved. I will be only myself.

I cannot guess how long that moment will stretch. Perhaps it will be hours before someone new comes down this road. It could be seconds. It could still be interrupted, I remind myself as I scan the horizon again.

It is time. The last car is gone and I am alone.

I smile brightly in that moment. I am nowhere and no one and I am myself.

I wonder how long this moment will last – when will the next car pass? When will I become a part of the world again, even if only in a stranger’s periphery?

For now I am by myself. I look at my reflection in the car’s rear windshield as I push it off the road. It is a vision only I will ever see. I wonder what direction the new me will take? Who will pick me up and how long will it take to realise that their passenger is gazing at them with their own smile?

The car rolls down the hill, the memories of a five-year life going with it. It is time for a fresh start as someone new.