Category: Fiction

A story! Maybe good, maybe not so good, you never know

  • Red and Purple Blues (Draft #2)
    7–11 minutes

    Red and Purple Blues (Draft #2)

    Dearest Miriam,

    Do you remember the first time?

    Where we sat on top on the fire escape, bathed in cold moonlight, smoking a cigarette, or you at least you watched me as I did, you took a photo on your camera that night, the photo I’ve never seen, you never showed me because

    you said it was more romantic to not see it till it were digitised, “I don’t like looking at it till I put it on my computer”

    I’d scoffed at you then. What if I looked bad in it? Did you even care?

    Our feet were hanging off the edge that night, we pushed against the railing that budged ever so slightly because if the support gave away it would not be our fault, but just fate that had been tempted, like it was our siren song and not even death could resist our temptation. We were young then, it was a summer break in the middle of high school, and we’d not eaten all day, either of us. Maybe that’s why I felt high, or it could have been the delirium from my three hours of sleep, or the nicotine in my blood, or maybe the hallucinogen that was your perfume, or maybe all four.

    I’d kissed you that night and I stayed awake the rest of it thinking about nothing but the touch of your lips on mine, looking into the stars and imagining that the billions of burning balls of gas could not hold a candle to the passion I’d felt in that moment. I’m sorry I kissed you then.

    We’d be so good together, I’d said.

     I’d treat you better, I’d said.

    Better than he ever could, I’d said.

    Then kiss me, we’d said.

    And we did.

    It’s been years since then; I’ve never seen the photo that night but now I don’t think I need to. I have the image of you peering through the viewfinder at me, seeing a more picturesque moment of myself than I ever had in my life, seared into my memory. I find myself sitting on a fire escape again, in college, graduating college, I’m alone this time. I acknowledge the cancer the cigarette between my fingers is fostering in my lungs, like a little babe being cared for by the motherly love of tar, but I find that there’s a comfort in microdosing suicide.

    It had been a long time since I saw us, you’d moved borders three times since. I hope you’d be happy to know that I found myself in someone new. You were blue and she is red. I like red, but with her I find myself bleeding purple. Y’know, I miss your blue, the depths captured in your hues, the familiarity of your embrace. It was funny, the way you grew colder as we sunk deeper inside each other; the pressure mounted and your tight hug grew from comforting to suffocating. There was a peace to it though, when we were writhed in each other’s arms. The world outside was muffled, gagged behind a cloth soaked in poppers. My lungs filled with water, like a balloon you’re not sure is close to bursting or not, but I didn’t have trouble breathing, I breathed in you.

    Sincerely,
    Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

     Do you remember when I swam in you the first time? I do. Engulfed in all of you, swimming midst the kelp which rose from so far below I couldn’t see where it started, I peered deep into that abyssal cavity, and I remember sinking. I remember when the first of the kelp wrapped itself around my leg, and then the rest snatched at me one by one until I was tethered, unable to move, not wanting to anyway and being pulled in deeper, and as I descended it only got colder, and colder. I remember screaming as the tendrils tore at my skin, gashes oozing blood, the colour blending into the navy. I remember screaming, maybe for help, maybe for you. The words floated upwards encased in bubbles, clawing its way to the surface but when it popped at the precipice, I’m not sure anyone but you were there to hear it, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

    I love you, I remember saying. I remember writing you poems, maybe too many because

    you’d said it scared you.

    I loved you with such fervour, and I’m sorry if you were drowning in it

    When I surfaced, when you cast me out, I sat alone cold and naked, shivering till she came along. She saved me then, and she burned hot like the sun.

                Sincerely,
                Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

    We first met at a bar. Cliché, right? Meeting someone at a bar? We danced together before we knew each other’s names. There was smoke from the fog machine engulfing the two of us, and the way she danced was mesmerising, the way the smoke weaved around her, brushed against the contours of her body. The smoke turned inside itself and back out, splaying itself bare. The smoke choked the air, it moved in ways that was more than just in pitiful three dimensions, and she moved along with it. The world itself tore around her movements, like she could fold it all and put it in her pocket. She moved like fire, alive. I allowed my fingers to trace her body too, hot to the touch, scalding almost, I let my hand linger at her waist for a moment, we danced closer together, drunk on the scent of her cherry perfume.

    I don’t remember that night all too well, actually, I’d probably had too much to drink. I remember her hands in mine, playing with each other’s fingers and looking into each other’s eyes, hers like amber, and like amber I was stuck within them, completely frozen in time. Maybe a some point, I hadn’t said a word for a minute and just stared at her with mouth agape because she’d laughed at me then, it filled me with a warmth I find difficult to describe but there was a gentleness to it, the kind that makes you want to claw your skin off, like a blanket warmed by someone else’s body heat.

    I remember this time where we were smoking together on the fire escape, or at least I was watching her smoke, and I relished it second-hand, I swear it tasted sweeter after the smoke was suffused with her breath.

    “I want a photo of you” I’d said, but neither of us had a camera,

    “I want to remember the night” I’d said, she’d breathed in more smoke, stopping just shy of the filter, I remember raising my hand to her,

     “Put it out,” and I’d been marked.

     Y’know, I recall when my body was tattered in your waters, when my gashes were oozing blood and I remember it being blue like yours. It was blue with you, a beautiful, cold sapphire, but it’s not red with her.

    Why don’t I bleed red?

    Sincerely,
                Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

    I remember this one time I was walking with her; we were in the woods. It was Autumn, the leaves told me that. The trees were vibrant orange, red and yellow, and she walked beside me. I remember saying a joke, I don’t even fully remember what it was, the only thing that stays sharp in my mind, a recording like it happened only moments ago was that she’d laughed, she’d laughed hard.

    I’d never considered myself funny till I met her. See, it’s kind of crazy; when I speak, my words buffet her, waft off her, kind of like a candle you just blew on gently, she bends and dances, and stands up straight to listen, and then quivers and talks back to me with the heat of her breath touching my skin. I love her, but being engulfed in her flames burns. It singes my skin, and I tear away from it, without even thinking. I feel the gashes on my body welding shut with her flames; it burns so bad that all I find myself craving is a cold rush of water to make it all stop.

     But she’s warm, and I like the warmth.

    That day in the woods, we took photos, both of us were smiling and standing close together, the heat of our bodies mingling in the air between us. I took significantly more photos of her. When she saw them, she’d laughed at a few, the one’s where she was caught in an awkward position which made it look like she and the tree were about to lunge at each other’s throats, my bet was on the tree. Then she

    told me to delete a couple,

    which I did protest but she was adamant,

    She didn’t like how she looked, and so I obliged her.

    She’s intoxicating when I breathe her in. I love her swimming in my lungs, it singes the inside, but I can’t stop, I don’t want to. But even still, why don’t I bleed red? I wish I could just rinse my veins of your pigment, I wish I could bleed such a vibrant vermillion that she’d know that all I have space for is her. There are times when I sit awake far too late into the night, her sleeping in bed next to me and all my thoughts are of

    How are you doing?

    I hear about you from time to time, but I’ve always wanted to hear from you. I find myself wondering what you’re up to, whether you’ve met someone new, or if you’re still looking, or if you’ve given up, or if you’re dead, I suppose. Though I hope I’d hear about that.

    I find myself wondering what you’re studying in college, or if you’re working. Or if you’re married, or if you’re engaged. Or if you opened that restaurant which I’d said I’d be first in line for on opening night.

     It scares me to know, a part of my heart seizes when I think about but nevertheless, I find myself wondering if I’d coloured your blood the way you did mine.

    Did your water wash away any trace of me? Did part of me ever dissolve into you?

    Do you still bleed blue?

    Just blue?

    Sincerely,
    Ione, who wishes she knew where to send these.

  • Bewtiched, Bemused (Draft #1)
    10–16 minutes

    Bewtiched, Bemused (Draft #1)

    November 6 – Sunday (Evening)

    The snow had fallen the night before last and shimmered like crystals under the sun the morning thereafter. She had come to visit me, like she always did on Sundays; she was wearing her burgundy coat, two sizes too big. She had long hair which flowed down to her shoulder, a bit unkempt and frizzy, but luscious, nonetheless; sun-bleached brown locks cascading into itself. My eyes had traced her gate, hurried, but not rushed, it was purposeful. She had placed herself by the large Palladian window, the sun pranced through it, kissing her gently along her cheek, ceasing just shy of her lips, the phantom of which taunted mine. She had pulled out a book then, one I hadn’t read before, but I don’t remember the cover all too well anyway, just the grip she held, her delicate fingers caressing the leather tome, long nails gently scraping its surface. I shuddered.

    That evening, she’d left when the sun had set, and the courtyard was lit only by hissing lampposts. Her gate was purposeful, it was always purposeful, she knew where she wanted to go, and she had nary a wasted step. It was like watching a film, the way she strode, there was an art to it. I watched her fade out of view from where I sat, dumbstruck, my tea now gone cold.

    I wonder… what’s her name?

    November 8 – Monday (Morning)

    By some twist of fate, we sat next to each other in the lecture hall. I hadn’t noticed we had a class together until I walked in, scanned the room for my seat, which someone else had stolen from under me that day, and upon searching for a replacement, I saw her at the back of the class. She was scribbling in her notebook, staring absently at it as her pen glade along the paper. I glanced at her intermittently, being sure not to let my eyes linger too long in case she noticed, despite how badly my eyes wanted to drink her in. I couldn’t tell if she was writing or drawing, but given the odd swishes of her wrist, I’d bet on the latter. The professor began to profess, as they do, and I rummaged through my bag for a pen and notebook of my own. I patted every corner, but I couldn’t seem to find it. There was, however, a peculiar notebook-shaped object, my fingers traced a spiral-bound structure but that couldn’t be it, and there was this small bag which had these long thin plastic structures inside, which may have been a pen but I don’t think it was. I searched harder, making a face of desperate perplexion when a tantalizing voice emanated from beside me.

    “Do you need a pen and paper?”

    I glance up at my savior, “That would be great”

    “Here”  
    |
    “Thank you”

    And I began taking notes with this newfound pen, and this newfound paper. The pen was weighted excellently, just heavy enough at the top to fall into my fingers comfortably, and the paper was just thick enough to not need something under it to write comfortably.

    At the end I returned her pen, she grabbed it, and I offered a gentle resistance before letting go, “Thank you again”

    “Oh, it’s nothing”

    “What’s your name?”

    “Valerie, yours?”

    “Cercei”

    November 11 – Friday (Morning)

    She’d missed lecture Wednesday. I’d spent the class gnawing at my pen cap till the plastic shavings came off into my mouth, and then I found another pen to do the same. My notebook page for 11/11 lacked class notes but had hastily sketched figures all over it. My head was racing. What did I do wrong? Was it tugging on the pen?? Am I a fucking idiot why’d I do that? Did I scare her off? Oh god, I did, didn’t I? Did she drop the class? Because of me? Is she avoiding me? I’ll get to see her on Sunday at least. Should I say hi to her on Sunday? What should I wear on Sunday? Maybe… no, no, she’s already seen me wearing that, I can’t wear that again.

    Today, It was 4 minutes till lecture began. Is she coming today?

    3 minutes. She’s probably not coming today.

    2 minutes. She wouldn’t sit with me even if she did.

    1 minute. I’m repulsive, I made her uncomfortable, I ruined everything.

    The shuffling of the desk chair beside me jolted me back to reality, and I glanced over to see her sitting there. I smiled warmly at her, and she did so back, tacking on a gentle wave.

    She loves me.

    At the end of lecture as she got up to leave, I timed my exit with hers. We walked out of the hall together, first sharing brief pleasantries regarding the weather, what the rest of her schedule looked like today and how did mine.

    “Were you out sick Wednesday?” I asked as we made our way to the courtyard where branching paths split off into different buildings and colleges.

    “Oh,” Valerie started, shifting uneasily, “No, something just came up at home. My dad’s been…” she trailed off.

    My heartbeat caught, this poor girl. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not, I understand”

    Valerie smiled in relief, “Thanks”

    We walked a bit further in silence. “So, you’re an artist?”

    “Oh! Yeah, I am, do you wanna see?”

    We sat under a naked tree by the courtyard; winter coats pressed against snow. She pulled out her notebook, sticker-bombed to hell and began flipping through pages. There were sketches of trees, a few buildings I recognized. A variety of fantastical characters and creatures.

    “Holy shit, these are gorgeous”

    “Thanks! I paint too, but I don’t have those on me”

    “I’d love to see them sometime! I used to paint, but it’s been a long while”

    “Aw, why’d you stop?”

    “I…” it was my turn to trail off, “I just haven’t felt very… inspired in a while”

    “I totally understand,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder. Warmth flowed through my entirety, as if I could sit out in the snow for hours on end and never feel cold while I had her hand on my body. I want her hands on my body, “If you do paint something though, I’d love to see yours too.”

    I smiled at her, and she smiled back.

    “Well, I’m going to be late to class. I’m headed this way,” she gestured in the opposite direction I was headed, and my heart sank just a little, “I’ll see you next week!”

    “Yeah. Have a good rest of your day!”

    I watched her walk off afterwards; she veered left out of sight after crossing the chemistry building, and then towards her next class. I wondered where it was.

    November 13 – Sunday (Evening)

    I sat at my usual spot in the library with my cup of tea. It was a quarter past 2. Valerie usually shows up around now every Sunday, almost ritualistically. She’ll sit down at the large Palladian window, and she’ll bring out a book to read. I packed my largest thermos, I had it filled with black tea, and I made sure to pack an extra travel cup for her. As if by clockwork, the library door opened, and she walked in, aiming directly, purposefully, for her usual spot. It was just then that it occurred to me, how do I walk over without seeming like I’m following her? I’d have to wait, and so I did, I’d brought out a pen and paper and began sketching. I watched the time tick by, but eventually the ceaseless ticking and the tocking bored me. It was then that I glanced back down to where Valerie sat… she was gone. Fucking… DAMN IT! I pressed the pencil into the notebook till the lead snapped off and rolled onto the floor.

    Damn it, damn it, damn it!! My breath began to hitch and my lungs pushed out the air faster than I could breath it in.

    DAMN IT…

    deep breaths… I try to take deep breaths
    but I can’t.
    I cant. I can’t

    I can’t 

    DAMN IT…  

    I inhale sharply and hold my breath

    I breathe out slowly

    damn it… fucking… fuck.

                God fucking damn it.


    Cont. November 13 – Sunday (Late Night)

    Inside, I offered to make her some tea. The thermos was over-steeped by now, so I threw it out and began boiling the kettle. I asked her what tea she’d prefer, she said she didn’t have a preference. I chose ginger. I handed her a cup.

    “You said you used to paint” she said, blowing on her cup of tea, “do you have your supplies here?”

    “I did, and I do”

    “What did you paint?”

    “People. I did portraits and figures”

    “Why people?”

    “I found it interesting. Bodies are varied; they’re a challenge. They’re like fabric, the different ways they fold. Hair, fat, muscles, wrinkles.”

    “Why’d you stop?”

    “I,” I took a sip of my tea, the ginger burned slightly going down my throat, “I lost… the drive”

    “What do you mean?”

    “The passion for it, I guess. It stopped exciting me”

    “Do I excite you?”

    I stopped breathing, “Huh?”

    “Do I excite you?” Valerie enunciated every word.

    “Yes”

    “So,” Valerie stood up and began to disrobe, “paint me”

    November 14 – Monday

    The image of Valerie was seared into my mind. The way she lay, the way I couldn’t take my eyes off her, the way she didn’t want me to. Lecture was about to begin, and Valerie wasn’t here yet. She tended to cut it close, and I was right. 1 minute before lecture began, she ran in and took her seat. Her hair was a bit frizzy, and her eyes were deeply set. I smiled at her; she didn’t smile back.

    Nearing the end of lecture, I aimed to time my exit with hers, but she shot up out of her chair. “Sorry, I’m in a rush” and she walked out the door before I could say anything more than a “Okay, bye”

    What was wrong? Did she hate me? Did I do something wrong? What about last night? Did something happen? Did I do something wrong? Did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong? 

    Fuck Fuck—

    I can’t breathe.

    November 16 – Wednesday

    After lecture, we walked together again. It was snowing, every step crunched underfoot.

    “Are you alright? You seemed a bit distraught yesterday”

    “Oh… yeah, sorry, I’m fine. My dad, he, uh, came down to visit the night before and we just,” she sighed heavily, “we just argued a lot, and then I had to run early to finish an assignment that was due within the hour”

    “You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry it’s been rough”

    “Thanks… I’m getting by though”

    “Glad to hear it”

    Silence reigned supreme for a moment.

    “Did you want to see the painting I did?”

    She lit up, “Definitely!”

    “Are you free to come over tonight?”

    “Yeah, I can make it work”

    November 16 – Wednesday (Evening)


    Valerie and I walked over to my dorm room together. It was a quiet night; there weren’t many people who stayed out late on frigid nights like tonight. The snow shimmered under the lamplight and the moon, Valerie said she loved the snow, and so did I. There was a calmness to it, not only did it keep people inside, but it also softened the outside world. Sounds weren’t ever as loud, and every step had a comforting crackle to it. We said we loved seeing the footprints, it’s the only time you get to see footprints on cement, and every step tells a story of someone going somewhere, or a bunch in a circle tells another. Valerie and I walked closely, our footsteps paired together. I hoped that if someone saw it, they’d imagine a couple holding hands.

    “Did your dad leave?”

    “He left that night”

    “Do you want to talk about it?”

    “There’s not much to say. He drinks, he always has, he’s got anger issues, he always did. My mother never stood up to him, because why would she? She was scared, but I wasn’t. So, our screaming matches have been a part of our father-daughter bond for as long as I can remember”

    I didn’t really know what to say, responding with a…

    “That sucks”

    …felt reductive.

    “Tell me about it,” we walked up the stairs to the entrance to my dorm.

    “Never mind that, how’d your painting turn out?”

    I smiled, “Well, I had a gorgeous model, I just hope I did her justice” I turned the key and pushed open the door.

    “Oh! It’s a portrait? That’s exciting! I’ve never actually done portraits before. Is that what you usually paint?”

    The door fully opened, revealing the portrait at the center of the room. Valerie locked eyes with herself. I watched her take the step into the room, examining the artwork.

    “Wow, that’s excellent. The brush work, the—” she paused, “Who… who was your model?”

    “You?” I said

    “What?” Valerie turned to face me, and her eyes widened further, opposite her were more portraits, paintings and sketching all in different poses, “How did–?”

    All of her.

    “You came over…?”

    “When?!” Valerie took one step backwards, almost knocking over the easel.

    “Sunday night.” I took a step forward, “You came over, I made you tea,” I was getting annoyed, a tension held strong at my temples, “You asked me to paint you?”

    “Cercei, I wasn’t in town”

    “Of course you were, you were here” I said.

    “Cercei,” Valerie’s voice cracked, “you’re scaring me”

    “You’re lying to me!” I said
    .
    “Cercei, please, I want to leave” Water welled up in her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes.

    “Stop lying to me then” I said.

    “Cercei please…” tears were crawling down her eyes, “I want to leave”

    “NO!” I said, “Why don’t you believe me?!”

    Valerie bolted, she ran towards the door, pushing past me. I reached out to grab her, getting purchase on the ends of her dress. It snagged on her and she fell forward, head slamming against the corner of the dresser. She hit the floor with a hollow thump, blood pouring out of her head.

    “Valerie! No, no, no, no!!” I yelled, cradling her body, pressing against her wound, but her eyes were already glazed over. “No… please. I need you”

    I pulled her up and set her down on the couch, “You’re so beautiful,” Taking off her jacket, unzipping her dress. She lay there; she was beautiful. She was art, she would be art. She’d be my art. She’d be my muse, she’ll always be my muse.

    I placed a canvas on my easel, and I began to paint.

  • Fresh Meat: Flash Fiction
    3–5 minutes

    Fresh Meat: Flash Fiction

    The following was submitted for a class.

               The ocean grumbled and groaned, tossin’ the ship back and forth in its tantr’m. The men held down their mugs on the o’ken table, palms as lids so the rations don’t spill over, ‘course, some did. One’a’the mugs lay tipped onto the floor, one sorry bloke stared helplessly at the thick chum, seeping into the wood; we all av’rted our eyes, gripping our own mugs tighter. The lads and I were having a game of cards, least we were trying to, the ocean wasn’t too keen on it, it seemed.

    The ocean struck the ship again, the wood coffin cried out like thunder. The hold lurched and everyone fell forward with it, thudding against the furnishings. “F- auGhk!!” the lower edge of the table struck my stomach, I sucked sharply, gritting my teeth, and accidentally crumpling the Jack of Hearts I held in my hand. Two other boys fell and slid to the other side of the cabin. The room fell into an anticipatory silence, all’a us eyes looked around steadily, gauging the planks an’ scanning ‘em for cracks; could never be too sure that the ship won’t give.

                “Oi lads, steady. ‘tis no problem at all” said Barns, one of the older fellow on board. He had a red beard matted with weeks of grime, looked like a damn nest, as if some bird burrowed its way inside and built it out of loose splinters of wood and barnacles, “We repaired her two moons ago in Jango, she’ll hold.”

                “ ’ow can you be all that sure, eh?” cried one’a’the boys from the other side of the hold, steadyin’ himself on a barrel behind him and massaging his bruising hip. I wince at the thought, not fun, hurts whenever ya’ move. “At this fuckin’ rate…” the boy paused, trying to control the shaking of his voice, “it’ll be the locker for all’a us!” he cried, boy was sheddin’ tears now. Hard to watch. I wince at the thought, not fun.

                “Oh, shut up, would ya? Brown ye’ pants, have you?” said Brans, getting up from his seat, wiping his mouth of the ale dripping down his chin, surprisingly steady on his feet with the boat rocking under him, “Fuckin’ pansy, wipe ye’r bloody eyes!!” Aw hells, there he goes… “Fuckin’ disgrace!!”

                I push off my seat, steadying myself on the table against the movement of the ship, “Oi, go easy on the lad. First fuckin’ day, Barns, first fuckin’ day!”

                Barns seemed’ta ignore me, though could be he didn’ hear, fucker’s practically deaf.

               “Barns!” I cried again, the rest of the boys just watched, you could tell they wanted to help, you could tell they didn’t know how.

               “You think all’a these men in here ain’t as scared as you?” Barns bellowed, gesturing wildly behind him, “Ya thinks I ain’ as scared ya? No matter how much fuckin’ time ya spend on a ship, I’ll fuckin’ tell ya,” The boy practically curled into a ball under the yelling, desperately trying to run back but there was nowhere to run to “it never gets less bloody terrifyin! Ya’ think y’urself special? Well, you ai—”

               The ship lurched again, Barns fall forward onto the floor, catching himself on his arms and knees. His mug of rations rolled beside him. He looked at it longingly for a moment and tried to stand. I scamper out of my seat, reaching down to help him up but he swats me away.

               “Let go’a me, ye fuckin—” he looks up at me, I glare at him sternly, and he rolls his eyes, groaning loudly, letting me hook his arm around me, and then looked at the boy, who looked both terrified to continue sobbing and doing so uncontrollably. Barns sighed heavily, “Sorry, lad, what’s your name?”

               “P- Patty, sir” the boy managed to croak.

               Barns snickered, and a wry smile tugged at his lips, “Welcome aboard, Patty. Word’a advice, f’r the love’a God, just do what the rest’a us do… fuckin’ pray. It’ll keep ya’ sane”.

               We turned around to face the table, the men quickly darted their eyes back to their cards and continued playing as if nothing had taken place.

               “Ahem, Ya’ got any… threes?”

               “Uh, go fish”.

                I smiled, and leaned in closer to Barns, “go easier on the kids, will ya?”

  • Little Bronze Birdie
    3–5 minutes

    Little Bronze Birdie

    This was submitted for a class.           

                “Aaaaand…” Ratchet tinkered with the last couple of cogs, squinting through the magnifying lens attached to their goggle, brushing out bits of stray, scraggy hair out of their eyes. It was a bright and sunny day, light bled into the room, casting everything in a golden glow, glinting off the bronze parts which littered almost every corner of the room, neat piles, not-so-neat-piles, stacked precariously on shelves, or otherwise fastened to the walls, “almooost… there!”

                The newborn creature lay before them, a clockwork bird, about as still as… well, any other object, though, it was so much more than that. Ratchet pulled open a drawer beside them, inside were piles of finely ground coal, and scoops of various sizes on top. Ratchet grabbed one of the smaller ones, scooping a little bit of coal, and pouring it into a small valve on the back of the bird.

                Click. Click. Psshh. It spurred, letting out gusts of air from pressure valves.

                Click.

                CLICK. PSSHHH.

                A groaning sound emanated gently from it, a soft whirring and then the glow of hot coal in it’s stomach. “Yaha!!” Ratchet leaped off his chair which promptly fell to the floor with a loud bang, kicking up plumes of dust.

                Click. Click.

                The bird hobbled to its feet, and craned its neck, intricate gears clicking melodically as it moved. It spread one wing, large gears embedded in the centre of them both, it spun gently with the bird’s slow flaps. The bird hopped again, springs on its leg contracting as it landed, and flying back upright.

                “Hello!” Ratchet said, leaning in close to the animal, they felt their chest swell, “you’re aliiive!” Ratchet yelled, raising their arms in the air in a grandiose huzzah.

                The bird hopped over to the windowsill, kicking aside papers as it did. The construct pecked at the glass. It sounded like a coin tapping gently against it. “You wanna go outside?” Ratchet called, “I’ll get it for you!”

                Ratchet went over to the window, unlatched the bronze clasp, and pushed open the glass, and the bird immediately leapt out, flapping its wings as it did, CLICK, CLICK, sunlight encased it, it glowed like a star and for a moment, CLICK, it flew! It flapped it wings hard, CLICK, CLICK, and the wind swept it from underneath, and it soared!

                “Yeaahaha! Go birdie go!” Ratchet cried, but it only flew a foot or so before it went straight down.

                “No! No! No!” Ratchet tried to grab it out of the air, flinging themselves out the window and clambering onto their desk, but it was just out of reach. The bird plummeted downwards, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, it flapped its wings desperately, “No! Please! Someone catch it!” They yelled out the window, “Watch out!”

                CLANG.

                The bird struck the ground, Ratchet watched as gears rolled out of its carcass, like someone just dropped a coin-purse. Their heart sunk. In that instant, they leapt off their table, and ran out of the room. “He’s dead!! Birdie fell!! HE’S DEEAD!!” they yelled, eyes tearing up. They ran through the house, darting around corners, sprawled chairs, Clockwork constructs and various tables.

                “What happened?!” a voice yelled from behind Ratchet, but they’d already turned the corner, grabbing the wall and sling-shotting themselves down the spiral staircase, fingers glazing the bricks on the sides, and burst out onto the streets. The sun beat down on them, their eyes stung as the light pierced them, “Ack!”, they raised their hands to shield their eyes and darted their head around frantically.

                A small crowd had gathered just outside the workshop window. “Move! Move! Outa the way! Outa the way!” Ratchet yelled, pushing people aside and burrowing their way into the crowd.

                There it was. Ratchet stared at the remains of what was Birdie, who lay sprawled on the concrete.

    “…” Ratchet stared blankly at the mass of bronze.

                Click. Click.

                “!!” Ratchet perked up, eyes brightening, they leapt beside Birdie, reaching out to it meekly, afraid to touch it in case it broke further.

                Click. CLICK.

                Birdie craned its neck towards Ratchet, and tried to hop, but one of their legs was broken. The construct did a lopsided tumble and rolled onto its side.

                Ratchet reached over and raised it gently, they felt its warmth in their hands, but the glow was dwindling. “I’ll fix you right up, Birdie, don’t you worry! And next time…” they looked up at the sky with conviction, “you’ll fly!”

  • Family Dinners
    2–3 minutes

    Family Dinners

    The following was submitted for a class.

                There’s the sound of music clanging gently against my skull, and the droning of the road like a dull ache.

                In.

                            One. Two. Three. Four.

                Out.

                            One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight

                In.

                            One. Two. Three. Four

                Out.

                            One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight

                In.

                            “YOU’RE LISTENING TO— Pszk”

                Huh?

                            “We’re here!”

                I look outside the car window. Man… it’s always so cold in Aunt Pol’s house…

                The car door clacked open. Snow crunched beneath my boot which was two sizes too small now; my toes felt cramped; it hurt, just a little.

                            “HIII” Aunt Pol screeched.

                Ack…

                            “Come on in! How was the drive?”

                SLAM. The door shut behind us.

                I can already feel my head starting to ache.

                            “Help yourself to any of the food! There’s also drinks in the fridge, you kids better not touch the beer, y’hear! Now, sit down, sit down!”

                Oh God, okay… I look frantically for a chair at the dinner table, which was decorated with various decadent foods, I liked the head seat.

                            “How was ƚʜɘ pɿıʌɘ oʌɘɿ⸮ “

                            “Pretty good, Ⴑɒʏdɘᴎ iꙅ ꞁuꙅƚ ꙅƚɒɿƚiᴎǫ ƚʜ ǫɿɒdɘ, ɒᴎd Kat’s ɒ|moꙅƚ iᴎ ɔo||ɘǫɘ!”

                            Hm?

                            “Isn’t that exciting! What’s your major going to be?”

                Is she talking to me…? I look around the table, everyone’s eyes are fixed on me, expectantly.

                “Oh uh…”

                “Major?”

    “Oh! I’m planning on poli sci”

                “Oh, what is that exactly?”

                “Political Science”

                “Fun! Are you going to be a politician?”

                “Well,” I look to Ma, she’s watching me close, “probably not but I haven’t really decided anything yet”

                “Right, right. Of course, well don’t fret too hard, you’re still young”

                “She’s not getting any younger though!” laughed Ma.

                I breathe in my nose, and quietly blow it out of my mouth, and eye the grandfather clock in the room: 1:30 p.m.

                Aunt Pol turned back to Ma, “So, how is everything else? I hear that ʏou’ɿɘ ǫɘƚƚiᴎǫ ɒ ᴎoiƚomoɿq! Tʜɒƚ’ꙅ ꙅo ɘxɔiƚiᴎǫ, ?ǫᴎiod ɘd uoʏ ||’ƚɒʜw”

                ”woᴎ ƚʜǫiɿ ʞɔɘᴎ ʏm ᴎwod ǫᴎiʜƚɒɘɿd ꙅi ƚᴎɘmɘǫɒᴎɒM .dɘƚƚimduꙅ ƚi ɘvɒʜ dᴎɒ ,ƚɒʜƚ ||ɒ ʜƚiw ɘᴎod m’I ɿɘƚᎸɒ ꙅɘmoɔ ’ᴎoiƚomoɿq‘ ʏm dᴎɒ ,woᴎ ƚʜǫiɿ ꙅƚɔɘꞁoɿq ꙅuoiɿɒv ᴎo ǫᴎiʞɿow m’I dɘƚɒɔi|qmoɔ ꙅ’ƚI“

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “Kat? You’ve barely touched any of your food, are you okay?”

                Hm? Oh. I glance at the clock, 2:12pm.

                “Oh, yeah, sorry! Just lost in thought, I guess” I poke at the veggies and mashed potatoes on my plate, slowly working my way through them.

                “Take your time, dear! I know how I was at your age, haha!”

                          What do you mean by that?

                “Oh, we were much better!” My dad chimed in, he’d been quiet all afternoon… or maybe I just missed it. “Kids these days qoᴎ’ƚ uᴎqɘɿꙅƚɒᴎq ʍʜɒƚ ıƚ ɯɘɒᴎꙅ ƚo ʍoɿʞ ʜɒɿq, ɒ|| ƚʜɘʏ ʍɒᴎƚ  ƚo qo ıꙅ ꙅıƚ ɒɿouᴎq ɒᴎq q|ɒʏ ʌıqɘo ǫɒɯɘꙅ Ꮈoɿ ʜouɿꙅ uqoᴎ ʜouɿꙅ oᎸ ƚʜɘ qɒʏ, oɿ ɿɘɒq ɒ qooʞ, quƚ ᴎo ʜuꙅƚ|ɘ, ᴎoᴎɘ ʍʜɒƚꙅoɘʌɘɿ!”

                Blegh… this broccoli is undercooked.

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “It was great catching up, I’ll see you soon, okay? You’d better come home to ours next time, we’d love to have you!”

                The car door closed.

                “Pszrk- YOU’RE LISTENIGN TO—”

                I enjoyed the silent ride back home.

  • Proof of Concept: Fight Scene using My Novel’s Magic System
    2–3 minutes

    Proof of Concept: Fight Scene using My Novel’s Magic System

                Räth’s heart pounded in her throat, her hands tense around her polearm; she felt the alo flow through the weapon and herself, a cold sensation throughout her whole body. Mundo stood opposite her, a large Athipa fighter, a two-handed axe at his side, she could feel the cold alo oozing of it.

                He took a step forward, tendrils of alo from his feet writhing its way into the ground, he planted his leg and the ground beneath it burst up, hurtling him towards Räth, axe primed for her throat. Räth inhaled sharply, gathering herself just before he struck, she ducked under, front leg stretched out, she thrust her spear up, hoping to skewer him but it bounced off his black exoskeleton, scratching it slightly.

                Mundo landed on the other side, catching himself with the 6 legs at his back, springing off them and bringing the axe over his head, and pouncing on Räth. She didn’t have time to move. The spear in her hand burst inro array of cyan strings, she raised her arm to block the axe, trying to form a shield in front of her moments before impact. The axe struck the half-formed armour, breaking it immediately into another burst of string, throwing her. She rolled on her back, and caught herself with her hoofs, but Mundo was already at her again.

                She rolled out of the way and got to her feet again, running around him in circles, her legs propelling her faster and faster until Mundo couldn’t track her with any of his four eyes. Just then she b-lined towards him, a short dagger forming in her hands, he turned to face her, but she was faster. She jumped on him, running the blade through the gap between his plates and into his neck. There was a moment of stillness, Mundo tried to throw Räth off with one hand, but he was too weak, and it felt more like a gentle push. The axe in his hand fell, slowly dissipating into strings on the ground. Mundo fell to his knees, shaking the ground as he did, and knocking Räth off beside him and onto her back. He fell forward onto the ground, and Räth was left alone. She took a deep breath, blowing out a sizable gust of wind to empty the alo in her bloodstream, and then exhaustion struck, she felt her eyelids close, and all was quiet.

    Author’s Note:

    I didn’t mean to post this when I was writing it but I thought it would be interesting to put up, and see what the masses think! I don’t explain much of what is happening in this fight in relation to the system, but I quite liked the flow and momentum of this piece which I hope you will to! Räth is my MC, and Mundo is a punching bag I made for this fight. Let me know what you think in the comments! I might post excerpts as I actually get to working more on my novel, but I’m always afraid things will get stolen… so we’ll see. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it!

  • The River Runs Deep
    5–7 minutes

    The River Runs Deep

    The following was submitted for a class.           

                Click. PzzRrzrKkZrrzzrr.

                They closed their eyes.

                The harp sang gently, notes flitting through the air like delicate flower petals, carried by a divine humming which burrowed into Yvan’s mind. The ballroom was bordering on ostentatious, the pillars and arches gilded with gold, the blaze of the hearth throwing dissonant light onto it the reflective surfaces, making the whole room breathe with the flame.

                One. Two. Three. One. Two Three. Yvan counted the steps in their head. Taking one forward, and Zel took a step back. They held each other’s hand, waist, shoulder; gently ebbing and flowing, like a groggy river who’d just woken up. The fiery, golden ballroom heaved around them, fellow dancers stepping to the melody. Everyone in the ball wore bright colours, reds and blues, greens, and yellows. Zel herself wore green, and Yvan wore blue.

                Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.

                Pzzkrrzk.

                The violin thrummed and called out in a shrill, discordant melody, flanked by gentle strings, sending notes swimming through the open air. The violin swelled, writing her name with a pompous signature as the musician played the instrument with a burning passion, quickly sliding the bow on the steel strings, beads of sweat dripping down their face.

                Yvan danced faster, and so did Zel. They held each other close, stepping to their left, and then behind, pushing each other apart, and leaping to the right. They let their bodies sway, controlled by the current of the music, before pressing them together again; feeling each other’s heartbeat press against their own, noticing the reflective glow of the fire on each other’s sweat-glazed foreheads.

                Intoxicated on the music, Yvan swivelled on their heels, bringing Zel with them in an unnatural twist. She tripped on her foot, nearly falling before Yvan caught her and swooped her back up in an awkward motion, Sorry! they mouthed. Zel rolled her eyes, stepping aggressively on their toe. Yvan winced but smiled through it.

                pZZk–

                One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

                The song slowed, they slowed with it. Gentler steps now, then Zel took the lead. She placed her hands on Yvan’s waist, pulling them along with her, taking them into a waltz. She stepped lightly left, then right, then back, then she let go, she spun backwards, and looked up at Yvan, her eyes calling them closer, and they obliged, walking up to her, and gently taking her outstretched hand. Zel spun them, Yvan’s deep blue tailcoat fanning out, their feet twisting around each other, barely keeping up with the twirl. Zel pulled them back in by their waist, holding them against her, Yvan gazed into Zel’s eyes, she was enjoying herself, and so were they.

                The song began to climb.

                The rest of the ball faded into a blur, as if they’d just entered a painting, and the pigment spread and splayed with each step, staining the canvas into an abstraction of what was once the ballroom. Every motion of their bodies, a different stroke of the brush. Yvan took a step forward, and Zel swirled away, extending one leg in front, and bending the other, circling Yvan in a hypnotising display. They spun and grabbed her arm, twirling her upright, placing their hand on her waist, and taking two steps to the left, then forward. The rest of the world no longer existed and neither of them could be sure it ever had.

                The music hit its crescendo.

                Trumpets blared, the violin screamed, the horns cried. They pushed apart, holding onto each other with one arm, the other outstretched behind them. They whirled and threw each other into independent spins, their attire splaying out. The world smeared into a psychedelic whirlwind; their eyes glowed with the colours. The very floor seemed to come apart, the marble rippling with each step, like a droplet falling into still water. They pirouetted, landing lithely on their feet, dipping down, and arching their back, sweeping a leg one way, and sweeping it back the other. They spun and spun and spun till they were dizzy, till their feet could no longer do what they commanded it to.

                CRACK.

                Zel twisted her ankle, a scream clawed its way out her throat and she collapsed, falling to the floor, the whirlwind of colours stopping with a sudden jolt, its kaleidoscopic patterns unnervingly still. The music continued softly, muffled as if from another room.

                PZZCZRkkrZCrrZkkRrrzzRRz.

                They opened their eyes. Throat painfully dry, their tongue cracked like the desert floor. Yvan groaned, wearily moving unfocused eyes around the room, it was dreary inside, dust wafted in the air, a thin coating on the every surface; one large window overlooking an alley between two smaller buildings, both of which had been abandoned for some time. The ballroom was gone, the colours were gone, Zel was gone; the only sound aside from Yvan’s breathing was the soft buzzing of electricity in the walls and static from the radio.

                PzzCrZk— Click.

                They turned it off. Their feet were sore, and their t-shirt clung to their skin, sopping with sweat. They took a step, knees weak under them, old floorboards creaking beneath their weight, another step and their knees buckled, Yvan fell, almost slamming their head into the dresser if they didn’t catch themselves on the wall.

                “Auuarrgh…” they groaned, meekly moving a shaky hand to the drawer handle, the metal cold to the touch. Yvan pulled it open and grabbed a burgundy velvet bag from inside. They let themselves fall to the floor, sliding their back down the wall. Yvan unzipped the container, reaching inside, rifling through the wads of mildly bloodied paper towels, grabbing one and setting it aside. They opened more compartments, and pulled out a rusty quarter, a frayed rope, and a syringe with some blueish-green liquid inside.

                They placed the quarter at the fold of their elbow, tying the rope around it tightly, holding it in their yellowed teeth. They grabbed the syringe, wiping a bit of dried blood away from the needle with the paper towel. They took deep breath and placed it against their skin. And they pushed.

                They winced as syringe entered their body, and they pressed it in; a cool warmth ran through their arm like a River flooding into and over them, pushing them down into its bed and holding them safe.

                They crawled over to the radio and changed the station.

                Click. PzzRrzrKkZrrzzrr.

                They closed their eyes.

  • Storm over Innsmouth
    12–18 minutes

    Storm over Innsmouth

                Thunder clapped. The room danced with the waves and took Cyrus as an unwilling partner, flinging her side to side on the hammock fastened to creaking wooden beams like a wild bull trying to buck her off. Damn it all, she thought to herself, retching silently. The room around her shuddered against the wind. It was cold, she bundled herself in a blanket, her feet sticking out abandoned to the chill. A giant wave crashed into the side of the vessel, the ship lurched to the left, tossing her off the hammock. Fuck! She stumbled onto the floor waving her hands for a modicum of balance, but the sea had other plans; the floor moved beneath her, she heaved forward and grabbed onto a support beam, hearing a wet crack as it budged under her weight. Shit! she inhaled sharply, wincing at the sharp pain travelling through her bad leg, breathing slowly through the agony.

                “And so, God shits in my dinner once again,” she groaned through gritted teeth, pushing herself off the beam. She urged her meal to stay in her stomach where it belonged. She’d signed up for the voyage knowing a storm was to strike in the night, still she’d never expected it to be as furious as it was. What God have we angered to incur such a fate? She sighed, and reached for her cane, its silver serpent-headed handle dented by the battering; damn it all, that was expensive, she frowned, grabbing the cane, sliding her thumb across a new indent. She limped her way to the doorframe, and leaned against it, feeling the ship undulate with the waves, at the mercy of its indifferent vastness. Her stomach turned, bile clawed its way up her throat, she swallowed, feeling its acidic burn as it travelled back down. Cyrus shook her head, steadying the vertigo. She reached for the locket around her neck and clutched it in her hands. Where’s that damned captain?

    ***

                  “Hoist up those fucking sails!” spat Captain Blake, ebony hair matted to her face. The wind tore at her coat, her hat long since overboard. Ripples of water rolled along the deck, the crew gripped slick rope, a game of tug of war with the wind; one with odds heavily stacked against them. Another incoming wave sought the vessel’s wreckage, towering over them before crashing into the side of the ship, tossing hundreds of gallons of water onto the deck, which tore across the deck snatching barrels and boxes of equipment. One such barrel hurtled towards Blake, surfing on the current, it struck in the chest, knocking her down and shoving her into the railings, she caught herself from falling off, but the barrel had struck her rib, knocking the wind out of her; she could already feel the bruise welling. Pray we make it out of this. She panted, catching her breath, and leaned on the railing, looking down into the inky water and her heart dropped, she saw them swimming, underneath the water, luminescent fins flailing underneath the waves, circling the ship. Christ alive, she snapped her head towards her navigator, “Where’s the closest port?!” she shouted, but the rain and winds dragged her voice away. Her throat complained at her for her ceaseless shouting, and she tasted metal, but she steeled herself, forcing herself to carry on. We’ve been through worse, she repeated over and over, trying to persuade herself. Fucking dammit.

                Blake pushed off the railing, fighting against wind and water as she slogged closer to her navigator and grabbed them by the shoulder, “Closest port?!” she yelled.

                “It’s impossible to tell, Captain!” they yelled over the rain, “The cloud cover hides the stars, and the winds have pushed us far off course! Somewhere between Innsmouth and Shelley?!” they paused, taken aback by what they just said, “No, God, no. Not Innsmouth, please not Innsmouth” their voice was shaking, the rain masking the tears that Blake knew were there, she grimaced, God almighty, protect this ship.

                “It’ll be okay, Piper! We’ll make it through this!” she tried to feign confidence, but she wouldn’t have believed herself then either, “Get inside and take shelter! We’ll follow once the sails are raised” Another wave crashed into the ship, knocking Blake backwards into the wheel, she tried to catch herself.

                Crunch.

                 FUCK! Blake screamed, her throat raw, blood making its way to her mouth. Thunder clapped, she fell to her side, clutching her hand against her chest, her finger mangled and bent, the anguish travelled down her whole arm, tense and throbbing.

                “Captain!” called Piper, their voice breaking into sobs; they’d managed to catch themselves with the railing, “Captain!” they screamed again

                “It’s alright!” Blake yelled through a clenched jaw, “I’ll be fine, get inside!” Piper nodded and scrambled for the door. Blake clawed her way up from the floor, the ship’s rocking back and forth actively fighting against her. Thunder cracked again, louder than before. She looked out at her crew, half-way managing to hoist the last sail. We might just make it, she thought, but she spoke too soon, another large wave came crashing in, washing over the deck. Most of the crew lost their footing, tossed across the ship into one another, their cries sounding above the din of pouring rain and furious ocean.

                A scream ripped through the air behind Blake, Piper was tossed across the deck, they struck the railing with their back and flipped over the edge, “Captain!!” she cried before splashing into the water. Blake rushed to the side of the ship, searching the murky water for any sign of Piper, but the sea had already claimed them. Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT! Thunder clapped again, howling winds tore at the sails, the sails swung around, fissures travelling up the mast.

                Crack.

                Faults crackled up the wooden mast. “Move! Get inside! Get inside right fucking now damn it!” Blake yelled over the railing, as more cracks appeared, “Run!!” she shouted, her voice breaking under the strain, but the elements had the crew pinned to the deck.

                Snap.

                The mast fell, striking the deck and cracking it as if it were an egg, crushing three crewmates under its weight, killing them before they’d so much as gotten the chance to scream. Fuck! Damn it!

                Another flurry of wind pushed her off her feet, she fell to the ground, but she made no attempt to catch herself. It parted the clouds revealing the moon amidst the stars, as if God itself was shining a spotlight onto their grave.

                Click.

                A gurgling, raspy breath creeped up from behind Blake, the sound of a wet rag being ripped from the floor over and over.

                Scrape.

                The sound of claws striking wood, it came from all around the ship. Then they peered over the edge, dark-green slick skin, slit green eyes, a spined fin across the centre of its bulbous, grotesque head.

                Dear god…

    ***

                Cyrus stood at the steps to the deck. She felt her heart in her throat, her eyes couldn’t focus. There was a steady dripping noise, wooden planks overhead stained red, a pool of blood cumulating underneath it, the stench was dizzying.

                The screaming had stopped a while ago, but she couldn’t get her legs to move. What in God’s name happened up there? Cyrus closed her eyes, trying to steady her breath but to no avail, she couldn’t think straight. Her palms were sweaty. Her mouth was dry. She clutched her locket, hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The rain had calmed, she could see beams of sunlight pierce through the cracks in the deck, but it was quiet, painfully quiet that she found herself missing the rain and thunder.

                Thunk.

                Cyrus jumped at the sound, tripping over herself and falling to the floor, her cane clattering away. Fuck, shit, fuck, she held her breath, waiting for the sound’s origin to descend the steps for an eternity, but no one came. She exhaled, slow and steady, making as little sound as she possibly could. Another thunk, then another, and another then one more, and it continued. Christ alive, what is that? The sound turned to dragging, she heard large masses being hauled along the deck like wet bags of garbage, accompanied by the gentle squelching of what sounded like wet rags being ripped from the floor over and over. She slowly got to her feet, using the beam behind her to steady herself, making each movement precisely. Don’t. Make. A. Sound.

                Crack.

                The beam behind her budged, her heart leaped, and she lunged away from the steps, moving as silently and as quickly as possible, hopping on one leg and grabbing any and every wall for support. Cyrus hopped towards the corner behind the steps, narrowly dodging shards of glass, a courtesy of the storm. She spun around the netted wall, hiding amongst the barrels and cargo. There was a broken mirror to her left, she covered her hand with her mouth, pressing tight and watched the reflection with bated breath. Her ears were ringing, she wanted to shut her eyes and pray, but some part of her was forcing her was keeping them open.

                Thud.

                A wet footstep, and then another. It got louder, and louder until a figure eclipsed the sunbeam, slowing making its way down the stairs. A raspy breath echoed through the hull, an unearthly noise resonated from the stairs, Cyrus swore it sounded like laughter. What is it? Is it toying with me? Does it know I’m here? God help me.

                The footsteps drew closer and closer, it stopped at where she had been mere moments ago. She saw it in the mirror now, it had slick globular flesh, its fins squelched against the wood, leaving wet imprints of its feet where it moved. Its webbed hands were tipped with long claws, and it had a row of sharp teeth. Its back was hunched as if its spine curved into itself. My God, a deep one, Cyrus gasped softly. The deep one moved perversely, as if it were mocking the way humans walked. Its neck swayed sideways as it looked around, like a snake being charmed. It dropped to all fours, a spurt of slick from its body fell onto the floor, it craned forward and leaned down, rubbing its gills across Cyrus’ cane, she grimaced. It moved along the floor, its claws clicking against the wood. Its rasped, gurgled breathing getting closer and closer, before it suddenly stopped, raising to its hind legs, resting its claws on the wall beside it with a gentle scratch.

                Cyrus held her breath, adrenaline pumped through every vein in her body. Every cell, every molecule told her to run but her mind said there was no point. She watched the deep one breathe, its chest gently rising and falling with its gills, its eyes were glazed over, as if it was blind. It moved nearer; can it smell me? Can it hear me? Can it sense me? Fuck, fuck, God, fuck.

                It drew even closer, until it stood right beside Cyrus. It was large, far larger than it looked from afar. It hulked over her, her heart beat faster, at that point she hadn’t thought it was possible. Tears filled her eyes, she fought them back, blinking the wet away and trying to steel herself, seeing the creature through a blurred lens.

                Its claws rested on the barrel she cowered behind, leaving scratch marks on its surface, it leaned down, its head craning towards her. It smelled like rotten seaweed and iron, its slick dripping down directly in front of Cyrus, she clenched her hands around her mouth harder, gently pushing herself away with her feet, every tendon in her bad leg screamed at her. She moved farther back, as far as she could until her back pressed against the wall with a soft thump.

                The deep one snapped to face her, she gasped, trying to push away but there was nowhere left to go, it placed its claws by her leg, and further still she tried to move. It crawled closer. She kicked harder, her lame leg striking a barrel, sharp pain ripped through her limb, Cyrus bit her tongue, trying her hardest not to scream. Fuck! Stop! Please, please, stop. The deep one crawled even closer, inches from her face. The smell of rancid seaweed and salt filled her nose, she fought back the urge to gag, clutching her foot, cradling the aching appendage.

                The deep one made a guttural noise, like earlier it felt as if it was laughing at her. It reached forward, its claws gently grazing her leg. It watched her closely, craning its neck till its head was just beside hers, its eyes gazed into nothingness, yet it faced her. Its gills flared with a sound of raw meat being gently pulled apart, Cyrus watched the wet flesh gently open and close, a voyeuristic fascination.

                Its claws scraped against her leg, creating shallow cuts on her flesh, it stung sharply, she winced, clenching her fists and her jaw. Its playing with me.She felt lightheaded, the odour penetrated her skull, clouding her mind. Its breath gurgled again, like a drowning man’s final words. She wanted to cry; she didn’t want to die yet. She moved her hand; it was shaking, and it took all she had to keep it steady. She reached up to her locket, gently fingering the cool metal. She opened it delicately in her hand, a picture of her wife sat inside, her smile gently bathing Cyrus in a warmth, immediately sapped away by the deep one breathing on top of her. She raised it to her mouth and kissed it gently, and she broke, tears welling in her eyes and flowing down her face. I love you, she sobbed.

                The deep one dug its claws deeper into her flesh, she screamed now, feeling a rage to fight back. She kicked at the deep one with her bad leg, her foot struck the creature with a wet clunk, feeling its ribs against her bare feet. It fell backwards, leaping back to its legs. It opened its spiked maw, and belted a croaky roar, shaking the cellar, jangling the empty bottles that had somehow not shattered in the night. It lunged forward, forcing its claws deeper into her leg, Cyrus bellowed in agony, grabbing the net behind her, and trying to kick at it again, but the deep one snapped at her leg, grabbing it between its teeth, tearing the flesh open and slathering it in its saliva. It gnawed at it, Cyrus screamed until her voice broke, the deep one tore the limb off, tossing it across the room. Cyrus bit her tongue and almost went straight through, she tasted blood in her mouth, pulling near the edges, drooling out of her mouth onto her clothes.

                She sobbed silently, weakly clawing at the wood, a desperate attempt to crawl away from the creature. It pulled harder, its spindly claws going through her leg and coming out the other end. Cyrus pulled her remaining leg, the anguish flowed through her body, her head rocked back and forth, she grabbed onto one of the barrels as the creature tugged again, hooking its talons on her bone, the pain was indescribable. Her eyes rolled back into her head, she tried to scream but no sound came out. The deep one started dragging her away, the wooden deck chafing her limp arms. She was hauled quickly, sliding over shards of broken glass which cut her open, and jammed themselves into her body. The deep one shrieked, yanking at her harder, dragging her up the steps, her head slammed against them, she felt warmth drip down her face.

                The sun blinded her when she was taken the deck, her body writhed involuntarily as the cold air washed over her wounds, the salty air caressed her exposed flesh, like scalding water that burned cold. Her eyes drifted; she felt herself lose grasp of consciousness, the pain began to fade, she glazed over the heavens, at the pitch-black sky scattered with stars.

                What?

                Her eyes weakly moved to what she had thought was the sun, and she saw it. Her pupils stretched, filling her iris. A being, indescribable. It was a small point, but its presence was boundless. Its form heaved to-and-fro like a heat wave, it had wings the size of sails, teeth the size of towers. It had thousands upon thousands of eyes inside its horrible, bestial mouth. It was tipped with appendages glazed in thick black hair, its lardy figure oozed into the inky sky, and spilled into the stars. It filled her eyes, everywhere she looked it was there. Its eyes were unnameable colours. Its skin was smoother than cut marble. It danced like the Northern lights. It was beautiful. Its body was like a mountain, vast as the ocean. It was hideous. It stood immovable. Cyrus smiled, her heart felt cold, her soul drained, her eyes glued to, God? Her hand reached to her locket, and she clutched it in her hand. She was at peace, she was okay.

  • Never Gets Old
    2–3 minutes

    Never Gets Old

    I took a seat at the counter, leaning forward, resting my arms on the cool surface. The cold sensation clawing its way through my sleeves.

    The cafe had a dark interior, mostly black. There were several lights in the ceiling, casting an even glow along the entire room. Multi-coloured lights bled in through closed curtains, as if filtered through ever shifting stained glass. Soft music hummed from somewhere, varying from 60’s tunes, to century old rhythms lost to time and even many that barely sounded like music at all.

    “Uh, give me the signature blend, I suppose” I said to the barista opposite me. An old man, tall, wrinkled, grey hair slicked back, standing straighter than ruler.

    “Of course” he had a very peculiar accent, he picked it up from years of service. There was a soft thud behind me; I peered over my shoulder, a customer had taken their seat. They were leaning back against a near mint condition sofa. One arm, if you could call it that, it was more a mass of tentacles, set on the table, dripping slick onto the marble. Their face was smooth and glistening, nose flattened and head bare. They were staring out the window, a flurry of lights passing by, swirling and blending together like some sort of drug-induced fever dream.

    “Here you are” the man said, pushing a cup of coffee across the counter, “One signature blend”

    “Thank you” I said, bringing the steaming cup to my mouth and taking a sip, feeling the warm bitterness travel through my body. A perfect cup, always was; “Mmm, how do you do it?”

    “Pour over” answered the man, a grin tugging at his lips. I scoffed, he’d never spill his secrets, not even his own name. I’ve been trying for a millennium to get it out of him.

    I took a deep breath, looking around this cafe, old beyond imagination yet still as pristine as ever. “Never gets old, huh?”, I heaved a heavy sigh.

    The soft music was replaced with a small dinging sound. Ah, the next stop. Suddenly, the mosaic blur of colours was replaced with a bustling street alley. Neon lights plastered on the sides of buildings, some jut out on little posts. Steaming and sizzling as the rain drops touched it. Large figures wandered around, but the windows had been fogged up and I couldn’t make anything out.

    The door opened, the little bell jingling overhead as a few faces walked into the cafe, I mean that literally. Two floating heads, hovering by whatever law of physics governed them. They took their seat at another booth at the far end of the cafe. There was a flurry of blue light, from within emerged a waitress, right beside the heads who just took their place.

    The old man smiled, “never gets old”

  • A Blissful Dance
    1–2 minutes

    A Blissful Dance

    She closed her eyes and twirled, her deep ebony hair swinging with her enchanting gyration. Dress fanning out, a plain white canvas upon which the stained glass cast a myriad of colours onto. Her feet moved in and out; crossing in, extending out, hopping softly, arms raised then down then extended straight all in one fluid motion.

    She danced to an audience, the centre of a wide circle of people dressed in luxurious silks. Suits and vests, dresses that needed servants to carry the ends. They all gawked at her; why wouldn’t they? She was perfect. She smiled wide, chest swelling with pride.

    She pranced along the ballroom, the music loud in her head. The symphony of the violin leapfrogging over the piano’s melody in a battle where her ears were the reward. She began humming the tune softly to herself, moving her body in accordance under the rainbow spotlight–

    Thud.

    Static.

    Bang.

    She opened her eyes. She was on all fours. She’d fallen?

    A caved in radio sprawled out before her; a cluttered room surrounding her. She wore an oversized hoodie, splattered with innumerable stains of unknown origin. Books and pencils, papers and clothes, eyeliner and lipstick all littered throughout the room. A cacophony of colours drowned out by a dull brown light piercing through the closed curtains into her bedroom.

    She pushed off the ground, wincing as her joints ached. She began humming a tune to herself. She closed her eyes, they stung with salty tears, and she twirled on aching legs. Her dull black hair swinging with her clumsy gyration.

Saye Kamal

Nouns


Communicator. Writer. Filmmaker.