One Story, One Day: Trenches

Eyes gaze at me longingly from between the wooden panels of the attics northern wall. I ignore them and continue folding the laundry. It's eyes follow my hands as I stack towels inside a worn brown basket on top of the washing machine. I've lived here alone since my parents died last year and I inherited my childhood home. The eyes, I think, are only a recent occurrence. The truth is, they could have been here the whole time, I just didn't notice them until recently. My head wants to say that it's only a creative response to living alone, but It feels different.

As I descend the stairs the thing moves along the wall, getting a better view. Before I take the last step I stare right back at it. Two empty points seemingly floating in the blackness. I'm not afraid, my parents are dead, and I'm not afraid. A low growl bites the warm, wet air in front of me. I sneer right back. Whatever you are, I'm not afraid.

When I sleep the creature worms it's way into my dreams, but it can't hurt me. It's not like Freddy Kruger, for all I know it's just afraid and fighting to be heard. Maybe I'm doing the same thing. Tonight I'm suspended in the air by some invisible force around my legs. Below me is the ocean stretching out for eternity in every direction. Out of the water a pale, dead face, the size of a whale, erupts from the waves to swallow me. Right before it's cracked lips close I recognize the face as my father. When I wake up, I calmly go downstairs to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. I guess you could say that it's all becoming routine.

I take sips of the warm, caramel liquid and let it warm my throat. Somethings not right, the flavor is a little off. When I look inside the cup, the light brown color of the creamer is being swallowed up by a dark circle. When I put my finger into the cup, it's cold as ice. My finger is covered in a thick layer of blood; something is breathing into my ear. In the reflection of my chrome mug I see a distorted face covered in scars, but I'm not afraid.

So the bad news is that Tor didn't accept my short story, but it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. I've read that the life of a writer is filled with disappointment, I'm just now finding it out first hand. Hopefully, with a little research, some of the ideas that I'm posting on this blog will become something in time. The above piece is part of a series that I keep coming back to about dark things in dark places. Shadows in the dark. It's funny because I don't believe in ghosts, which makes it even more terrifying for me to imagine something skulking around in places where I assume nothing exists.

One Story - One Day: Abortion

Disclaimer: This was written in the time span of less than a day in order to describe feelings related to the events that proceeded. Prepare for grammar and logical errors that would otherwise be non-existent in a fully put together piece of work.

Flash Fiction - Abortion

        She could feel them, seeds of who they might be, as they made home her solid frame. She could feel them as they rearranged her from the inside until she met their needs. They would feed and grow until, she knew, they would leave as they always do. But for some reason this time, something was different.
She couldn't see them, could understand exactly what was happening. They had been with her for years when a pain, like the ripping of a saw, cut deep into her abdomen. Something was wrong, but who could help? All she could do was wait.
Then as sudden as a burst of wind swarming with razer blades, the faceless came. They tore open her womb and with no regard to her structure or health, ripped one of them away. Her dress was torn to shreds, eyes bloodshot, and her womb emptier than it was before. As she laid down to sleep she whispered to herself
"It needed a cure, not a knife, it needed love, not a knife, it needed compassion, not a knife." The silent sound of air whisped through the vacuum of a gutted door.