Microfiction: Monsters

My mother told me there was no monster under the bed. I didn’t believe her then. I pulled the sheets over my face each night, leaving only my eyes exposed so I would be prepared when it crawled out.

Eventually I grew older and moved out of that room, into the real world. I graduated from high school, chose a major, entered the workforce and explored the rotating doors of love.

None of it was easy. My heart was broken over and over, and at times I didn’t know whether I was fighting my adversaries or my own self.

I remembered that bedroom from my childhood with fondness. And I realized that my mother had been right. The monster was never under my bed. It was prowling the streets, waiting for me.

 

Microfiction: The Stream

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Her thoughts were a stream that she dared not wade into. If she dipped her toe in she’d feel a tickle, nothing more. But if she were to immerse herself in its waters it would absorb her as if she were a leaf to be carried away. She would melt into its will, no longer distinct but a part of something primal, something bigger than her own sentience.

What land that stream hailed from she did not know. But she sensed its darkness on the horizon, calling her in fearful whispers.

Her thoughts were a stream that she dared not wade into. It was safer on land, on her own two feet.

(Image courtesy of Pixabay)

 

Written for Pensitivity’s Three Things Challenge #125.

 

 

 

 

The Dark Witch (Part 1)

My name is Onyx, and this is not my true form. I chose this shape so I could dwell in the hazy margins of humanity – a flicker, a shadow, nothing more.

I have been on this planet for two thousand years. My soul is older than that, but it’s when my true story began.

I don’t want this to be a sad story. It is full of pain, of hurt and betrayal, and loss. But, as we say on my home world, for every tear there is a star. I will find those stars and make them glow. When my galaxy is full of light, she will return to me.

She was lost to me a long time ago, but she appears every now and then in a different shape. I try and turn her tears into stars, but every time it is the same. Every time she meets the same fate.

So this is my story as well as my apology.

These are my tears that will never be stars.

 

Microfiction: The Realness of Things

Sometimes I wonder about the realness of things. Am I real? Are you real? Am I as real as you? Are you as real as me?

I feel the cold of rain as it hits my skin, and hear the whispers of trees as they send shivers my way. And surely this means that I’m a real girl.

But dream rain is just as cold, and dream trees whisper too. In the morning they are nothing but ghosts.

One day I, too, will be a ghost.

Then perhaps I am nothing but a dream.

Holiday #writephoto

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I just want to relax. They never let me do that. It’s always scare the humans this. Eat the humans that.

I get it. I’m a troll. I have a reputation to uphold. We’ve got a beautiful green space here and we don’t want humans trampling all over it.

I just don’t get why it always has to be me. I’m not the only scary thing around here. Those fairies can be nasty, and a nymph’s regular attitude should bring any unwanted tourism to a grinding halt. Sometimes I just want to look at the reflections of leaves in water…feel the cool of shaded bark against my skin…breathe in the green.

That’s why I’m putting in my leave. I’m taking a holiday. I deserve it. I’m soaking up the green and sleeping in till 10. Some nasty nymph can cover my shifts.

As for humans…the rules are simple.

Trample quietly and you won’t get your legs broke.

 

(Image courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo)

Written for Sue Vincent’s Writephoto Prompt: Tranquil

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My supernatural short story Aibhileen’s Curse is now free on Smashwords.

Beneath #writephoto

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Everyone’s afraid of the lake. It’s a beautiful lake. You can see the whole world reflected in it. But I guess that’s what they don’t like about it. They see things they don’t think should be there.

There’s the old woman who used to sell trinkets along the promenade. They often see her face watching them from beneath the reeds. But she never tries to hurt anyone. She just likes to watch and watch, with those large absinthe eyes.

Then there’s the kitten with the bite wound to its neck. He’s the one who scares the younger children. He’s always scrabbling to get to the top, pawing at the surface he can’t break. He gets so excited when he sees people. He still loves to play.

I was afraid of the lake too. I didn’t want to go that day, but Max was going to ask me to the prom, I could see it in his eyes, and I already had my little pink dress ready.

But Max wasn’t himself that afternoon. He was as still as the lake’s surface, and colder. Really, I hadn’t thought going to the ice cream parlour with Robbie was a big deal. We were just friends after all. But Max didn’t see it that way. We had a terrible fight. I thought I’d never forget the rage on his face as his hands tightened around my throat.

But that’s all a bad dream now. I still want what I wanted before. I want to go to the prom in my little pink dress. I want to feel like a fairy princess. And I want Max to hold my hand – not the Max from my nightmare, but the old Max, my Max. That was the promise life made to me. And promises are made to be kept.

The people above the surface are afraid of us. There’s really no reason to be. We’re not the other. We’re just like them. It just wasn’t our time to go.

 

(Image courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo)

Written for Sue Vincent’s Writephoto prompt: Beneath

 

Microfiction: Untrodden #writephoto

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They ask me why I walk alone in the snow. In the cold where no one else walks. Where the trees are bare and the moon is far.

They see only loneliness in the white.

But I cherish the snow. Those crystals glitter to me. The moon is sprinkled all around me. The trees are clothed in wind and stars.

Only in silence does the world speak. Only in stillness does the world move.

They ask me why I walk alone in the snow.

I ask them why they think I’m alone.

 

(Image courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo)

Written for Sue Vincent’s Writephoto Prompt: Untrodden

 

Microfiction: The Stillness of Your Anger

The stillness of your anger scares me. I’ve had anger before. It’s hot, it boils, it wants to come up through your being and into the world. But your anger has no movement. It has no heat. Its shape is unknown.

This anger is a deep part of your being. You hide it from the world. You hide it inside, where your soul is. The seal may crack one day, and you will enter this world. You will walk among us. I pray that day never comes.