Flash Fiction | a little bird tweets

Apr 21 2013

Elsie

Elsie swirled the teacup around in her crumpled, conical hands; working the tea-leaves into a symbol. She had provided readings for many people over many years; it had given them an insight into their future.

‘What can you see, Elsie?’ The young woman asked.

‘My dear, I saw my own face merged with a skull. The skull is a symbol of demise. I am going to die very soon.’

The woman trembled at Elsie’s words. As she became pinned to her chair with fear, she witnessed Elsie’s face contort; her eyes bulge and her head slither slowly to the table.

Tagged 100 Words, Chair, Death, Demise, Eyes, Face, Fiction, Hands, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Readings, Skull, Symbol, Table, Tea-cup, Tea-leaf, Tea-leaves, Writing

Apr 14 2013

29 Comments

Flash Fiction

Doppelganger

She stood at the side of the darkening country road with her hands behind her back; effectively recreating the stance of the blonde actress in the Hitchcock film. She had become fixated by the character and had perfected her dialogue, her accent, her wig and attire, to the finest detail. She stared at the horizon and yearned for a car to flash its blinding headlights into her eyes. She longed to wave it down, to take position in the passenger seat, and to ask the driver for a light so that she could blow circles of smoke through her red-perfumed lips, to illustrate her elegance. And she hoped that during the nights journey, that she would make the drivers eyes weary with her oddly behaviour, and that he’d be kind enough to drive her to Bates Motel.

This story has been critiqued by Eric Keys;

https://erickeys.wordpress.com/2013/05/29/a-response-to-the-doppelganger/

Tagged Actress, Bates Motel, Blonde, Car, Dialogue, Doppelganger, Double, Fiction, Film, Flash fiction, Hands, Hitchcock, Horizon, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Road, Smoke, Up to 140 Words, Wig, Writing

Apr 06 2013

7 Comments

Flash Fiction

Miranda

Miranda refused to rummage in her handbag for keys, on dark nights, at her front door. She had watched numerous horror films and knew that someone would likely creep up on you in that second that you became distracted. So, when she found herself wobbling home from parties, too nauseous to take cabs, she would grip the keys in her hand, always ensuring one chub was pointed outwards, so that it would slide into the lock with ease, when she arrived at the door. She had never contemplated that one night the keys would become a weapon, become imbedded in her attackers’ eyes.

Tagged Cabs, Door, Eyes, Fiction, Flash fiction, Handbag, Keys, Parties, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Up to 125 Words, Weapon

Mar 03 2013

The Oasis

With time, she longs to wither away; like a flower that has succumbed to frost, in the onset of autumn. She seeks solace in quiet corners, in solitude, where four walls assist to extract the misery from her mind, the tears from her heart. She shifts her head to a dry, soothing part of the pillow and stares at the ceiling; her watery eyes flick to a spider that meanders purposefully, and she wonders where it is headed, she longs to follow it.

‘Please find me a new magical world, far from this coldness, this darkness.’ She whispers.

Her pleading words reverberate repeatedly off the walls, and lull her eyes to close, her thoughts to float aimlessly; and then her monochrome world begins to disintegrate.

‘Welcome to the enchanted land of Bali.’ A voice speaks.

She smiles at the hospitable words of the guru. The creases in his forehead express much wisdom; his aged hands would no doubt dramatize many a virtuous story from his past, she thought.

‘You are invited to absorb this beautiful paradise, where people come to heal. Take warmth from the dazzling sun; let it infiltrate your body and renew you. Let the wondrous tropical fish overwhelm you with their beauty, colour and movement. Fix your senses on the nearby orange gerberas and let their fragrance calm your spirit, awaken you. May all of the nature here hypnotize; fill you with joy and wonder. Remember, you can visit this Oasis at anytime. It’s your retreat.’

She absorbs every word the guru offers, and explores the lands in delight. She smiles at his hospitable words once more; before the Oasis slowly disappears from her.

She awakes. She is content. She is transformed. She looks up to the ceiling; the spider has gone. She thanks it for its inspiration. She thanks the guru for her journey. She thanks the world for offering its warmth, its gift. She thanks the world for her life.

Tagged 325 Words, Bali, Ceiling, Darkness, Flower, Frost, Guru, Heart, Misery, Nature, Oasis, Paradise, Pillow, Psychological-thriller, Renewal, Retreat, Solitude, Spider, sun, Tears, Time, Transformation, Tropical Fish, Wisdom

Feb 17 2013

Vogliatemi bene (Love me, please)

Puccini’s Madame Butterfly permeated the kitchen with its melancholy, as pungent tones of Bolognese elated their senses. As they chinked flutes, sipped on Sauvignon, kissed and embraced, she closed her eyes and envisioned that they were a couple, in love.

Tagged 40 Words, Bolognese, Embrace, Eyes, Kiss, Kitchen, Love, Madame Butterfly, Psychological-thriller, Puccini, Sauvignon

Feb 10 2013

4 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Dying Swan

The haunting notes of Tchaikovsky satiates the emotions of its listeners; and as the dancing swans pirouette effortlessly and transversely upon the stage, the spectators will gasp in horror as the one I love falls to her death. I have witnessed her demise a thousand times; and my heart never fails to be wounded. Her blood seeps through layers of tulle and feathers, in the same moment that her dark-shaded eyes close and the curtains fall. As I rise from my seat for what will be the last time, I enter the dark streets alone; knowing that her gaze had never met mine, knowing that she never knew how enthralled I was by her beauty.

Tagged Alone, Ballet, Beauty, Blood, Curtains, Dancer, feathers, Fiction, Heart, Horror, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Stalker, Streets, Swan, Tchaikovsky, Theatre, Tulle, Up to 200 Words, Watcher

Feb 04 2013

5 Comments

Flash Fiction

Naomi

‘You’re not the woman you think you are.’ Stephen whispered.

With wary eyes, he watched his wife rotate before the mirror in a black satin dress. He remembered when she used to dress so strikingly for him; when they were in love.

‘Did you say something, honey?’ she asked, as she sprayed musk to her throat; completing her dress-up session for the evening ahead.

‘No, I didn’t say a word.’ he replied.

‘Well, I’m done here honey. I probably won’t be back until late, so don’t wait up. You know what it’s like when the girls get together! Anyway, there’s lasagne in the fridge, if you get hungry later’.

‘Thanks.’ he replied.

She leaned over to kiss him goodbye, but he rejected her. The thought of her red poison lips upon his, caused acid to circulate around his stomach. How can she go on acting day after day like she loves me; to put on this one mad hell of a show?

As she turned to leave, his heart fell to his feet. He grabbed her throat and pushed her against the bedroom wall. As his knuckles whitened she choked several times, drawing at her last breath as she grabbed at thin air with her hands. She slid to the floor, her eyes glided to the back of her head. Then life left her.

‘I’d rather see you dead, than with him.’ he said, walking away.

Tagged Deceit, Dress, Fiction, Lasagne, Lies, Mirror, Murder, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Throat, Up to 250 Words, Writing

Jan 13 2013

10 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Raven

That day had been notorious. I had strolled across the tribe-island where I had glimpsed a raven perched sternly upon a birch branch. I had gazed at it but had not met its eyes. My grandma had warned me over again as a young boy to never look, not even in a time of weak curiosity. I would question why and she would reply, ‘Danton, it will bring with you much danger and bad luck. The red gleam of light that comes from a ravens’ eyes will weaken the soul of any that look into them; just like the sun is danger to eyes on a searing day.’ I had gazed at the black plumage of the raven perched there as I recalled her words, and my feet had become unsteady with terror. It had begun to squawk, to make a racket with its heavy wings; then it had flown from the branch, over the bank towards me; the shadow of its span had buried me into darkness, and my legs had begun to crumble beneath me. Its sharp beak had struck my head many times. I had fallen to the ground in pain, in silence, frozen with fear. Then it stopped, and as I looked at it I had witnessed my own blood stains drenched in its feathers; red on black luminous plumage; so beautiful, so ugly. Then it had flown into the sunset horizon, leaving me marred with its violence. I was twelve years of age on that notorious day, and there has been no day pass since, when I haven’t looked a raven in its eyes.

Tagged bad luck, Blood, boy, branch, danger, Eyes, fear, feathers, grandma, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, raven, sun, tribe, Up to 300 Words

Dec 02 2012

6 Comments

Flash Fiction

Anna

It’s four in the morning, and I’m sat in this room of gloom, eyeing pictures of you, of us. The rain clouts against my window, violent yet so soothing. I stroll to the door with my head tilted like a broken doll because I sense you standing in the hallway. The door creaks open, and there you are my love, with those dark eyes of yours; the ones I fell into. I run to you but you run from me, and I can only scream, urge you to return, but you are gone. Then I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. The panic subsides, yet the pain lingers on. Your voice calls from outside and I wander towards the lake, where I sense you. The front door of the house bashes in the wind, and I leave it behind, allowing silence to envelope me as I walk. And again I remember that time has slipped by; almost a year has passed. I’m at the edge of the lake but you are not here. Where are you? Don’t you want to exchange conversation with me? Don’t you remember us laughing that night, when the sun melted into the sky? Don’t you miss me? I sink to the ground, and my heart can take no more. He played games with the one that loved him. I slide into the water. The coolness soothes my soul, my mind; and slowly I sink into darkness, and I am gone.

Tagged Doll, Door, Eyes, Fiction, Hallway, Lake, Pain, Photo, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Rain, Room, Scream, Suicide, Time, Up to 250 Words, Wind, Writing

Sep 30 2012

4 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Letter

I stagger along the tree-arched footpath; the bronze light through decaying trees no doubt casting cracked contours upon my face. I take a swig from the bottle. I seek the nearest bench and curl up on its mouldy slats. I eye every passing stranger who looks at me with fear and disgust. I must look vile. I abandon the thought and take out the torn notepaper from my pocket; a letter that he’d left upon the kitchen table for me to find, one year ago. I read it for what must be the billionth time; each and every word causing my heart to bleed, my soul to cry.

My dearest Sally,

I spoke with the doctor today. He said I only have three months to live.

I am devastated. I am lost. I need to run.

I cannot let you see me deteriorate every day.

I want you to remember me for who I am.

I am headed to a place far from here; the sea shall wash away the pain.

Please do not look for me.

I will always love you my angel.

Our love will never die.

Smile your beautiful smile, always.

Your husband,

Charlie.

I take another swig from the bottle, close my eyes, and fall into stagnation.

Tagged abandon, alcohol, bench, Death, doctor, footpath, Heart, letter, Love, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Sea, Up to 250 Words

Sep 17 2012

2 Comments

Flash Fiction

Daphne

“The storm had come up strong and wild. I remember there were three men, and a woman. They were screaming in the midst of the deafening wind. The noise was unbearable. I tried to run to help them, but they fell into the river before I could reach them. Then I looked up to the clouds and I saw it…it was looking at me.”

Daphne sat awkwardly, rocking back and forth upon the hospital bed, her knees clenched to her chest, as she recounted the storm to Rowena.

“Saw what? What was looking at you, Daphne?” Rowena asked, “Honey, I know this is uncomfortable for you, but it is important we revisit the storm so that you can be free of your recurring nightmares. Do you understand?”

Daphne stopped rocking. She stared up at Rowena with vacant eyes and formed her mouth into a large oval and screamed, “I saw the evil of the storm…and it is going to get me and you, all of us! It’s just a matter of time!”

Rowena shuddered and didn’t reply. She recorded the conclusions of her session with Daphne in her notebook.

Day 53: Symptoms of psychosis; namely ‘lack of insight’. Daphne is still experiencing frequent psychotic episodes. She is totally unaware that her delusions/hallucinations are imaginary.

“Thank You, Daphne, that will be all for today.” Rowena said, getting up to leave.

But before she reached the door she stopped suddenly as she listened to the cold words that were leaving Daphne’s mouth.

“Rowena, you are next.”

Tagged Delusions, Hallucinations, Hospital, Nightmare, Notebook, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Psychosis, Storm, Up to 300 Words

Jul 17 2012

5 Comments

Flash Fiction

Paige

Paige’s soul sleeps somewhere numb, somewhere cold. Her dark, disturbed visions summon her to the razor. With every cut, she bids her blood to run. With every failed seep, she utters her mantra.

“Life won’t let me go. I cannot respire. I cannot perish. Forever, I shall suffer.”

Tagged Blood, Cut, Fiction, Mantra, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Razor, Suffer, Suicide, Up to 50 Words

Jul 01 2012

8 Comments

Flash Fiction

The Dream Maker

‘Isaac, shortly you will enter your desired dream. Now you must ensure that your body is in a relaxed state, and that you allow my first few words to sink slowly into the alcoves of your mind. For several minutes my words will introduce you to the setting, and thereafter, the path you take, the characters you encounter, will be of your own design. Should you feel uncomfortable with the dream at any stage, be sure to tap my palm three times, and I will talk you back into reality. I cannot stress enough, the importance of these taps. Failure to react in good time, can lead to violent nightmares, confusion, and more than often, seizures. It can take patients weeks to recover psychologically; while some never do. Ok, are you sure that you are ready to proceed; to pursue your answer?’

‘Yes Dream Maker,’ Isaac replies, ‘I’m ready.’ His body lays stiff on the surgery bed. His dark-rimmed eyes speak of months of sleepless nights, brought on by the frustration, of never knowing who had murdered his dear wife, Irise.

‘Isaac, then we shall begin.’ The Dream Maker places his bony fingers on Isaacs’ forehead, and as he begins to speak, blue vapours spiral from his mouth, and slowly fill the room.

‘Now… relax… breathe slowly… and let your five senses open. You are walking towards the peaked horizon of earths’ circular soul… you see cerulean skies rotate into silver-watercolour-curls in the far distance… they are inviting you… and you step in… you are now strolling towards the end of a rainbow… there you smell the colours of crimson and coral, of cobalt and ochre… and you see that the rainbow is a bridge… that it has a sign… the sign bears an arrow… you are following the arrow… you are walking over the rainbow… you have suddenly stopped at the start of a silver path… and it is here, Isaac, that you make your dream your own.’

Isaac shuffles on the bed. His eyes twitch, as he accepts this new, vivid world; and he continues to dream of his own accord.

Coldness hits me… it’s nearing dusk… time is ticking… I need to find Irise… I’m sprinting along the silver-winding path… insidious trees overhang and attempt to reach out… to touch me… to stop me… but I’m too fast. I arrive at the end of the path… it opens out onto a floral yellow carpet… I walk over it… I can hear weeping… the weeping is coming from behind a tree… I sprint to the tree… there’s a woman with flowing, auburn hair… she is standing in a yellow robe… her face is pale… her eyes are hollow… she tells me she is a lost angel… that she’s my lost angel… she is opening her hands to reach me… to touch me… I am confused… this is not Irise!… this is not my Irise!… I need to escape… to run…

Isaacs’ body twists violently on the bed. His eyes have moved to the back of his head. The Dream Master stands up ‘Isaac, tap my palm three times!’ he urges. But Isaacs’ body continues to distort, uncontrollably.

She tells me that she is my Irise… she is gripping me… pulling me towards her… I try to break free, but my feet are floating helplessly… she is putting her face close to mine… it is Irise!… her face had been distorting into the faces of others… of her family… her friends… I hadn’t recognised her… Please Irise! Stop pulling me! I have come here to help you! To identify your murderer! To kill him, when I return to earth! So we can both be at peace, when he dies! She is laughing at me… she tells me I don’t remember anything… that I am a fool for coming here… that we can never be at peace… she loosens her grip on me… I fall to my feet… my feet are sinking into the floral carpet… she is walking away… I try to follow her… but my feet are grounded… Come back Irise! Tell me who killed you! She looks over her shoulder… she tells me that she will weep forever… that her distorted faces… the ones I have seen… were the faces of the people that miss her… love her, down on earth… that my face will never be seen in hers… because I never loved her… I am confused! I love her! I thought she loved me? She doesn’t love me! She can’t love me, for she is walking away! Leaving me here! Come back Irise! I love you! I have always loved you! Why do you run from me? She is laughing… she tells me I am strange… she tells me how I hated her for years… that I had resented her… for sending me to a shrink… that I had struggled with sanity for many years… that I’d go through depressive states…manic highs… that I’d made her afraid to be around me… that she couldn’t take any more… that she wanted to leave… that I wouldn’t let her leave… that I’d hated her but wouldn’t let her leave… she tells me that I was the one that killed her…

she is weeping… she is smiling at me… she is walking away… she looks behind her shoulder… she tells me that my ears will forever hear her weeping… she is fading into the horizon… my body is shivering… it’s cold… so cold… I am trying to move my feet… to follow her… to tell her I love her… again… but they are stuck… it’s nearing dusk… I am standing here… alone… grounded… and her weeping haunts my ears…

‘Isaac, tap!’ The Dream Master shouts, as the bed flips to the floor. The Dream Machine moves from low-to-high-alert in seconds; its high-pitch deafens the Dream Maker. He flees the room, where the blue vapours have turned into hot amber billows. And in that moment, Isaacs ’heart stops beating.

Tagged 1000 Words, Angel, Dream, Fantasy, Fiction, Hate, Heart, Love, Murder, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Supernatural

Jun 23 2012

10 Comments

Flash Fiction

Lovable Beast

From the corner of my eye, from the softness of my pillow, I see him sleeping; his mouth is ajar, silently breathing in dust motes that float erratically above the quilt. He looks peaceful, beautiful, somewhat angelic, in slumber; a wonderful contrast to the lovable beast that inhabits him, in consciousness. He opens his eyes; did he sense me looking at him, I wonder? Does he know I look at him this way every morning, and think such things? He smiles at me; the creases of middle-age have formed in the corners of his lips, the lips I would kiss, every morning, adoringly and without hesitance. We pillow-talk, reflect on our past, until the dust motes settle. We speak of our families, our friends and of our two beautiful teenage children – but our conversation always fails to lead to the one, difficult-to-ask, forever-grinding, question, Why have you been cheating on me?

Tagged Bed, Children, Deceit, Dust-motes, Fiction, Love, Pillow, Psychological-thriller, Up to 200 Words, Writing

Jun 22 2012

Little Waxy’s

The aroma of dim sum penetrates the streets of Soho; arrow neon lights point to seedy downstairs basements, offering the lonesome fellow an offer of three-for-two on adult magazines and videos; and Margot watches the world pass by, teary-eyed, from behind a café window. She glimpses her tired reflection, and thinks, Who am I? How did I become this person I despise? Will I ever escape the tangle of this dark underworld?

She is broken from her thoughts and reflection by her mobile vibrating wildly, next to her half-finished latte; she checks the caller ID and answers.

‘Kelly?’

‘Hey Margot, I’m sorry for such short notice, but we had a call from Fi this afternoon; she’s had to cancel tonight. Are you able to cover?’

‘Yes. Sure, Kelly. No problem.’

‘Great. I’ll see you at eight? Oh, and Margot, bring some silver-sequin nipple pasties; it’s tonight’s dance theme. The men can’t get enough of them!’ She beams.

After their goodbyes, Margot turns back to the window to face her reflection. Who am I? She thinks. How did I become this person I despise? Will I ever escape the tangle of this dark underworld? Maybe one day, I’ll find the courage to pack my bags, wave down the nearest black cab, and leave this place; but for now, I need to earn; it’s all about the money, isn’t it always? She finishes the last dregs of her latte, gets up, and exits the café.