Destruction and Pleasure

It is with alacrity that these beasts set out to extirpate. So it is with that same enthusiasm that I confront them. My pulse dances under my skin, my heartbeat setting the tempo. The desire to demolish – to remove something from existence – surreal and inexplicable. It’s subhuman; the layer that most people try to suffocate beneath the surface.

But I don’t. I thrive in that lower layer, a manifestation of the social repression that has dragged humanity to this disgusting present; where it’s just the predator and the prey. I’m not a hero. I don’t kill them to save anyone. I kill them because I want to.

It offers me a grin, baring its salacity. I smile back, matching it’s hunger.

Count to Ten

One day I’ll leave this cage, and leave nothing but

Two eyes lurking in the shadows, waiting for the clock to strike

Three, so that I might reenact this struggle of

Four lonely years locked in only my fear that

Five me’s would not be enough for you.

 

Six moons come and go before you commit sin

Seven, with little regard for the

Eight cries I’m holding in as I count crows of

Nine, that gather as the clock strikes

Ten.

 

Hush, hush, quickly, before it begins again.

 

One more hallucination that the world is made up of just us

Two; you shove it down my throat with

Three wicked fingers that make me wince

Four times before I draw the line at Five.

 

Six senses take me over, if only in my imagination that houses

Seven realities in which you take

Eight wounds delivered with

Nine easy strikes that come from my very own

Ten fingers.

 

Hush, hush, quickly, it’s time to breathe again.

 

One happy ending I’m determined to find for the

Two of me’s that you’ve created in the hell of just us

Three, where Four thousand screams have never been heard and

Five thousand tears have never dropped.

 

Six emotions; constantly churning what feels as though must be

Seven stomachs, all in disgust that I’ve let the clock strike

Eight again, while plotting

Nine ways to never see your

Ten temperaments again.

 

Hush, hush, quickly, the moon is sneaking up again.

 

But they say all I have to do is count to Ten.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Christmas Night of Horrors

“Why is decorating a Christmas tree never as romantic as you remember it from childhood?”

“Because you’re killing the magic by complaining about it. Here, put some more bulbs on your side. Mine’s getting crowded.”

“I’m sorry. This was a good idea. I’m just…”

“A Grinch.”

“Damaged. It’s an awesome cottage though. How long have you had it?”

“It’s been in the family for a while. I used to spend Christmas eves here as a kid, but I haven’t been back in years. You’re the first person I’ve brought.”

“Well, I’m honored. Even if I don’t seem it.”

“Haha. Ok, I’ll make our next egg nogs stronger. That’ll cheer you up.”

“It will. You know me so well.”

“Hey! It’s snowing!”

“OK! Now it feels like Christmas.

“A Merry Christmas toast then.”

Clink.

******

“Jaime? Jaime, did you hear that?”

“Mm?”

“Jaime! Wake up. Did you hear that?”

“W-What? No. Go back to sleep.”

“Fuck. Useless.”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I heard something. I’m going to check it out.”

“It’s just the house. It’s old, I told you.”

“No. I HEARD something. Stay here if you want.”

Creeeak

“Careful! The bed is old too. … Aubrey? Aubrey!? Oh for fuck sakes.”

Creeeak

 

“There you are”

“Shhhhhh!”

Seriously? Ok fine. I’m whispering, but it’s four thirty in the morning and I’m not indulging this shit until sun up.”

“What happened to all your Christmas spirit crap?”

“I left it in bed; where I should be.”

“Knock it off. You’re the one who dragged me up to the mountains for some stupid Christmas rendez-vous. The least you can do is not let us die here.”

“Well it seems you have it perfectly under control. .. [sigh] Okay, I’m sorry. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just tired. It’s fine. Let’s check it out.”

“Thank you. It came from over there, I think.”

Tink tink tack

“There it is again!”

“Yeah – ok, that is weird. I think it came from the attic, though. Pass me the flashlight.”

“Don’t you have another one?”

“No.”

“Why did you bring me to a cabin with no electricity and one freaking flashlight?”

“Because I want to see you squirm, obviously. Follow me.”

 

“Jaime? Wait up, please. Ouch. Dammit. “

“You okay?”

“Yeah, stubbed my – AHHHHHH!”

“Aubrey! Run!”

“Let go! Ah – No! JAMIE!”

snap.

******

“Aubrey? Can you please describe the incident, again?”

“[sniffle] Mmhm. Jaime just wanted us to have a nice Christmas, you know? Not have to deal with our families and stuff. Let it be about us for once, not about our choices.”

“So, once again, You and Jaime arrived at what time?”

“Noon. No one was in the house. I mean… [sniffle]… I don’t think. I guess we didn’t check it out until I heard it in the night.”

“And what time was that?”

“Uhh.. shit, I don’t know. Four, Four thirty. I should call someone… Yeah, can I call someone?”

“You did. You called your brother. He’s on his way.”

“Right.”

“Aubrey?”

“Yeah, sorry. Uhh, like four thirty. And we were trying to follow the sound. Fuck. That sounds so dumb now…”

“Go on.”

“Yeah, so we were checking it out, and Jaime got really far ahead of me so I was rushing. I stubbed my toe and when I bent over something grabbed me from behind.”

“Go on.”

“I should call someone.”

“Your brother is on his way. Tell us what happened next.”

“I-I can’t. I mean, I don’t know. It fucking grabbed me, [sniffle], it fucking grabbed me! And Jaime lunged and – ahh. I don’t know. But it killed Jaime. Just like that. I don’t even know how it happened, really. Can I call someone now?”

******

“So I guess they made the naughty list.”

“Haha. Looks like it. Or the more obvious – lover’s quarrel?”

“Maybe. Kid seems pretty traumatized though.”

“All we have from the crime scene is the glove. Covered in blood. That doesn’t scream evil Saint Nick.”

“True.”

RIIIING

“Detective Carson… Another one?… Okay, we’re on our way.”

“Same description?”

“Yup. Fat guy in a red suit with a hell of a right hook.”

“Eyes scooped out of the vic?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll drive. Oh, and someone get our witness a phone.”

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

The Call

Under the guise of the sheep

You call to me, across worlds

The scent of your deception reeks

But still, I rouse for a peek

 

How fallible we are, after all

No costume, nor mask, can hide

Our weaknesses; outside us they reside

Assisting the sting of broken pride

 

So I came, as you intended

And I am reluctant to regret

The way I squirmed and smiled

Wrapped in your lies; no fret

 

I ignored the easy yellow glow

Beaming from your once kind eyes

And let you hunt me, willingly

Until there was only darkness and desire

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

And then the Feeders Came

Jeanette stared at the sunrise as it melted its glow over the city’s smog. The smell of jet fuel and sweat mingled through the air and carried up her nasal passage, making it tickle and itch. It was amazing to her that as the population shrunk, the stench of labor grew.

“Going hunting today?” Abe asked.

Jeanette shrugged. The question seemed superfluous. She couldn’t remember the last day she hadn’t hunted. She also couldn’t remember the last day one of the feeders hadn’t hunted her. The hunt was all that existed anymore.

“Listen,” Abe continued, his tone suddenly stark. “We gotta head north. I know how you feel about it but -”

Jeanette snarled dismissively. It was the closest she’d come to a laugh in a long time. A week ago she would have shot words as sharp as darts at Abe. Head north for what? It’s a bullshit lie. The feeders are there too, you know. They’re everywhere. You know that. But today, today she didn’t have the fight in her. So she just snarled, and kept her eyes facing forward. From her peripherals, she could see Abe huffing, his heart aching at her coldness.

“What’s left for us here, Jeanette? Vicki and I have thought it through. Even Garret says -”

“I don’t care what Garret says.” There they were, the darts. Laced with poison at the mention of Garret; an amateur who couldn’t last a day on his own. They had taken him in for his eidetic memory thinking he’d be  an asset – until a few days ago when he had almost gotten them all killed.

Abe stepped back as a show of faith. He knew he had taken the wrong approach and was surveying his mind eagerly for the right one. Jeanette faced him and let out a slow, frustrated, sigh. Her resistance to heading north was purely based on logic. Travelling ill-equipped and malnourished was a bad idea. It was best to stay put, where the grounds were familiar. But she had to admit, Abe’s logic was sound too.

The malnourishment would not be solved by staying put. They had depleted their food sources. The Hudson was their best bet now. As for Garret, he might be a coward and a poor shot, but he was a human map. He’d get them there. That was true.

“I agree, Jeanette. The theory that these things can’t survive the cold is just that, a theory. But how do we prove it if we sit here, rotting in the sun, shooting feeders from afar until we run out of squirrels and ammo?”

Abe smiled at Jeanette in that warm way that always settled her. By sundown the four of them were headed north, with Garret leading the way and Vicki by his side, gun-drawn at all times. She was one of the few soldiers who had stayed behind with the civilians when the military pulled out of their zone. Jeanette had prodded her for answers: Where was the military going? What was the plan? She never answered a single question. Within hours of the abandonment, the fences had been torn down and most of the population made a run for it – most right into the arms of feeders.

“It’s a good time for it,” Abe assured Jeanette who couldn’t help but look unsure of each step she took. He continued, “by the time we get there, we should still have a month or two before the snow.”

“And then?”

“And then, we acquire winter survival skills.”

“If we make it that long,” Jeanette mumbled.

“We will.”

On the third night, Jeanette scratched a seventh slash in her rock. She liked the idea of keeping track of how many feeders they encountered. It was a hangover from being a records keeper in a past life. She had to admit, the trek had not been quite as dangerous as she had expected, and it gave everyone a reason to keep going. Goals were healthy.

She sat by the fire, quietly thinking about how glad she was that they were all doing this together. Hell, she and Garrett were even being civil again. The fog was thick, a blanket that made everything seem a little unreal; a little magical, even. The air had a sweetness to it she couldn’t place, and even though they were still eating rodents, she was excited for the fish. The Hudson was known to have had over 200 species at one point.

As she lay under the heavy sky, Jeanette drifted off to all the best thoughts and let good dreams take her over. For once, things seemed to be falling into place.

And then the feeders came. A hoard of them greater than any other they had ever encountered. Jeanette was thrust awake by inarticulate screams. Vicki was probably giving orders to the others; Garret was probably babbling through tears; Abe was likely hollering for ammo. He was kicking wood from the fire towards the coming monsters. But they were still coming, and it was over before it began.

A small group leapt on Abe, taking him down in one swift motion. His screams became garbled as his wide eyes stared into Jeanette’s from across the way. She sat, frozen, only partially upright where she had been sleeping so peacefully just moments before. Simultaneously, a larger group descended upon Garret. He tried to run but fell, inviting the feeders down onto him. Vicki ran towards Jeanette, hand extended, wanting to pull her out of her shock. But Jeanette just stared at the hand, trying to process how her dream had so quickly turned into a nightmare. And how the world had so quickly become this Hell.

The feeders got Vicki from behind. The blood splattered across Jeanette’s face, bringing her back to life. She scrambled up and ran. She ran faster than humanly possible. She ran further than humanly possible. And not once did she look back.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

 

 

Night From Within

Dusk was settling in; no escape.

In the distance, a wrangle echoed.

Her propinquity with night suddenly ignited.

Like the blackness of pupils fixated forward,

The night called out her name.

An opal moon peered down devotedly.

Transfixed, she glared back at it.

A snake-like sensation crawled through her.

The night; it felt so divine.

Frightening; tantalizing; misinterpreted – a warning unheeded.

Provoked by its charm, she transformed.

With morality shadowed; monstrosity shined through.

The darkness was always so inviting.

Edacity came from within, of course.

The night was not at fault.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

 

After the Storm (Opal POV)

A big thank you to Opal POV for including my noir micro-fiction, After the Storm, in their December issue, page 13. Here’s an excerpt:

Guy’s boots slapped against the wet pavement, splashing silt back up at him. Any quiver in his breath or thumping of his nervous heart was drowned out by the collective whir of passing cars driving through the dying storm.

Opal POV is currently available as a free PDF. The issue is themed Noir/Crime Fiction. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to click the link and have a read!

The Night of the Moonlit Curse (Midwinter Special)

A special thank you to Three Drops from a Cauldron for including my dark fairytale, The Night of the Moonlit Curse, in their seasonal special (page 31).

A mile later Poppy’s knees grew weak and the insatiable hunger she so feared began to creep up her throat.

Midwinter Special 2015 is currently available as a free e-issue, and a print anthology will be available soon.

Thank you to anyone who takes the time to click the link and have a read! There are some great fairytale shorts and poems collected here… some darker than others.

Throbbing Penitence

It is just passed the witching hour, and I make the regrettable decision to put out the fire. As the vibrant embers asphyxiate under the weight of the tepid well-water, they get their revenge by transmogrifying into a vengeful smoke that happily chokes me.

Immediately, I seek an escape from the caliginous prison that the room has become. Of course, there is none.

Outside, beasts howl at the moon, aching to taste my flesh and bones, and to swallow me up under the veil of darkness. I shudder at the thought and resign to sleeping away my nerves. By candlelight, I creep reluctantly through the empty house, romanticizing the security of my bed. But before I reach it, the ritual thudding begins.

From below my feet there comes a wretched pounding, the throb of a monster that is my own penitence. For below my feet I’ve laid a body and a soul which refuses to rest until I am by its side – as I should be. Suddenly, the beasts outside seem more inviting than the beastliness inside of my home; inside of that casket; inside of me. My own soul rots by the day, guilt crushing it from the inside. It won’t be long now until that soul gets its final wish.

Outside, the night knows my secret, and watches me in the form of a crow perched at the windowsill above my bed. As I sink below it, it takes flight into the unforgiving sky, the way a damned soul will not.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Humble Pie

Yvonne Reached over the stove and closed the window, suffocating the sweet smell of baked goods within her tiny kitchen. The sun, unwilling to set just yet, let its orange light coruscate through the shutters.

The room fell still. Her silence was thick, her limbs heavy, and her fresh bruises sore. Yvonne sucked back the last of a cigarette, its sizzle screeching through the room until it was almost an echo. 

She stood wide-eyed; her consciousness watching  from somewhere outside of her body, floating among the tarred nicotine smoke and the swirling blueberry-scented heat. The fog grew heavy around her, but she didn’t bat an eye.

When Yvonne heard his car pull into the driveway, she dropped the wilted butt into the sink and exhaled the last of its unsavory fumes. Donning her oven mitts, she pulled the oven door open and peeked inside at her masterpiece. The blueberry pie was perfectly sculpted and was perhaps the most delectable image she had ever seen in her own home. She had been so patient with it, so tender and cautious. After all, any misstep would spell disaster, and Yvonne was through with disasters.

His footsteps thumped through the empty halls and trailed into a back room. He hadn’t even said hello. The nerve of him – it shouldn’t surprise her anymore.

Yvonne placed the pie on the white wooden table, a sharp edged spatula neatly at its side. There were no heart palpitations, no shivers; no indications of anxiety at all. Her peace had been made.

He entered the kitchen, sniffing his way to the pie like a dog. When he spotted the nectarous dessert on display just for him, he smiled. It wasn’t a genuine smile, or a thankful one. It was a smile of triumph. He was filled with pride at the idea that he had once again smacked some sense into his feeble little wife. The pie, he thought, was his reward – an assurance that she had been put in her place.

For too long, Yvonne figured out that morning, domesticity had been thought of as synonymous with docile. For too long, Yvonne realized that morning, she had let it be. Well, not anymore.

She picked up the spatula, gleaming in the dying sunlight still trying to seep through. She watched him seat himself, eager to be served, like a royal who thinks he has no enemies when the whole court is plotting against him. She almost smiled, but that would be a misstep.

The hunk of pie, perfectly cut, was surely a sight to remember. Its glazed crust, its prominent fruit filling – everything about it was so inviting. And, so deceitful.

Yvonne backed away from the table, faced the sink, and wordlessly set to work on the dishes. It was only when she heard the gurgling begin to creep out of his throat the she let herself smirk. At first, it was slight but as the sound of struggle behind her increased so too did her sense of victory. Soon enough, the smile had taken over her entire being.

Until that moment, she had forgotten what it was to be happy.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©