I gobbled down my first meal in days, barely chewing, expecting to feel guilty about it afterwards. But I only felt relief; besides, I never really liked my neighbours.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Thanks for reading my two-sentence horror story… Mmmm human flesh… Feel free to share your own in the comments!
March 9,
Addie,
I’m sorry I couldn’t write sooner; things have been … well, I don’t know the word exactly. Something just isn’t right. I tried to keep track of my thoughts on paper, like you said; likes, dislikes, opinions, things I’ve seen, words I know – the stuff that makes me me. But it’s all gone. I came home one day and the notepad had all the used pages missing. Then they recalled the paper. All paper, Addie. Notepads, scrapbooks, books, printed media. Everything had to be handed over by February 28th, and on the 29th, they stormed houses and tore them apart looking for paper, Addie – Paper! It was all burned they say. There was a public demonstration where officials set fire to heaps and mounds of the stuff, but it probably wasn’t all of it. Some say they just incinerated the rest in – what do you call those things… where they cremate people. Anyways, it’s all gone. Now you know why I’m writing this on a napkin.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m starting to think you might be right. It’s like what you said that time, “control the medium, control the message.” I think you said it was a quote, but I can’t remember. All I know is I’m getting a distinct feeling that this is the beginning of something really, really big. I’ll keep you posted when I can. I hope these are getting to you. And I hope you enjoy the fruit basket I’m sending this one in.
I know I probably don’t have to say this to you of all people, but be careful. I love you.
Darcy.
P.S. Mom got hacked. They swapped everything out, but she seems to like her new name. Just some adolescent shit-disturbers, I think. She’s fine, though.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
A withered fairy
Dancing in the pale moonlight
Rot and elation
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus series – check back soon for more!
Thirteen whispers sigh
Hushed by the howls outside
Thirteen lost souls wait
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus Series – check back soon for more!
I stare back at me
An eerie mist surrounds us
Our hands never meet
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus Series – check back soon for more!
Stalwart as it hoots
Tidings of death it does bring
Impenitent glare
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Omens is my Halloween Haikus Series – check back soon for more!
The sound of his heaving envelops you; your heart rate syncs itself to the chase. At some point you start to pant and realize your sweating – slippery, sticky, terrified. Your legs go numb. Your thoughts start to jumble. You try to plan your next move and the one after that. The only signal your brain seems to compute anymore is GO.
So you go. It’s all instinct, now. You go, go, go. You know you can’t keep going, and yet – you do. There’s a desire you never knew you had; a desire so strong it fuels you when you have nothing left to give. It’s the desire to live.
He catches your arm and in an instant it might be all over. Might be – but it’s not. Because you drive the knife right through him. And the skin is tougher than you imagined; everything under it, softer. Physically, it’s a difficult thing to do, but you do it. He drops. The blood seeps out of him and crawls towards you; disappears under your feet and surrounds you.
You did it. You survived. Now what?
No boundaries,
No safe words,
No sorrys or goodbyes.
No distance that can’t be breached,
No gasps that can’t be heard.
No thirst unquenched.
No crevice unexplored.
No wish unheard.
No desire unseen.
No overthinking the underthoughts.
No untying of the precious knots.
No words.
No you and me nor I and you.
No falsities or fallacies.
No speciousness or disguise.
No left.
No right.
No tomorrow,
No yesterday,
No last time.
No next time.
Just now.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
Alone in the woods
Twigs creaking and echoing
Hush, hush, now – survive
House of Gingerbread
Crumble, crumble, cry, scream, fight
Smell the burning flesh
Wrath pie for dessert
Things will never taste the same
Sugary red end
Birds are so obnoxious. It’s always my first thought in the morning. Not the damp mouldy air that settles in my cot; not the slop I will be served for breakfast; not the painful loneliness that reaches depths of me I once didn’t know existed – just the birds.
The window – barred, of course – is high above my head, leaving me with the impression that even the squawking nuisances are looking down on me. They certainly have more freedom. Maybe that’s why I hate them.
The door knocks an entrance warning and I pull myself upright, hardly surprised anymore at the weight of the chains. He enters and wordlessly hands me a bowl of pale sludge. I imagine pulling a knife from behind my back and planting it in his forehead, but I have no knife. Knives may no longer exist for me outside of my fantasies. The world itself may not exist for me outside of my fantasies – except for those damned birds.
I glare at my captor. It’s been a long time since I’ve asked questions, tried to reason, or begged for mercy. Acceptance? Not quite. Exhaustion. Yes; that seems more accurate. Go figure, it’s the end of my world and all I want anymore is to sleep in, one morning, and not hear those fucking birds.
Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©
Beyond the Threshold 