Birds Are So Obnoxious

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 ©

I See the Future

I see the future. It’s not pretty. It’s a hellish symphony trapped inside my head.

Time stops. Trees burn and crumble to ash. Waters freeze over. People in stasis beg for death but the Angel of Mercy ignores their cries.

Some call it the end. But I know it’s just the beginning. Slowly but surely we adapt. In all the ugliness of destruction is the beauty of evolution – the monstrous beauty of regenesis.

Skins toughen; harden. Eyes sink and sharpen. Gills sprout, furs thicken. Teeth become tools.

We divulge into mayhem and then find peace. It’s both catastrophic and cathartic. Life is precious; it’s worth killing for.

I see the future. It’s not pretty, but it’s pretty damn amazing.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Romance, Necromance

The moonlight showered down upon her skin, making it glow in all the right places. She tried to stay alert; tried to focus on her task.

The leaves rustled, and she couldn’t help but peek. The gravestone remained intact, but seemed to smirk.

Control was key.

A giggle swept through her. The art of control, the art of power – it made her quiver with excitement.

And then there he was.

He stumbled toward her, dazed. And when he approached she saw his eyes had sunken into an abyss. But still, behind them there was a glint of recognition… wasn’t there?

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

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.

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 ©

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!

A Penchant for Madness

I’m not quite right. Never have been.

Sometimes, I feel only partially human, as though I might be an Android from a distant world.

Sometimes, I feel only partially present, as though I might be a shadow of a fuller me.

If either of these things were true, I’d be less accountable.

I haven’t quite decided if that’s what I want yet.

And what I want, well, it changes day to day.

If I wasn’t made to be broken, I wasn’t made for anything at all.

Come the day’s end, I just know –

I’m not quite right. Never will be.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©


Someone else lives inside my head now. Or, I am a shell for someone else’s mind. I can’t decide; but I prefer the former. It implies I still exist, however true or untrue that may be.

“No big deal,” I was told after the accident. “Just a snip here, a snip there. A replacement or two inside there. Good as new.”

And here I am, a shared space.

In all fairness though, I’m mostly me; but every once in a while – like a switch – I’m incalculable.

Dangerous, mysterious, out of my mind.

And here I am, blood on my face.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©


Beth could not hush her appetence; not tonight. It had burrowed too deep inside of her, had become intrinsically linked to who she was. She had been embedded with a voracious appetite, and now she meant to satisfy it.

She looked up. A symphony of sounds was cluttering her mind: the crickets, an owl, the dancing trees scattering their leaves about. She could barely hear herself think. The moon was full and tinted with blood. The equinox was just around the corner. She needed to feed.

Beth tilted her head down again and continued her work. She swore it seemed that the digging was getting more and more tiresome each year. When she finished, she leaned against the tombstone to catch her breath. ‘Well worth it,’ grumbled the gnawing, insatiable, hunger inside of her. ‘Always well worth it.’