Category: Shyla’s Stories

The Morning After

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dark Realism, Horror, Micro Fiction, Shyla's Stories1 Comment

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?

3 Days, 3 Quotes Book Tag – Day 3

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Other, Reviews and Essays, Shyla's Stories8 Comments

It’s the final day, and a final thank you to Irene of Books and Hot Tea for tagging me on this one. It’s been more difficult than I had anticipated – finding those perfect words. But at least I’ve gotten to revisit some of my favourite books!

So, one last time, here are the rules:

  • Thank the person who nominated you
  • Post three different quotes in three consecutive days
  • Nominate three new bloggers each day

To end, I’ve chosen an eerie quote from Angela Carter’s short story, “The Lady of the House of Love.” It’s been published in a collection of her works, The Bloody Chamber.

She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself; her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening.

A sorrowful and grim passage that well represents the tone of Carter’s fairytale retellings. I recommend this collection to anyone who has outgrown fairytales as told by Disney, and is longing to return to their darker, more powerful, roots.

Thanks for reading!

Today I nominate Friendly Fairy Tales, ronovanwrites, and C.M. Rininger. Feel free to join in, or pass.

Survivor

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dark Realism, Shyla's Stories4 Comments

It’s 11:53 am. I head to the back of the room, nodding at Linus, the bartender. I take my usual booth, hood up. I know it’s a bit conspicuous, but no one here pays much attention to anything other than their pints and newspapers.

I always tell my clients not to arrive even a moment earlier than the agreed upon time, which in this case is noon. I like to watch them enter, so I can get a full read on their intentions before they even say a word.

At 12:00 exactly, she enters. She’s a little short, thick with womanly curves, but as she approaches I can see in her face that she’s just a child. A scared child at that. I have no idea how a teenage girl would get my number, but I immediately want to hit someone.

She comes directly to my table, as directed, and sits down.

“Jamie Medes,” she offers with her hand stuck out.

“How did you find me?” It’s always the first question I ask, but it’s the first time I’m burning for an answer.

“Does it matter?” she asks. There’s a bite in her tone that tells me she’s tougher than even she knows.

“As a matter of fact, yes, it does.”

Jamie shifts in her seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Friends of friends.”

I hate that answer, and I sigh hard so she knows it. Her gaze wanders.

“Look, I don’t know what you heard but I’m not a hitman and I don’t fuck around with minors so I can’t beat up your prom date or whatever.”

Her glare comes at me like a speeding bullet and I see her chest begin to heave. Her entire demeanor hardens and I realize I’m way off base.

“Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re not my typical client. I’m a little thrown here. I don’t know what to think.”

“So don’t think. Ask.” She holds my eyes and I can’t help but smile. I gesture for her to go on, and she does. “I’ve been involved in a couple – incidents. Traumas, I guess.” Now she looks away again. “Cards down, I’m having some trouble with PTSD, and all the therapy and pills in the world won’t give me what I need.”

“And what’s that?” I recognize her now, from the news. The sole survivor of a home invasion, and later a witness to a bank robbery. She took two shots to the arm.

“Protection. I want you to train me. I know it’s not what you usually -”

“Yes,” I say. “When do you want to start?”

“Well,” she bites her lower lip, “how much -”

“No charge.”

“What?”

“A young girl like yourself is entitled to safety. No charge. I do have one rule though.”

“What’s that?”

“No slacking. Now let’s get out of here before you get carded.”

I never tell her that I know who she is, but I assume she figures I do. Either way, it seems like a courtesy worth extending. We train three times a week and the greatest improvement I see by month two is her confidence when she takes the gun from me. I teach her how to channel that strength that’s been inside of her all along – the strength of a survivor, like me.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

Manufactured Immortality

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories3 Comments

Kato approached the window and laid his hand upon the cool, hard, glass. On the other side of it lie his trusted advisor, and surrogate big brother, unconscious. It had been exactly thirteen hours since the craft crashed, nearly taking Hays’ life. What was left of it, flesh and bone, was practically unsalvageable. As he watched the galaxy’s most renowned doctors busy about Hays’ crushed, inoperative, body – Kato couldn’t help but wonder if making him cyborg was the right choice. Hays had told him once, before he even became King, that the biggest obstacle humans have ever faced is mortality, and that banning cyborgism was the only way to make us face it. Cyborgism, he explained, was not a solution, but a pacifier. All the same, he added that if he were ever on the brink of death, that he’d take all the metal he could get, legally or otherwise. He had chuckled heartily at his own irony, and Kato had smiled along. But he never forgot those words, “a pacifier.” He recalled them in a public speech the day he signed the bill. Now he wondered if it was a pacifier for the patient, or their loved ones who simply won’t let go. Tomorrow, he’d have to publicly retract those words. Tomorrow.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

Most Wanted

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dystopia, Fantasy, Sci Fi, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

I look up. Everything around me is sand. For miles, and miles – just sand. It’s in my eyes, between my breasts, under my fingernails. Hell, it’s even in my lungs. I cough, but I’m so hoarse it hardly sounds like myself. And then there’s the ringing. A piercing, relentless, ringing that somehow I know is coming from inside of my own head.

My wrist is broken. That much is clear. My head has been rattled. My muscles twitch and ache where they shouldn’t. But none of that compares to the damage done to the ship. Metal bits and chunks are laid out upon the sand, a perfect picture of disaster. And that’s when I know for sure, I’m never going home.

The sun is still high, which tells me I have plenty of hours to succumb to dehydration before I even see a desert’s moon. That saddens me. I’ve always wanted to see the moon from the other side. Earth. I almost chuckle. This is not at all how I imagined my grand arrival.

Somehow I find the energy to scrounge for food and water in the heaps of broken ship. I find one water bottle, and it’s only half full. Luckily, I’ve always been a glass half-full woman, so I smile and let a few drips wash over my parched tongue. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a bag of peanuts, and things really start to look up. Because the peanuts aren’t mine.

The dunes are tough to get over. With each step I sink, and have to struggle forward. I engage every muscle, every bone (that isn’t broken), and every corner of my mind. Willpower – there’s nothing like it.

Finally I see a shadow in the distance. I think it’s the shape of a person. The sun is almost set now; it’s cold and I’ve almost finished the water. The peanuts are long gone. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to assure me I’m not hallucinating when the figure starts towards me.

It’s a woman. She’s tall and sturdy, wielding a crossbow. A huntress of the Desert Peoples. She won’t care that I’m interstellar. Desert Peoples are poor, desperate – they have a million other things to worry about besides intergalactic relations. Still, I hold up my index finger to indicate that I come in peace. I hold up a piece of scrap from my ship and point to the sky, then my broken bone. She nods and offers me a hand.

Gaza, as she calls herself, takes me to her home. She is proud of it even though it is small, dark, and sticky. Its walls are decorated with her trophies – the heads of creatures small and large. It catches me off guard. These are species of which I’ve only seen images. They captured their stillness, but this – this is too still. I look away, embarrassed by my weakness. To think, I used to consider myself tough.

“Thora,” Gaza says pointing to me. She is introducing me to her father, an elderly man who creaks when he moves. He nods, but his gaze seems to pass right through me. He’s blind, I realize.

Over the next few weeks I learn to help around the house. Mostly, I load parcels of meat, babying my wrapped wrist bone. I’m not sure what animal it is, and I don’t ask. Gaza and her clan are preparing for a great travel to the city where they trade goods. I will be going with her, she tells me. It will make me useful, she adds.

I fancy the idea of being a useful member of a community and I’m tickled. Back home, I was just a petty thief, in and out of jails. No sense of loyalty, no sense of belonging. I was hardly a blip on anyones newsfeed. Until the hack. Nothing like a good b and e to the Authority’s mainframe to get some attention. That’s all I was looking for, attention. But I found something much bigger. Plans of an intergalactic war. I’m not sure at what moment I decided to become the hero of this story, to come to Earth and warn the people – I guess I just needed a win. Unfortunately, the Authority put me on a most wanted murderers list before my ship had gained enough speed for its spectacular crash landing. My name was all over the newsfeeds then. Yes, it was.

“This way,” Gaza instructs as she rips down a wanted poster of me. We’ve just arrived at the trading post. It’s the first time I’m sure she knows who I am, but neither one of us says a word about it. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s good to know she’s on my side. I plan to tell some of the traders about the war plans. They’ll be from all over, and I’m sure to find someone who speaks more English than Gaza; maybe even some Lunar.

Inside the post, Gaza goes on with a shorter woman who is plump and (from the looks of it) bored. After Gaza begins raising her voice, a man comes out. They go back and forth for a while in a language I can’t understand and I turn my back on the ordeal. I’m fondling some sparkly trinkets that I don’t recognize when the hand grabs me. I turn to face the large man as he cuffs me. I want to scream but I’m in shock, because I don’t know what’s going on, but from the look on Gaza’s face, I’ve been sold out.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

Nothing to Offer

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dark Realism, Shyla's Stories4 Comments

Ash was having a difficult go at life when he met Alia. Undoubtedly, they were drawn to each other because they recognized their own desperation in one another. That was no way to start a relationship. He couldn’t take care of himself, so how could he take care of her? And, vice versa.

But…

She latched on to him, in a way that made him lust and cringe. That weakness in her drew him in, even when it repulsed him. His ex-wife was nothing like Alia. She was a fighter. She was strong, and smart, and hard-headed. One might imagine that those qualities in her were what created the barrier between them, but that wasn’t at all the case. It was Sandy. Losing Sandy. Actually losing her – she was just gone. And every time Ash looked into his wife’s beautiful eyes, he saw his daughters’ staring back at him, begging him to find her, asking him why he let her go. That was a barrier he simply couldn’t get by.

So one day he found that he was sitting there with Alia, drinking until he could no longer keep his thoughts straight. And Alia let him. Because she would let anyone do anything. Because she was meek, and timid, and lost. But Ash had found her. And she loved him for it.

He thought about all of this as he stood at the water’s edge. He was swaying back and forth now, likely too drunk to swim back to shore if he wanted to. But just to be sure, he had tied weights to his ankles. Now all there was to do was step in, and keep going. So why was he standing there, thinking about Alia? She would cry. She would quiver, and crack, and break. He would break her. It would be his fault. He didn’t love her. But that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t stand the idea of letting her down. He let down Sandy, his wife, his parents, his dog (where had that damn dog gone, anyways?) – and now Alia. Sweet, sad, Alia. But if he didn’t step in, if he untied the weights and climbed back into bed – dry and alive – well, what could he offer her then?

Nothing. And yet – he just couldn’t step in.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Walter practiced smiling sheepishly in the mirror, but it was useless. When he bared those sharp, inhuman, canines, his smile became a snarl; he became a threat. Everything about him from his piercing yellow eyes to his thick, tool-like, toenails screamed villain. There was no house of straw, or stick, or even brick that he couldn’t be accused of blowing down. No three innocents they wouldn’t have him hanged for killing. No creature in all the lands that wouldn’t hear his tale and cringe. Except, of course, Gale. He had to get to Gale. A man of his size, temper, and smarts would not turn Walter away – he hoped.

In Gale’s dimly lit office, crowded with antiques from far and wide, Walter sat as still as any of the statues that lined the walls. He could feel his chest anxiously heaving. Gale stood against his own desk, looking down on Walter – analyzing every last bit of him. His eyes narrowed, head slightly tilted; the intensity thickened the air.

“You’re a monster, Walter. Why should I take your case?”

Walter felt his left eye twitch at the insult.

“They made me a monster, sir.”

“And the three dead cops? Who do you suppose took them out, if not you?” Gale was lighting a cigarette now, the glowing ember directed right at Walter – a target.

Feeling a rage building in his tightening chest, Walter’s low voice slowly turned to a growl. “They came at me. I – Self-defence. We still allow that in this tyranny. Don’t we?”

Gale and Walter’s eyes met and locked into a hardened standoff.

“And the girl? Val,” Gale finally asked, not breaking his stare – not even for a blink.

Walter leapt to his feet and in one quick stride was overtop of Gale, breathing so wildly the ember began to flicker. The edge of the desk was digging into the small of Gale’s back now, but still, he didn’t blink. Slowly, he brought the cigarette back to his lips and sucked hard, reigniting its power.

Walter shook his head violently, as if to release his anger. He moved an inch or two back, and huffed.

“I loved her,” he finally said. “And she me.”

With the silence hanging heavy over them, Walter collapsed back into his chair, eyes torn away from Gale’s. He finished, “But – yes. I killed her.”

Tears pushed forcefully out of his eyelids, but he made no sound other than the heaving huffs of a madman. Gale watched patiently.

“She – She said she’d defend me. She said – she said she’d make them see what she saw.” After a long pause, Walter grunted. “I suppose that’s exactly what she did; let them see me as she saw me. Wild, dangerous, exotic. A monster. A monster she could call her own.”

Walter looked up after what seemed an eternity. The ember had gone out, and on the edge of the desk Gale now sat behind was a contract. Stunned, Walter looked up at Gale.

“I ask nothing of my clients but the truth. The truth can always be defended.”

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

 

 

 

 

Invisible

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dark Realism, Shyla's Stories1 Comment

Eliza was always trying to be someone new; live another life; know another mind. When she was twelve she read a story about a boy kept locked away in an attic for months that turned into years and years that turned into decades. Eventually, he died, and became the ghost of the mansion. Of course, Eliza saw that he had always been the ghost. After reading the story, she locked herself in her own attic. She wanted to see how long she could stand it without going mad like the boy, but her mother found her after just two days, and she wasn’t mad at all. When she was sixteen, she saw a movie about a girl trapped in a well. She considered jumping down one, really she did. But she didn’t want to tear her dress. Now, as she stared blankly at the job application before her, she wondered if it wasn’t too late. Perhaps she could simply disappear, after all.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

If Tomorrow Comes

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dystopia, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Sir

Sir

“SIR!”

Peter tried to hang on to the sound. Was it real?

“Sir? I need to move you! Ok?! Ok?!”

What was that in the background? Gunfire, perhaps. And the voice… a woman. A young woman. Nothing to be afraid of, perhaps.

“OK! Let’s move! C’mon. We’ve got this!”

Her accent was thick – Australian, perhaps. He wished he could get a grip on himself, but all he could form were half questions and partial realizations.

Before long he could feel the gravel peeling away the skin on his back. Her fingertips were digging deep into his armpits as she grunted exhaustively. She was dragging him to safety. The gunfire was growing more distant. Peter tried to get a foot sturdy on the ground to help her, but as far as he could tell, he was still deadweight.

—

“Morning.”

Peter looked up groggily; the sun was assaulting.

“You’ve been out for a day and a half. Here, eat.”

She was young, with a sweet, round, face. As she handed him a bowl of what looked like sludge, Peter took notice of her dirty hands and torn fingernails. Suddenly, the angelic haze surrounding her dissipated and he realized they were in hell.

“I’m Evelyn, by the way. Or, Evie. Peter, right? I found your wallet.”

“Yeah,” Peter managed as he pulled himself to a sitting position. “Where are we?”

“Hell,” she offered with a puckish smirk. “Really. But it’s a great hiding spot. I wouldn’t move too much if I were you, though. I had to sort of tumble you down here. But there was no way I could get you up anymore mountains, so the valley was your best chance.”

Hell Valley. Peter breathed in deeply and let the smell of the outback take him over. It took him a moment to process it, but when it came back, the sense memory flooded him. He had come to Australia for a sabbatical. He meant to write a new book but found himself holding more shot glasses than pens. He tried to find some solitude but then he broke his leg, just in time for the end of the world.

“Oh. My leg.”

“Looks broken. My mum’s a nurse. Er – she was.”

Peter considered offering condolences, but felt too disoriented to sound sincere.

“Evie?” he finally managed, “what’s happening?”

She sighed, and lifted her brow to the sky. “My guess? The end of the world.”

—

They spent the rest of daylight fiddling with a radio Evie had found in the city. She and her friends had been camping in Hell when it happened – whatever it was. An army, she said. But she had no real answers. The others had left to find their families. Evie didn’t have to worry about that. Her mother was dead in the house when she arrived. Shot. That was weeks ago, but Peter could tell she was still in shock.

“The sun’s going down. It gets kind of cold – just a warning.”

“Thanks. You know a lot about this roughing it stuff, huh?”

She smiled. “I know how to survive, if that’s what you mean. And – well, I could tell you didn’t. That’s why I couldn’t leave you. That, and, I figured if you healed good it would be nice to have a partner who owed me his life.”

“I do. Thank you. I feel rather incompetent. You’re just a kid.”

“Seventeen. You could be my dad.”

“Yeah, I could.”

Looking away, Peter sighed through the stabbing pain shooting through his leg. The timing was perfect – it was that, or think about his actual daughter, again.

“So how long do we stay here?”

Evie looked as though she wanted to hide from the question, but finally she said: “until you’re well enough to fight, I guess. We’ll come up with a plan tomorrow.”

Peter shut his eyes. She was right. It was getting cold.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

 

Unbelonging

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Shyla's Stories2 Comments

“You could be an Alpha, you know. It seems like a waste to walk away like this.”

Aileas smirked and rolled her eyes. A female as the primary Alpha was a rarity, but not impossible. The issue at hand then was not whether she could be one, but whether she wanted to. She was smart enough, strong enough, and even vicious enough. But her heart would never be in it. Aileas would never be an Omega, but something inside of her indisputably made her an outcast. The pack needed surer leadership than she could offer; but Keir refused to see it that way.

Aileas’ decision to leave the pack came in the aftermath of a treacherous time for them. The winter had been a harsh one and the battles for territory had been in abundance. A neighbouring pack had waged war on them and it made for countless bloody battles. Their opponents were hardly a pack anymore. Aileas herself had proudly torn the throats out of four; three times in human form. The thrill of that winter was great, but the loss was greater. By the spring, her pack had dwindled from eleven, to five. Among the fallen had been their sibling Mysie, to whom Aileas and Keir had been like second parents.

“It’s about Mysie, isn’t it?” Keir asked for what seemed like the thousandth time this week.

“It’s not about Mysie, it’s about me. Once a lone wolf, always a lone wolf, right?”

“Not right. You were separated from your pack as a baby, Ail. You can’t keep pretending that defines you. This is your family, always has been.”

Aileas sighed. He was right. This wasn’t about her lone nature. It was about her curious nature. Humans were an all consuming question to her. It was a bit romantic, she supposed, but living among them seemed like a better thrill than anything she could get in the wild.

Sure, they interacted with humans on a pretty regular basis, but it wasn’t the same. Historically, humans had been the wolf’s greatest enemy – a predator that simply can’t be defeated. In fact, Lauchlan’s own line had been chased out of Scotland by humans in the 16th century. Most wolves just steered clear of people at all costs, but avoidance wasn’t appealing to Aileas. Instead, there was a magnetic draw she could not ignore. Inside, she knew what it meant. She hadn’t been born to wolves, but to humans. Someone had turned her; ripped her away from her cozy human life. She wasn’t angry though, or even looking for answers. She just wanted to know what it would have been like; what she was really meant to be.

“I shouldn’t have told you I’m going,” she whispered.

It was true. Unofficially, the correct way to leave a pack was to wander off unnoticed. But the idea of hearing the melancholy search howls in the distance, night after night, just stung too much. She loved her pack, and she wanted them to know she was going to be okay.

“Did you tell Lauchlan, yet?” Aileas asked, afraid of the answer. She hadn’t specifically asked Keir to keep it a secret, but she had hoped that he would, even if it was wrong to conceal information from the Alpha.

“No. Not until you’re gone.”

Aileas turned to Keir, less surprised than she should have been. He was facing forward, lying on the hill with his right elbow propping him up. His thick dark curls bobbed in his eyes, their emerald tint peeking through. His jaw was clenched, tense with several emotions. Since losing Mysie, there had been an unspoken anger floating between the two of them. It was obvious to Aileas that they were trying not to blame each other, and failing.

The next morning, Aileas roused when all was still. Without the darkness to blanket her indiscretion, Aileas couldn’t help but feel exposed and dirty. Having always felt abandoned by her blood pack, abandoning her adoptive family had an eerily cyclical quality that didn’t settle quite right. Her heart pounded against her chest, sweat spewed from her glands, and a burning fever rose in her. The unexpected guilt was throwing her body into chaos and the lack of control was bringing on a change.

After the night’s hunt, Aileas had gorged herself on fifteen pounds of moose, and it was all coming back on her now. Changing was always laborious and required an amazing level of self-control. Without that, the pain was excruciating, twisting her gut until it emptied itself onto the melting snow. Heaving, wrenching, writhing; Aileas had no choice but to stop fighting and let the change take her over. When it was over, her fur was matted with blood where her skin had been torn open recklessly.

Ashamed at both her ability to leave, and her inability to do it with grace, Aileas took off into the woods. No melancholy howls followed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever know what it was to have a family again.

Too human for wolves, too wolf for humans. Aileas knew she’d simply never belong.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen