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!
The bell chimes twelve times
A cat’s cry through the blackness
Time to say goodbye
© 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!
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
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
April 2
“This is agent 445 to command. Agent 445 to command.”
“Static.”
“Ship is under siege. I repeat! Ship is under siege! Commander? Come in.”
“Static.”
May 4
“Agent 445 to command, reporting a crash landing. Agents 177 and 559 down. There’s… something… here. Soldiers – they helped me escape. They… they look just like us.”
May 17
“Soldiers from the planet they call Lux have taken me to water. I do not know my coordinates. I am told there are enemies everywhere. I do not know who to trust.”
June 8
“…Hel-….. NO… go of me… wha- wha-… ahhhh! Don’t look! Don’t look at it!… -ay back!…
Static.”
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
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
It was unexpectedly beautiful, the end of the world.
The fires, blazing west to east. The waters flooding north to south. The earths opening up, devouring our very being. The winds scooping up whatever was left.
I watched it all in awe, and not once did I consider stopping it. There’s nothing quite like the rush of devastation. My only loss was its completion.
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 