This Scream Called Us (Rated 15)

They say a scream is a scream is a scream. Hurt is hurt. Pain is pain. That both subside with every unfulfilled second. They say many things. But what do they know? What do they really know?

The mind is a curious container, delicate even. If the mind were glass, one might shatter it with a scream, which I suppose you did.

Wordless moments, memories birth from open mouths. Memories! Too loud. Too raw. Reflections of moments past until wiped clean by sound. Until…

My everything you were and ever shall remain. My heart cannot beat without you. These romanticised lines of obvious affection. This sentimental twaddle. I wish to silence this scream called us. I wish to close these lips and sleep.

After tonight, maybe I will. Once I tear the secret you’ve kept from your overworked larynx.

I still have the key I copied. I have many such copies. You can never be too careful where safety’s concerned.

The latch lifts with a click like a match struck on once love. We did love, I think.

I’m in. Nothing’s changed. The same lavender stink to cover the cat litter. It assails my olfactory senses and I almost gag. Almost. Ginger, said cat, stops purring the moment I enter. He always hated me. I lurch forward but the cat’s quicker. He leaves without a handful of hair, whilst I’m left with a sergeant’s stripes across my skin. If only I’d closed the door! So, I do.

I let the light rest. I know the way. Darkness is good, it hides a multitude of sins. The mirror in the hallway remains empty. The photo on the telephone desk goes unseen. And I wonder, is it still there?

A sudden urge to sit on the sofa, turn on the tv and watch football, open the fridge and steal a beer. It’s fleeting but there.

I shake my head so hard my eyes rattle.

The first step creaks so I seek the second. Silence. I want to shout COME ON! I don’t, but I want to.

Stopping halfway, I take a seat. One last memory I think. A sigh. An aimless three-sixty. The darkness deprives as the lavender stink prods. I’m back on my feet and climbing before I realise I’ve sat.

Everest climbed, I have a desire to pee. The bathroom door stands open, so I do.

I take a certain devilish pleasure in peeing on the toilet seat, in the sink, bath. Small victories and all that. She’ll never see it but her mother might.

Once relieved, I’m back on the case. First door, second, third… I stop.

There’s a lump in this once-home made a prison. There’s a someone, a certain someone I know. Not for long.

The rage rises.

Her former rebukes, my dismissal, return like a needle shoved into my eyes. And I strike. And I strike. And I strike.

Everything she made me leave behind, the untold secret and more besides, stick like a lump in my throat. But I’ve got her. At last, I’ve got her.

“What have you done!”

A voice.

Her voice?

Her voice!

The landing light flicks on behind me.

I see my crimson creation and turn away retching out my innards.

She comes at me like Ginger on a bad day. She screams and screams and screams. But this is my dream and she can’t hurt me.

Only when she stops do I hear her. Only when she stops and crumples in a heap whispering the same words over and over again, do I understand what I’ve done.

“Our daughter. She was our daughter.”

And the cold steel I’ve spent seven years polishing finds a nice warm home in my chest. I smile.

My ex-wife screams again. This time, it’s not for us.

The End.

Christmas Visitors and Fear Unbounded

Through mists and madness, they came. Preceded by a blazing streak of crimson, they curled through the night like blood under dark, transparent skin, their master’s booming battle cry filling the void.
I feared then. I’m not proud of my shame, but a truth is a truth and quivering lips go undisguised. Sheer terror took me, and I feinted beneath that star-sprinkled night. To darkness I fell. To darkness I ventured.
I awoke to a diminishing Ho… Ho… Ho… and a new pair of burgundy socks. What an awful night. What a demon he was.

The End

50 Word Stories – 3G


Behind every twitched curtain, eyes twinkled. The issue came with whether they twinkled with glee, gladness or gore. How could one judge a sparkle in the night, a flash in infinity except with one’s heart. So, I walked through that village to nowhere smiling sweet kindnesses. I didn’t walk out.

On Halloween


On Halloween

Murder dripped from my mind as a dark and unctuous treacle; it coated me in death.
And so it was I stole upon her unawares, my once love, my once life. She combed her long, raven hair with the brush I had bought her when first we met, a trinket to me, rather more to her. Here I watched from the shadows of an unlit hallway. Here my spite grew bestial.
I launched myself upon her with the vicious confidence only fear could manifest. Exactly ten years to the night, on Halloween, to be exact, I would end the turmoil of our love. My fingers closed about her throat, a sick adulation shining from my eyes.
She did not die. She would not die. The mirror as always stood empty and silent.
I’d married a witch, my fault, my lapse. I’d married a witch, and I sought to end it. As ever, she refused. She tossed me aside like a rag doll. I crumpled. She laughed.
“Maybe next year,” she sneered.
She could be sure I’d try.

50 Word Stories: They

50 Word Stories: They

They slid over us like the stars the night, white ghosts stalking the cosmos. Albinos, as like us as not, They confronted us in nightmares and found us wanting. Nameless, They took our everything in intangible truths and left us with nothing. They, we called them, those reflections of us. 

Dead Enough


One never expects to be told they’re dead not even by God himself. Is it not supposed to be a quick transition, a passage from light to dark to light again? Yet there I was lying in my hospital bed when a figure dressed head to toe in flowing black robes bent low and whispered those very words. To say I was taken aback only scratched the surface of my indignation.

“Oh, am I?” I’d returned, then felt more stupid than a goat eating chicken wire.

The figure nodded to a cracking of bones, scooped me in his steel-like arms and carried me out of the place; nobody saw us go.

Once unconstrained by roof or wall Death, for it had to be he, sailed into the sky like an obsidian schooner. I closed my eyes until I thought us stopped.

It was odd to see Death floating there. He hung like a pinned rain cloud whilst I fell away. There was no such sensation as speed, for I was beyond such things, just him getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

As I levelled with the mountains, then trees, then long grass, a cold voice cut through my madness. It said, “You weren’t dead enough.” Then I hit the ground and knew I was.

The End.

The Tribe (Micro-Fiction)

They called themselves the tribe. A disparate band of hoodlums made tough by numbers, reinforced by concealed blades and young girls in too much lipstick. Kings of the neighbourhood, they flounced, preened and one night chanced their arms.

Midnight, alone and moody, I meandered. They struck.

The cops found all ten of them in a trashcan. Good job I was bored or they wouldn’t have found them at all. You see, and I tell you this because we’ll probably never meet, there’s only one real tribe, and they weren’t in it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the sun rises. Time to sleep. Time to rest. Time to put the smile away.

50 Word Stories: How Lost is Lost?

“No!” She grabbed my arm. “There’s no place for you here.”

“I need a room.”

“We house the lost, the damned and the dead.”

“Did you say dead?”

“You hear what you need to hear,” she hissed.

She was right. I jumped in my car and left. I’m still driving.