She Came as a Ghost


She came as a ghost in the depths of the night, her nightgown billowing like a windblown shroud of intangible white. Her feet glided over the hall carpet without ever touching the pile, her bare toes pointed down like a spectral ballerina.

I thought myself dreaming and rubbed hard at my eyes, too hard. As the water ran over my cheeks to plop onto the duvet, I imagined she thought me crying. Perhaps, she even thought me repentant?

She parted long, lank hair from her face like drawn curtains and tilted her head to one side. The angle was acute and uncomfortable, but she was beyond pain. There she appraised me as my non-tears fell. A bulbous tongue clacked against her small, impressive teeth. Her fingers twiddled as though restless. I watched on disbelieving.

She came closer then, ever closer like an onrushing tide. There was no time to even hide beneath the sheets, so swift was her passage. She didn’t stop. Like the net curtains she resembled blown by my open window, she disappeared out into the night. I sniffed.

I thought I’d got away with it then, imagining all I’d have to do was mop the carpet where the seawater had run off her transparent form. In death, she was powerless, or so I presumed.

When I patted the duvet and lay back down, my head turning towards what for months had been her empty pillow, she was waiting.

Sensational Sensations

The sensation began as a prickling beneath my fingernails, a discomfort, nothing more. Yet, like an electric current flowing under my skin, through veins supposedly carrying blood, not animosity, it made a circuitous route of my body sparing not one inch of self. If someone had shaken my shoulder, slapped my face, it would not have roused me from the catatonic state I’d fallen into. As realisation spread and reality fell into place, memories stirred and myths became truths, I felt what she’d felt; it hurt. And through it all, throughout this experience I wished never to repeat not once did she blink. In eyes of pooled sapphire, she saw through me, her inner lightning flickering, then upped and walked away.

50 Word Stories: These High Society Games

A waved hand signalled his dissatisfaction, a sniff of malcontent. Nothing was good enough for this impresario of life; not the food, drink or especially the company. I took that as a personal slight as I was the company. My coup d'état: another night with his wife. Sniff at that!

The Cold Plunge

The Cold Plunge

I dipped beneath the world I knew in a cold plunge of ethereal grace. The fog that had clouded my mind diminished with the iced injection, life fell away in layers. I was an orange peeled in one long, unravelling length, spaghetti wound around a fork, a vacuumed ghost. I was all this and more, but I never once forgot you.

I remained anchored by those eyes, your eyes, attached to the world I was meant to leave. I slowed, though my body felt nothing, stalled, though my mind said not. Paused between reality and a dream, I coalesced into something bigger than my once self, and the fury built.

Surfacing like a submarine from the Marianna Trench, a place so deep as to be unknown, my anger should not have been, yet it was and it did, and I did, too. The one who’d separated us would pay.

“The cold plunge,” said another. “You’ve felt it?” as I passed.

“I have,” I whispered, though my mouth never moved.

“Take us with you,” said another faceless being in this faceless place. “Please!” begged another.

And so I raised from the stone floor on which I’d fallen, the blood still dripping from my chest, a gaping cavern all that remained of my heart. I was not alone. The mob knew fear then, I would see to it.

My army of ghosts squeezed them away to that place beyond death to die a million times over, then die some more. The heat from their bodies would diminish by the cell and the ghosts would take every atom.

When I turned to my darling she screamed, and I died again, not from anger, not from pain, but from love. I was an abomination she loved no longer. Her fear drove me away.

Yet still I lingered as fog, the mist in the mirror, the unsettling dream. For me, death had just begun.

50 Word Stories: No Wonder

This world is packed with many wonders. There is, of course, the natural beauty of flowers or an elegant woman. There’s views from mountaintops, of oceans and sparkling eyes. There’s children playing and their grandparents watching them. Yes, many wonders, my dear, but you are no longer one of them.

The Lie

A serpentine shore, the hissing wind swept across the sands. Lifeless and barren, the beach echoed with the memories of heroes butchered and cowards tears. But what choice did I have, as I pulled my small, wooden boat up onto the inhospitable land.
 Why would I risk my life, my very soul on such a foolhardy adventure, who could say? Perhaps pride drove me to do what others dared not? Perhaps the promised hand of a princess who would never love me in return? Either way, the Isle of the Damned would feel my feet upon its cursed land, and the devils who frequented it would taste my sword.
 I staggered across the grit and gravel towards the rushes that made a dismal barrier between tide and townships. The slight elevation precluded my being seen and me seeing. Good, I thought, better to not witness hell before one had to.
 I dropped to my knees, hands peeling apart the fauna to spy upon the death beyond: a lie!
 Where skull and terror meant to reign, children sang and danced. Where the vilest of demons supposedly loitered in preparation of death, villagers tended fields. And at that moment I knew the truth. The king feared me. I had rowed fifty leagues for vain glory and a hand in marriage that should never have been, for a lie. The king wanted his only challenger dead. Like an idiot, I had fallen foul of deceit.
 I slipped back down the embankment and eyed the maelstrom brewing over the distant waves. Death awaited any man who should retrace their route across those wretched waters. I cared not. Where once I should have remained indifferent to His Majesty’s scheming, I was changed. All he’d done was stoke the fires of my rage. All he’d done was sign his and his ugly daughter’s death warrant. No storm nor distance, no sea god nor leviathan would stop me, they would pay for their lies.
 And, as I shoved my little boat back out into the heaving surf, I smiled. For the first time in years, I had purpose. It felt good to be alive.
 The End.


I was chained: feet to hands, hands to neck, shackles locked and the key thrown away. Left for dead in a dark, dank pit that even the worms declined to visit, I mired in my own demise. It was not my fault I had been born to royalty and I certainly did not flaunt it, but that counted for little when the revolution started. I was just another wig amongst many.

They hurt me, defiled me and ultimately grew bored with me. When my mental resistance proved greater than my physical, they cast me into my pit with a sneer; I wasn’t worth wasting a sword stroke on. That is where they left me through thunder and storm, snowfall and ice. I think they forgot about their silent example. In some ways, I had never been so grateful for being born mute.

I stayed that way for many months, too many months, living off the scraps that passing children through at me, rather than to me. I survived when others would not have, as my clothes festered and fell from my skin, as my sanity slowly dripped away.

But they had made a grievous error that day they allowed me to see my Chantelle bent beneath the guillotine’s gaping smile. They thought it would finish me, break me, but it only infused me. For all I saw in the darkness when they discarded me to my doom was the emerald eyes I was refused to see at her butchering. She had the most stunning eyes, so beautiful, I could never have forgotten them.

And as the rust began to eat at the metal of the forgotten man’s bindings, I knew that one day I would be free. I should rise from my pit, voiceless, raging, my gaze speaking for me. And they would feel the taste of their own blood, as I carved her name into each and every one of them. That would be my revenge, and I would have it no matter how long the wait. I would live for Chantelle’s memory and kill to ease my own.

That day has come.

Divine Retribution

 Was it divine retribution
 That cast me from the clouds,
 Hurled I was to smash on rock?
 Did I not splinter in pain,
 Did I not break,
 Shatter like an egg shell;
 Exterior cracked beyond repair?
 Or, was it imagination only,
 The wind in my face,
 Water molecules colliding with immortal skin-
 The sound of angels screaming?
 I shall muse on it,
 Cogitate for some time,
 For that is a commodity I shall never lack.
 It provides opportunity for my anger to fester,
 And to slowly build to apocalyptic crescendo!
 For He without name I may be,
 And if true,
 Then so be it,
 But at the end of all things
 Shall they not remember me,
 Know me.
 Oh, no, my friends,
 They shall never forget me again.