50 Word Stories: Those Eyes

In the middle of the night, I wake up screaming. I don't remember the why, how or when of my terrors just those terrible, haunted eyes. They flick open like Venetian blinds, quick and bright, then stare into my soul. I hate them. I really do. They're just like mine.

50 Word Stories: Night Flights (Part 2)

After my wife having read my last Night Flights story, I can say I haven't been flying so high. The engine noises have been replaced by some sort of low growl, my stretching out restricted by knees in my back. I hope to fly again, but maybe by charter instead.

Part 1

Do Not Disturb

Sleep that oldest of adversaries has climbed in to disrupt my day. A ridiculously large coffee revives me in a way the fresh air has not, but not fully. I’m somewhere in between alive and not. There’s music playing in the coffee shop; I think it’s on repeat. I’m so tired I even contemplate posting a selfie to prove it. Not that tired though. I wonder when this zombielike state will disperse or if I’ll be treading the grey frontiers all bank holiday? Super market shopping is next. I’m dreading it! You may find me sleeping in the deep freeze with the peas and carrots, if so, please do not disturb. Or is it peas do not disturb? I’ll sleep on it.

50 Word Stories: Sleepless (It’s No Hoot).

Midnight came in restless huffs and the hoots of a bored owl. Too lazy to fly, the bird shrieked at halfhearted intervals rendering my sheep counting pointless. "T-wit!" it called. "T-wit!" It wasn't until I woke with a mouthful of pillow that I realised it had been taking the ****.

50 Word Stories: The Sound of Midnight

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The ghosts and the goblins, the witches and the hags, they hide in the dungeons, graveyards and sewers. You won't see them, but you'll feel them massing like an evil tide.
What to do? your lips tremble.
Go to sleep, my boy, and pray you don't hear the midnight tolling.

The Unsleeping — A Christmas Tale

The Unsleeping — A Christmas Tale

I called myself one of the unsleeping it sounded so much more dramatic than insomniac. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t fall asleep. If I didn’t try, it was even worse. Yet there were advantages to my unsleeping self and Christmas was almost upon us.
I sat at my window watching the barn owls flit across the moonlight meadow like nighttime phantoms. A clear sky and silver moon made for an idyllic winter scene; snow would have made it Christmas, but there was none.
I dragged my eye from the Christmas Eve skies to the meadow and back again just in case. He couldn’t avoid me forever. He wouldn’t, would he?
When the village church struck midnight, I became more attentive. I allowed the barn owls to go unobserved as I hunted out far larger prey.
Twice I thought I saw him, but it was just stray wafts of cloud. Three times I thought I heard him, but it was the sleeping snores of the parents to an unsleeping son. Time dragged on and still I waited.
When I awoke to a stiff neck and cold everything still propped against the window ledge, I turned with a crack to see a note sticking out of my Christmas stocking. It read:

Hope you enjoyed your sleep.
Merry Christmas
Mister C.

It was the best Christmas present I’d ever received.