Tag Archives: short story

Short on its way

Hi readers,

So if you’ve been following me for a while, you might have seem some posts with the title Escapade.

They’re an ongoing series of my dreams, usually the extremely poignant or fucked up ones that I remember well enough upon waking to record down.

Well I’m planning to take some of them and translate it into a short story. It’s going to tie in with my ideas of life, dreaming, alternate universes & realities, and consciousness.

It’s a work in progress. I’ve been ruminating on these separate chunks for a while now, but it’s only just hit me as a whole story idea. While showering, of course.

So watch this space. Might take a while though.

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Short story – rainy thoughts

Sitting on her cabinet, vying for space between the books, the toys, the mirror makeup graduation certificate documents; wind harassing the trees below. 

There are so many cars driving by at 1am, more than 7 to 10 people passing her by at 1 in the morning. Where are they all going, what were they doing this time of the night? It’s Tuesday night, shouldn’t everyone be in bed, preparing for the next work day? But she wasn’t in bed herself. 

She sent out her soul to below, to work the corner and the streets. To lift her shirt just far enough to ignite imagination without giving away her goods. She sent out her projected imagination (or was it her true identity?) to the scummy, filthy side of this clean and green city. The one where now 10-15 people were still awake and driving by, up to no good, getting involved with one another, exposing each others dirty little  (11-15) secret parts and shameful

The door swings open. With her window open, a vacuum effect was created, forcing her door to let out the emptiness from within her blue walls. She hopped off and rushed to shut the door before her parents woke, then trudged back to close the window before climbing back into bed.

Where was she? (12-17 by now) shameful hidden treasures, that only a wedded couple should be allowed access to. Not even you can get access to your own treasure trove, your pleasure is a dirty thing and should only happen by accident while in the middle of its true baby making goals.

She sent out her soul to the red light district, amidst the many dirty streets and dirty old men (some young but old in their extensive knowledge, how could a young man know so much without the experience that ought to come with age). Fishnet stockings, red cheeks, long fake eyelashes and puckered lips. Wink and smirk, trail those fingers. That’s how you get the thought of dirty deeds in their filthy minds the act of suggestion.

She pulled her soul out of the reaches the moment she sensed someone approaching. Too soon, she wasn’t ready, she was only playing at the idea. She wasn’t a slut, no, she’s still a good girl at heart. The pure pious one who was taught to be Christ’s bride and never to touch her secret area. She was only messing around with thoughts, thoughts that are not real and will not, can not be real. They do not exist in solid forms, only corporeal and therefore not a real sin. She’s not actually dirty.

Still she hears the grating of tires and brakes against wet gravel and she dreams of satin and silk, of rough leather scents and (here comes the hard splashes of rain against her window) and of chains and ropes and she wishes she were free from the shackles of her purity.

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White noise – a short story

She sat by the pier, absentmindedly pushing each bead forward with her thumb. The soft ocean breeze blew more salt into her already tangled hair, but her hair’s demise was not really a priority. In fact, everything that once mattered so dearly had been cast aside. All she had on her mind now was the tactile comfort of rough, stone beads going clack, clack, clack.

The briny sea assaulted her nostrils, pulling her back to her surroundings. Old men in white singlets and age-worn bermuda pants sauntered down the pier, expressions a curious mix of determination and weariness only a fishermen could carry. It was easy to spot the veterans and the saplings, simply by the sheer contrast in preparedness each party took for their day out fishing. While the experienced carried a single cooler and a well-used rod, the newcomers lugged coolers, backpacks, multiple brand new fishing rods (some with the tags still attached), and always the token straw hat.

She wondered if they realised the hats betrayed their wide-eyed inexperience more than their grimace and squeals at baiting a live worm. Clack, clack, as she tossed her head quickly and harshly, as though trying to dislodge a thought. Clack, clack, clack.  Bright, humid sunshine sprawled across her shoulders and cheeks, burning their warmth into her.

When was the last time she could safely visit any other place besides the pier without her noise-cancelling headphones, dark sunglasses and her rosary beads? She felt like a sham, carrying them around like a pious woman, giving off false impressions of purity, cleansing and soft church sounds. She sighed, feeling the beads snap against each other with each calculated push. When she grew tired of pushing them, she took to rubbing her thumb over the largest rosary bead, feeling the coarse landscape of its stony heritage. The worn out grooves and grainy sediments threatening to leave the bead smooth, but the constant rubbing and clacking made sure that their infinitely comforting textures prevented any betrayal.

She noticed the looks and whispers, of course. A woman alone with rosary beads by the pier, staring motionless out into the sea. Too young to be a nun, they whispered, unless she was jilted? Ignoring them made things harder, and sometimes it got so bad that she had to pull on her uniform of headphones and sunglasses for a whole 10 minutes before the clacking of her beads slowed down. Twice now, someone had approached her asking if she was alright, clearly worried she was suicidal. Back at the start, she tried to explain the noise sensitivity, the loudness of her mind, her need for tactile comfort but it only drew panicked looks fearing insanity. These days, she simply smiles and tells them that she’s fine and thanks them for being concerned, which is all they need to feel good about their kindness and empathy, and all she needs to get them off her back.

As the sun began to set, she stood up slowly and has a nice long stretch. Drawing her finger slowly over the stone, she whispered, “Soothe…”, exhaling as she did so, and brought herself back to reality; to life shouting in your face and to silence grating her skull as night pressed further on.

Clack, clack clack. “Soothe…” Clack, clack, clack. “Soothe…”

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Escapade

My family is running, we’re all running. It started out nice and slow, taking shifts as waitresses, my sister and I. Then waking at midnight after my sister’s night shift, hearing her get ready to leave the house. She wanted to listen to my mom read stories to some children. I rush to get dressed and follow.

I don’t fully remember what happens here, but I know whistling was involved and being chased by this one person. Creature actually, chasing us, wanting to kill us, eat us. It got caught. But right when we were safe, turns out it could switch bodies and we were attacked by another from the crowd. Chains, swinging police, metal leash, swinging from the ceiling, huge date rape drug, sex before it is sentenced to death.

I’m running. Find two others, they’re my family now. We’re safe. And then he decides to fucking whistle, fuck dammit and now we run, Sprint through the mall and there’s 2 of then now chasing after us, blood thirsty, blood lust. My family, again. Gone.

Run into a house, my relatives, huge huge family. I tell them to keep quiet, hide, lower ourselves. There’s 3 of them outside, trying to get in. Never whistle. Don’t even make a sound. Door locked. Gate outside locked, they don’t seem to be coming in. We start to relax, my family fights. So loud, shouting, the kind of anger that sears your throat, you go mute from anger before a torrent of fire pours out. My cousin walks through the door with some friends. They opened the door. The creatures come forward and we scream, scramble for the small storage room. Press against the door lock it, I’m there with my uncle pressing against the door. Crying, “I’ve never had my family last longer than 24 hours.” He looks at me and says that it’ll be different this time. The young ones decide to throw pens and brushes on the floor at the door, trying to slip the creatures up. They pour blue water out under the door, hoping to drown them, deter them. Blue water seeps back in from the top, “STOP!” but it’s too late, the door bends at the force of outside waters trying to flood in. Like a plastic tarp, why is the door like a plastic tarp nothing is helping we can’t keep the water out and Woosh. Our room is moving. Moving out the house. Landing on the road outside the house. A plastic room. The creatures advance we run next door begging for access.

They said yes. Gorgeous mansion. That was too easy. But we need to run. We run in.

I run up the stairs. So many levels but I keep running my friend following behind. Try to hide in a huge grandfather clock just like in the stories hide in there, try to push the clockwork manually so they won’t suspect.

“What are you doing?”
It’s him. I’m clearly not even fitting. Butt in, body contorted, door still wide open. Sigh. I tried.
We walk to the railings and look down over the ground floor of the mansion. We talk, he asks why I’ve been running, I said I wanted my family alive, I wanted to keep them all alive. We laugh and joke and he teases and smiles. My friend comes over and she jokes and laughs, leaning on the railings.

You shouldn’t lean like that, it’s not safe.
It’s alright.
He looks at her. And smiles. He flips her over the railing and she falls to the ground floor.

Creatures are everywhere tearing apart my family. There’s yellow liquids running down their legs. Urine, I’m told. One creature is wiping the yellow off its feet, with a swaddled infant. He casually tosses the baby aside after he is done. I’m there, looking, and one of the creatures, the older matronly figure, gives me a white bar. Have this instead. It’s coconut and some other gelatinous matter. Two of them look at it and each other, before staring curiously at me at the matronly creature.

Sitting at a glorious dining table, all creatures seated around, talking, having tea. “He likes you. Lord _______.” I recall him almost putting a baby hamster in his mouth, and seeing my face, he puts it away. The crunch is almost similar to that of the coconut in the bar.

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