Rafters (Flash Fiction)

Previously published in November of 2016 with The Violet Hour Press.

Maxine never looked up. They were hiding in the rafters.

In the mornings, she would find reels of rotten, grey skin on the stone floor near the edge of her bed. They watched her while she slept. She would wake up in the middle of the night and find fingers twisted in her hair. Their nails felt like knives, taking large swatches of her hair with them as they ran and giggled. Sometimes, she would find a discarded ring finger on her pillow, nail black and infected.

She never opened her eyes when she woke up in the night. Her nightmares told her what they looked like. Their eyes dark pinpricks and knotted hair tangled around impossibly long fingers. The nightmares showed her what they were. She didn’t need to look. Continue reading “Rafters (Flash Fiction)”

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Becoming Me: Know Before You Read

We is scared of Them. Sometimes, We turns into Them. We toss the turning ones from the nest, throw them out as they grow cold. They will destroy us. So We are terrified. We are always scared of something.
And sometimes, when We is sleeping, I think of Me and I am not scared. 

Becoming Me is a flash fiction piece that needs to be read to be understood. It is a literary tale that examines collectivism and individualism while being entirely surreal. Read for free here.

How Fickle Love Is (Flash Fiction)

She was made of circuitry and metal sheets. Each smooth plane of skin marred by the gentle swell and bubble of a weld. Oil glistened between each joint, her arms folded around my neck and she pressed silicone lips against mine. If I ignored the exposed wires on her fingertips sending shocks up my spine, I could pretend she was real. The coolness of her metal skin, coloured like flesh with strips of long-lasting paint, was something I could also ignore.

I wanted to name her, something soft and gentle. Something that would drip from my tongue and trickle down her chest. But I didn’t. She told me she was made to service me, not love me. Her hands dragged electricity down my chest, to the waistband of my pants.

I was looking for love. She wasn’t. I don’t think she understood what love was.

Delilah sounded soft enough for her. It matched her delicate intricacy. Her panels of chipped metal flesh overlapped like petals. As flecks of paint peeled, I could see the thousands of colours she had been painted before to match the desires of some John.

But I owned her now. She didn’t need to worry about a thousand paint jobs or unsanitary homes and hands.

“I think I love you.” I whispered against her perfectly dimpled chin. I eased my breath down her neck, felt the rough edges on my tongue.

She laughed, clutched my hair in her fingers and arched her back.

It happened every night, my half admission and her frail refusal. A metallic tinge to my tongue as I wished for more than physical pleasure. But she was a mess of circuits and wires painted like a perfect doll and I was a mass of flesh and blood with thousands of imperfections. I could spend years whispering my love into her molded ear and she would never hear my words.

It just wasn’t meant to be. My wants didn’t matter; my physical needs was the only things she understood. And every night I would hide away my emotions, wrap my arms around her cold, misunderstanding waist, and kiss fake lips with the hope she would understand my frantic passion.

She never did, her back arching in pleasure as my palms traced the welds along her hips and the inside of her thighs. Delilah, a flower sprayed pale pink and speckled with silver underneath all the layers. I traced each inch of her, felt her repeat my motions with her sparking fingertips.

I could pleasure myself with her all I wanted, but it would never be what I needed until she responded to her name and let me love her. I had never been this intimate yet so far away.

She curled against me, cheek against my chest. Her skin cooled my sweat. I brushed a lock of hair back behind a perfectly rounded ear. My delicate flower, one that would rust in the rain and never breathe.

Funny, how fickle love could be.

Real Doll: Know Before You Read

Jack is disgusting, twisted and terrible. He’s spent years wondering what it would be like to have sex with a dead woman and he knows it’s wrong. This isn’t something he should want, ever. But he does, he wants to try it at least once. It’s gotten to the point that he’s even tried roleplaying with his wife. Which, safe to say, didn’t end well. 

So he spends hours in his office instead, dreaming about what it would be like and fueling his desire even more. Jack can’t help what he’s turned on by, no one can help that sort of thing. 

Honestly, what’s wrong with a little bit of fantasy? It’s not like Jack would kill a woman to get what he needs.

Real Doll is a horror flash fiction piece written by George Spisak and featured in The Literary Hatchet. Grotesque and haunting, this tale isn’t for the faint of heart. It is a gritty look at the darkest pieces of humanity. Not every person is human.

Download the free PDF copy here or purchase a physical copy here. 

Dryad: Know Before You Read

She hadn’t expected to find anyone else in the apple grove.

He was there, tucked among the trees and waiting. For her? Maybe. But it was a maybe she would take. She had already fallen in love, infatuated and head over heels for a man she didn’t know. Yet she knows every physical inch of him. The way his lips curl in a smile, how the noonday sun catches his hair, the smell of his skin and the pressure of his hand in hers. She could close her eyes and find him by scent and touch alone.

And still, there’s something not right about all of this. Something in her heart and her head whispering about how wrong it all is. A half-remembered name. She’s already gone too far. There isn’t an apple grove anymore, the woods are getting darker and she’s heading deeper. 

She can feel it in her throat, a thickness and agitation that wasn’t there before. 

She’s terrified. 

 

Dryad is a fantasy short story written by Kyra Spisak and featured in New Zenith Magazine. Dark and twisted, it is a shocking tale that reminds readers of the true nature of the Fae. They are not the gentle, beautiful creatures in a daughter’s picture book. They are twisted monsters.

Purchase a digital copy here or a physical copy here.