You Are Mine

Since Halloween just ended, I thought it was a good opportunity to post my other darkish flash fiction piece that I wrote in 2005 before moving back into the realm of poetry.

You Are Mine

Laylona bolted out of her bed as she heard a roar of thunder followed by a terrible screech. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black figure race into the darkness. Darn that stupid cat, always so cowardly, Laylona thought. Nevertheless, she grabbed her coat and went after her beloved Sir William. After all, it was the only thing her mother had left behind.

A tear started to fall from Laylona’s eyes as memories of her mother flooded back to her. She could still remember the day her mother had come running, holding two ice cream cones in her hands. Yet Laylona never tasted that Rocky Road because her mother never made it across the street. A red mustang, going 80 mph, had slammed into her, spraying blood all over the gray cement. Laylona had suffered from depression ever since that day, but luckily, she had found an escape, a way to avoid the pain.

At that moment, Laylona noticed a dark shadow dart across the bramble weeds and disappear behind the open doors of a huge mansion. She couldn’t help but hesitate at the entrance, wondering if this was the legendary haunted house talked about among the townspeople. There was no time to decide as the rain started pouring. Laylona gently touched the wooden door, which groaned in return.

“Anybody home?” she squeaked. The sound of rats scurrying across the floor was the only response. As Laylona took two steps into the house, a gust of wind whipped past her, and the door slammed shut. The house was then filled with an eerie silence, a kind of anticipation, like a mummy ready to be reborn.

Lightning continued to flash outside and Laylona was able to piece together the interior of the house. In the center of the room the once glamorous 15th century furniture was covered in cobwebs and the cream colored rug on the floor was stained with rat urine. Aligning one side of the wall was an elegant cabinet of wine glasses, no longer shiny, but worn with age. Laylona gasped in amazement, but her glimpse of the house was over when the lightning stopped, engulfing her in darkness.

Then, as if by magic, a light appeared before her eyes. Laylona saw a woman with dark flowing hair dressed in a white gown. It was her mother and in her arms was Sir William.

“Here,” whispered her mother, extending her hands to offer the cat to her daughter. When Laylona took hold of Sir William, her mother disappeared.

“Mom?” she called into the darkness, but there was no answer. All of a sudden, she felt a searing pain in her arm and found herself staring into the devilish countenance of the cat. A set of burning red eyes, accompanied with sharp, piercing fangs, pored into her very soul.

evil-cat“YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS HOUSE!” croaked an inhuman voice.

Laylona felt her heart beating ferociously as she tried ridding herself of the cat, but her struggle was to no avail. Stifling a cry, Laylona reached into her pockets for her savior. Throughout the hard times, these LSD pills had given her the courage to go on, but this time it wouldn’t work. This time around, they were the cause of her suffering.

Hard as she tried, she could not escape. Hideous laughter filled her ears.


Nothing in Particular

This was originally a flash fiction assignment that I had in class, in which I utilized the same idea from a poem that I had written.  It’s supposed to be weird and ambiguous, so I hope you enjoy it!

Nothing in Particular

Rain falls in a diagonal motion, wetting ground, watering plants, falling into puddles, making ripples in the pond. Outside, little boys in blue raincoats are chasing paper ships down the waterway. The elderly Mrs. Chan dressed in white, burns paper houses in a black cauldron for her dead husband. It has been a long night. The crow watches a raindrop slip off the golden leaf and disappear with a “plop.”

A moment of silence, and then the rain pounds harder, like translucent daggers hammered into doors. The crow flies off into the night, passed the children, passed the wooden house, passed the naked slithering worms, into the cemetery with Gothic gates where people are engaged in a ritual dance. Singing, shouting, dancing around and around, arms in the air, with the beating of drums. Crosses, crosses everywhere, there are angels too, all over the tombstones. R.I.P.

The crow flies off, passed the lovers skinny-dipping in the lake with moonlight glistening on their skin, passed the restless, thrashing waves, passed the fallen tree, occasionally dodging the wire-like thunderbolts, only to land on the sill of a barred window at the insane asylum. With his dark little pupils, he watches, waiting, anticipating … the scream!

The woman has her back to him. Her long black hair falls down her thin nightgown in a tangled mess, until the tips touch the floor. She stares at the granite wall, as if mesmerized. She counts: 1, 2, 3, until she reaches 13, and turns around. She is pale with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. There are cracks in her red lips. Upon seeing the crow, she screams and screams and SCREAMS!

Her voice drowns out the “drip, drip, drip” of the leaking faucet in the corner of the room. Her face is contorted in pain. Her eyes reflect the flickering light of the candle that sits on the nightstand. The crow does not flinch, but simply stares back.

The screaming stops as the woman brings her index fingers to her lips and kisses it.

“Shh …,” she whispers, “breathe in, breathe out.” Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls. All over the world, awake or asleep, people are breathing a harmonious song of nature. She spreads out her arms, as if to fly, and twirls around in circles at a steady pace.

“This is our moment, a special moment in time,” she whispers. She throws back her head and cackles, jumps up, and lands sprawled on the floor. She slowly bites her finger until a trickle of blood appears.

“Shh…,” she whispers, gently putting down her bleeding finger on the cold cement. She writes in the flickering candlelight with the crow perched on the windowsill and the moon shining behind. There are no stars tonight, and she is no van Gogh. When her writing stops, she blows out the candle and the crow flies off. What does she write? Nothing, nothing in particular.

Mental Institution
– image taken from Google

The Bad Little Angel

In honor of Halloween, here’s a fun poem.

The Bad Little Angel

Dear Dracula,” wrote the little girl,
More than anything in the world,
I wish to meet you.
You don’t believe me, but it’s true.
The darkness within me
longs for your embrace.
I want to surrender to you,
body and soul.
I want to lose my mind
and lose control.
My heart aches for your touch.
I want to feel the power,
the adrenaline, and the rush.

I want to kiss
your luscious red lips.
I long to touch
your smooth, cold skin.
My body tingles
at your touch,
and I love
that very much.

I am hypnotized and mesmerized
by your fiery, red eyes.
I want to feel
your sharp, canine teeth
pierce through my skin.
I want to feel
the pain and power
from within.
I am thirsty for you unholy blood
being poured into my mouth.
I long to be
in complete ecstasy and oblivion…

The girl looked up, startled,
and said, “Oh, my God.”
For there he was.
“What are you writing?” asked God.
“Nothing,” muttered the girl.
“You better not write anything indecent,
or else you’ll lose your wings,” He warned.
The little angel looked around,
crumpled up the paper
and threw it away.
She started another letter
and wrote, “Dear Lucifer.”