Record, a Story in Drabbles – part V

Will was surprised to find that the camera held only three video files.

Dan was always filming. Of course, he had other cameras. Perhaps this was a spare. It wasn’t like Dan would delete videos.

The first video was from four months ago. Eva led the camera through the living room, and as he watched the little screen Will walked along with her. She talked about what was to come, spreading out her arms to indicate the work they had ahead of them. She laughed contentedly, and Will couldn’t help but smile.

The second video was filmed two months ago.

Record, a Story in Drabbles – part IV

The creak of wood rang out like a gunshot in the silence. It came from upstairs, though it seemed to permeate the entirety of the house like oil slicking through the hallways. Will’s head jerked up, his eyes searching the landing above.

“Hello?” he said, his voice hollow and tinny.

Only silence answered him.

It’s an old house, he thought. It’s just settling.

But he stood still for a good minute, watching the landing on the second floor, waiting for another creak or step.

Then he let his burning lungs take a breath, and turned back to the camera.

Record, a Story in Drabbles – part III

Will picked up the camera and flipped through the pictures. Snapshots of the renovation: the offending wall, Dan holding up a hammer, Eva covered in plaster dust.

Dan had always had big aspirations for this house. It was to be the set of his next film. The film. The one to put his name in lights. The layout was almost perfect. It just needed a few tweaks.

But the only thing Dan had managed to tweak in five months was to knock the plaster and insulation out of a single wall. Even the wiring still hung coiled around the posts.

Record, a Story in Drabbles – part II

The hallway table held only a camera and some papers crumbled into balls. Will smoothed them out.

They were print-outs of the house’s realty listing. But Dan and Eva had bought the house months ago. It was strange to have the listing still hanging around.

The smeared ink of the pictures displayed a different house from the one Will stood in. The photos showed a pristine room furnished in country fashion. Will looked into the living room again, and saw the darkly draped furniture, the support beam remains of the wall Dan had knocked down, the tools littering the floor.

Record, a Story in Drabbles – part I

Will rang the doorbell, knocked on the door.

No one answered.

He fished the key out of his pocket. Eva had given it to him, and Dan didn’t know about it. Opening the door, he called out a Hello, but no answer came. No lights were on, and with the evening sun having fallen below the treeline, the hallway looked cold and dusky. The stairs rose up to the right, but Will looked into the rooms to the left and ahead.

Nothing moved. Will’s heartbeat seemed to fill the silence.

No one had heard from Eva or Dan in days.

How Does She Breathe?

How does she breathe?

Her words run one into the next, over and under each other, never giving me a chance to respond. She never pauses. Never takes a breath. Never pulls in air.

I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t get a single word in. I have to listen to her every second of the day and I can say nothing.

I’ll get a word in now.

I’ll place my hands around her neck

and I’ll squeeze hard enough to stop the words

and with the words she never let me say I’ll ask her

How do you breathe.


Such a pretty box. Wrapped up in gold, bound with a striped ribbon. So pretty I almost don’t want to unwrap it. It’s so big, but I can still hold it up and shake it gently. There’s a pleasing rattle. Something inside.

You tell me to open it.

I tear off the ribbon, rip the gold paper. Slice apart the bit of tape holding the lid shut with your knife. I open the box, look in.

But it’s so dark in there. I can’t see. I only see shadows. Black shadows and… something white.

You tell me to get inside.

A Book

It’s raining on us, the cover of our book soaked through. The fields outside the window are flooded and water runs down the walls. It’s alright though. Someone will find us.

The wind is blowing, flipping our pages back and forth, back and forth. We sway from side to side, unable to keep balance. A page tears, and we watch the earth crack. It’s okay. Someone will find us.

The snow is covering the pages. The words are fading. The fields outside are gone. The walls are vanishing to white. The others are lost.

I wait.

Someone will find me.


He gave me a pen. I thought it would give me stories and pictures. But not these kinds of stories or pictures. I don’t mean to write these things. I don’t mean to draw these things. These are not mine.

They are the pen’s.

Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t me. These words, these creatures. I try to use the pen and it does this. It comes from the pen, seeping out from the tip in red ink. He put these things in the pen.

This ink and his blood, it’s one and the same.

I’ll show you.

The Snow




Don’t go out in the snow. It’s crimson and viscous. Not at all like it used to be. Once it was pure white and like dust, like sugar coating the landscape.

Don’t go out in the snow. It’s thick and it grips feet and legs. Once it was calm. Once we used to walk through it.

We used to throw it and kick it in the air.

We used to never care that it might fall on our heads.

Don’t turn your face to the snow. Don’t let it settle in your eyes.

It isn’t like it used to be.