“Side effects,” says the oncologist. The priest says angels have many forms.
In my garden, the unicorn eats my red roses, dripping petals like blood. “Am I dying?” I ask. She snorts, then gallops away.
Next summer, the roses bloom white. My hair grows back curly. The unicorn doesn’t return.
Hannah Whiteoak writes speculative fiction to escape the real world. She is working on an animal-themed flash collection. Follow @HannahWhiteoak or visit hannahwhiteoak.me.
Father flattens old photos, my boyhood hair white as snow.
He looks at my dark head, asks again if I color it. All my friends have been gray for years.
I consider the truth: I’m expelling inner darkness that beckons demons. It exits through my hair.
“No, Dad. It’s natural.”
Jeff Stone has published several short stories and many poems. He has three novels in various stages of completion and loves learning too much for his own good. Albert Camus said fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth. Dark Hair is a short piece of fiction that resides somewhere in between.
“She’s got the sight,” Mama hisses, makes a forking gesture with arthritic fingers.
“Don’t talk rubbish, woman.” Papa’s whiskers tickle my ear. I feel safe curled in his lap, until I see him make the forking sign himself, down the side of the armchair where he thinks I won’t see.
Rebecca Fraser is an Australian writer whose short stories, flash fiction, and poems have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and journals since 2007. She holds a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing, and her fiction showcases her fondness for all things darkly speculative. To provide her muse with life’s essentials, Rebecca supplements by copy and content writing, however her true passion lies in storytelling. See more at rebeccafraser.wordpress.com.
“They die,” she whispered. “Everyone I love… They all die.” A tear; then she burst, unable to contain it anymore. She sobbed. “Why is this happening to me?”
My words stuck. I didn’t want to tell her, or admit I could see her clearly. “Layla, you… You’re a death omen.”
Hazel is a girl who aspires to write but doesn’t find much time for it.
Jeff sensed their empathy as he recalled the loss of physical sensation and the absence of fear.
Feedback from the invisible audience strengthened as he remembered his awareness of others, the unheard words understood.
A surge of shared understanding reached him along with the sound of the Crematorium oven closing.
Jim has been a member of a Writing Circle for just over a year. He initially wrote this story as a 250-word story before adapting it to the 50-word format.