The Witch

She’s not there every day, but when she is, she doesn’t leave you alone.

She is not nice to you, she doesn’t love you, she doesn’t want to be your friend. She calls you names, slaps your fat, makes you question your hair, your nose, your lips — those little tiny features you hoped might one day be loved for their charm. She puts you under her spell and, despite all your usual defenses, she takes control of your body and all you can do is watch.

The Parasite is in control.

Her games are not for the feeble-minded: she curves your innocent fingers into a fist and beats your stomach, she makes you gag at the sight of yourself in the mirror, she takes scissors and razorblades and your own dull fingernails and pierces the flesh all over your body.

The Witch is in control now. She smiles in your face while you lay exhausted, weak, and bleeding.

The deed is done, the games have been played: she rests next to you now, holding your hand, knowing you’re defeated.

The Circus

Flash Fiction

We’re standing facing one another, each equipped with various objects, ready to play our game.

A whistle is blown and we’re off: we throw them in the air with ease, at first. The crowd is cheering proudly and we puff our chests in response.

He fumbles an object and the crowd groans accordingly, but his fumble causes me to miss and the crowd erupts in laughter: I’ve dropped all the objects now, but the clatter works to my advantage. Wild-eyed and distracted, he tries to keep the rhythm, but they’ve all gone wonky and he can’t keep the objects balanced. He’s losing them all now and I stare in horror as they all come tumbling down upon him.

Him and they clatter to the ground, soiled and disgraced.

In the confusion, I offer a hand, but his stare suggests he can’t register a response.

Howling with laughter, the crowd cripples his once proud gait. He jolts to this feet and, with bowed shoulders, darts from the circus’ center.

Cheering and whooping and whistling, the crowd’s elation fills the air. I look around to them all, but cannot bring myself to bow.

Dear Sirs and Ma’ams, have I won?