#65 Dead Girls

I’m dead. And it sucks.

No one wants to hang out with me. Apparently I smell bad. Well duh, what else would you expect from rotting flesh? You wouldn’t go to the bins behind a butchers expecting to smell roses, so why people judge me I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t wash.

I’ve been dead for two years. I was 12 when it happened. Bitten by a Rabid. It’s been an unusual death. I’ve kept growing. You think puberty is bad when you’re alive, try being dead too.

However, there’s one ray of light in my otherwise morbid and overcast existence. Stephanie. She’s so beautiful, but she doesn’t even know me. Well, other than as ‘that lesbian’. Oh yeah, in my town, being gay is considered far worse than being dead. People just ignore a corpse, like they walk past graves. But they hate that I like girls.

#64 Knock

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

The sound at the door again. All day long and every night too.

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

The wind is howling today, like a wounded dog. The rafters rattle and the the windows shake.

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

Will I ever escape this torment? The constant banging reverberates around my skull as if there was a smith in there, plying his trade with hammer and anvil.

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

I must have done something terrible in a previous life to deserve this. Or perhaps it was a terrible deed in this life that has led me here.

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

The house has a green door. It’s paint is flaking off, long in need of repair. The once polished brass handle and knocker both hang loose and dull.

‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

I lift my hand again, reaching up towards the door. My knuckles are green.

I ‘Knock. Knock. Knock.’

#63 Step. Step. Step.

Step. Step. Step.

The noise is coming from outside my room. Up and down the corridor, eight paces in one direction, the sound of a shoe rustling against floor boards as he turns, and then eight paces back. His speed is as consistent as a metronome. The only time it alters is if I get up and walk to the door, then he’ll pause until the overbearing silence sends me scurrying back to bed.

Step. Step.

It’s been this way for months. In the day, I’m free to leave my room. At night, I’m kept imprisoned by the sound of a man I’ve never seen. I say man because the footsteps sound heavy, not the shuffle of someone who’s fat, but authoritative like someone laden with muscle.


He’s stopped. Right outside my room. The door handle turns with a creak.

“Who are…”

#62 Monster Under The Bed

There’s a monster under my bed. Mum told me that’s silly, that other than a few old toys and the odd dirty sock, all there’d be under there is a carpet badly in need of a hoover. But I know different. I’ve felt it, whatever itis. I think I might have seen it too, out of the corner of my eye, just before I fall asleep. Then it haunts my dreams, a blackness, an absence. Nothing, where something should be.

I think I know what it wants though. Me. I think it wants to crawl out from beneath the bed and take my place. Become something. And then I’d be nothing, I’d take its place. I’d be the monster and it would be me.

Or perhaps it’s already happened. Perhaps I’m already it. I’m already the bad dream and its already me.

I’m the monster under my bed.

#61 Drifting

Sometimes people just drift apart, fall out of love, go their own ways. We’d come to that point months ago and we both knew it. Of course, there had been tears, there’d been shouting, been accusations and apologies. That stuff can’t be helped, even when both sides agree its for the best, ripping apart a life will always be painful.

Not as painful as this car journey though. I look across at the passenger seat, she sits there, curled up, eyes closed. Peaceful. I just want it to be over. A police car rushes by, lights flashing and sirens blazing.

We pull up at the lakeside. We’d camped here on our first trip together, its only fitting it should end here too. I pull the bag over her face, tie stones to her ankles and carry her into the water.

“Goodbye Jane, I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

#60 Commuting

I’m in carriage two, I need to be in four. I’ve got a minute until my stop. If I get in position, I can get out by the stairs, run to the top, and win commuting.

But my rivals have laid traps.

In front of me is a pool of liquid, I think it’s called Starbucksonium. Do I jump or wade? One risks throwing me off course, the other promises a sticky shoe, a potentially disastrous distraction.

I jump.


Next, a bagslide. Insurmountable. I scrabble and pull and throw them out of the way, ignoring many a disgruntled cry.

I’m through.

And here’s my stop. But wait, we’re sailing past the stairs. It’s a four carriage train, I thought it was eight. I’ve gone too far. Some smug man summits the stairs first, so arrogant in his victory he doesn’t even acknowledge it.

Tomorrow, I will have my vengeance.

#59 The Interview

Claire bent down, quickly wiped the sweat from her brow in a way she hoped wouldn’t be too obvious, and picked up the pen she’d ‘accidentally’ dropped.

“So, what makes you right for this position?”

“I’m hard working, a quick learner and I’m really passionate about the job.”

“Okay, and can you give me a reason I haven’t already heard five times today?”

Claire’s mouth hung open before she thought to snap it shut. How was she meant to answer that?


“That will be all, thank you for your time.”

He stood up, brushed the creases from his pin-striped suit, and began to walk towards the door.

“Wait!” She said the word without having any idea what would come next. “I’m right for this job because even when an interview is clearly over, I’ll yell something to keep trying. I’ll always keep trying.”

“I’ll call you on Monday.”