Tag Archive for: Tracy Davidson

Sucked In

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by Tracy Davidson

He starts his missing son’s latest game. Something to distract him from constant worry, to see what his son played that day.

Graphics have changed since his childhood. His avatar walks through a post-apocalyptic landscape. Bodies burning, animals scavenging.

Far ahead, a faint figure jumps up and down, screaming at him to run.

Something drives him forward. The figure sharpens. His son’s avatar, disconcertingly realistic, even wearing his brand-new trainers.

“Dad, you should have gone back,” it says, tears on claw-marked cheeks.

But there’s no going back in this game…

At home, a worried mother reports her husband missing too.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Black Hare Press, Modern Haiku, Femku Mag, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

The Surgeon

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by Tracy Davidson

For someone who spends so much time wielding scalpels, a sudden attack of haemophobia is somewhat inconvenient.

My therapist shares my fear. She talks me through her coping mechanisms. She’s good. I feel the panic and anxiety leaving my body. Hands stop trembling at the merest thought of scarlet oozing over my gloves. She’s really good. I’m me again.

Alas, for her, she proves too good a listener. She now knows I’m a serial killer—not surgeon. My fear has gone. But hers returns.

I show mercy by blindfolding her. Oops! Seems she’s afraid of the dark, too. Oh well.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, Black Hare Press, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Bridezilla

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by Tracy Davidson

The bridal boutique mannequin missed her white dress. She had finally felt beautiful, full of fancy frills and flounces. It looked better on her than that frumpy human, whose frame tested the seams. Bad enough the humiliation of being publicly stripped. But then to be knocked over by grasping arms, left scratched and broken, unceremoniously dumped in the storeroom…

The mannequin crawled into the private changing room, where the woman still admired herself. Plastic hands cut off the scream. Dressmaker shears cut off other things.

The mannequin got her dress back, no longer white. She loved the added scarlet swirls.     

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, Black Hare Press, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

 

 

 

America’s Got Witchcraft

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by Tracy Davidson

I said my spells would blow their minds. But hadn’t expected results to be so literal.

There are typos in my grimoire. That damn cat exaggerated his keyboard skills. Blood and brain matter cover the stage. The judges’ headless torsos slump over their desks.

The stunned audience stares as I back away from my cauldron, wishing my broomstick wasn’t in the dressing room.

The host comes out, smiling. “Excellent!” he cries. “Ratings have just gone through the roof!”

The audience starts clapping and cheering, even the blood-splattered ones in the front row.

Perhaps I won’t skin the cat after all.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Number 57

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by Tracy Davidson

The other me is here. Sitting at my table, chatting with my wife and kids.

I don’t know how he escaped from the lab, how he got home before I did. I gave him life, and he tries to steal mine?

He won’t be the first clone I’ve had to destroy. 56 before him malfunctioned too.

My family laughs at something he said. They never laugh like that with me. Traitors!

My fists tighten around the hammer in my hand. Can’t remember where I picked it up, why it’s bloody. Or why there’s a tag marked 57 around my wrist.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Beware of the Werebear

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by Tracy Davidson

She guides hunters. She knows these woods well. Every tree, every trail, every spot the bears have passed. All the well-hidden dens. Sleeping mothers and their cubs. Easy prey.

She says she doesn’t care such hunts are illegal. If they tip well. In advance. The hunters happily do so. They don’t know she loaded all their guns with blanks.

The hunters hear the growling of a grizzly coming from the woman’s throat. They stare in disbelief as she throws her head back and shifts. Tooth and claw cut short their screams.

The nearest werecubs wake. Momma’s home. With fresh meat.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

The Cold Spot

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by Tracy Davidson

It lies halfway across the bridge. Makes people shiver, even on hot nights.

Legend speaks of a long-armed troll, that grabs folk by their heels, drags them to their deaths below.

I’m no troll. Ghostly arms, full of broken bones, cannot grab, cannot drag.

I jumped, centuries ago. Never left.

Sometimes, others come to jump. I whisper to those whose resolve falters. I sit beside smashed bodies, hoping one will join me. They never do.

I crave company. So, now I whisper to all who linger. My legend grows. Still, I’m lonely.

Won’t you join me? Just one more step…

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

The Window Cleaner

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by Tracy Davidson

I know that whistle. That thunk of ladder against wall, those heavy footsteps hitting every rung. But never at 3 a.m. before.

I’d heard he was ill, close to death. Guess not. Through thin curtains, I see the shape of head and torso. The squeak of his squeegee gets louder. Where his eyes would be, two glowing orbs cut through the curtain, their light creeping up my bedcovers. I try to reassure myself I’m dreaming.

Whistle, squeak. Whistle, squeak. Finally…silence. I rise, move to the window. Nothing. I sigh, relieved. Until…bare feet step on a soaking wet sponge.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

The Pirate’s Parrot

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by Tracy Davidson 

Captain Drake “Ducky” Mallard never touched rum. Or Spanish gold. She’d seen what both did to fellow pirates. She preferred a clear head and curseless life.

Well, relatively curseless. Once a month, hormones turned her into raving hellbeast. Her First Mate learnt to handle her (after having been tossed overboard two or thirteen times). The support parrot helped. And pots and pots of smuggled tea.

She didn’t murder. Or maim (much). Until the day an aggrieved tea merchant strangled said support parrot.

She had both stuffed and mounted. Now, parrot feathers and a pair of ball bags adorn her hat.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

No Way Out

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by Tracy Davidson

Which is more psychotic? Doctors in white coats with their hammers and drills, or screaming patients, helpless, in their restraints and straitjackets?

Once, I’d have said the patients. Before I came here, to inspect the place. They’re not patients at all. Nor inmates. They’re prisoners. They come in and never go out again.

I know. My report would have closed the whole asylum down, doctors struck off, arrested. I never got out either.

 “A sudden psychotic break,” they told the authorities. Nobody questioned, nobody came.

Now, I scream too. In tune with those who died here, and those still dying.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.