A Short Collection (2)

Alexander Darvill LogoI was looking through some more of my micro-fiction pieces earlier and decided I’d upload a couple more this weekend.

They’re all a few years old so I’m not sure how good they are, but I guess I’ll put them out there and see what comes of it.

Hoping to write some new pieces soon when I get the chance to sit down and think about it.  Been very much rushed off my feet this week with a lot of unexpected plans but I should hopefully get around to adding some new content soon.

But for the moment I hope you enjoy what I’ve got to share in this post.

Closed Doors

Her lips bled with scarlet.  Crimson.

One smooth swipe, left to right; a streak smeared across her face.  It matched the violent purple around her eyes, so easily administered.  It brought out the blue in her irises.

His favourite crystal blue.

He was waiting for her – watching.  He stood there with his hands on her shoulders, gazing at her reflection with a dark smile.

A flinch.  Hands clenched, just a little, the rosy skin fading white beneath his fingertips.

He thought she looked beautiful.


The husky voice melted her.  It made her relish his contact, all the memories it surfaced.  Her face in his hands.  His breath – steaming – on her lips.  The hitch in his throat when he could no longer shout.

She turned into his arms.  The familiar warmth embraced her, ran slowly along her cheek.

One more time.

A reminder for the night.  So tender.

The Other Woman

Silent night.  His head no longer gracing the pillow, no cigarette burning between his fingers.  The rich scent of newly-cut flowers now decayed.  A dark glow across the room.  A light snuffed out.

The words still ring clear.  A burn against her ears, like ash falling from a cigarette tip.  So much history now to dredge up.

Restore to factory settings.  Bring the red dress out of retirement.


The wind howls through the open window.  Cold like his final breath.  That last breath against her skin.  The embrace, the shiver down her spine.


Falling, a crash from the height of her stilettos. Eyes wet with silent tears.

Soon the sun would rise.  The light would filter through the blinds and drown her in its dull yellow glow.  So many mornings spent waking up the same way, another by her side.

Now lost.


Blood on the face.  An outsider weeping crimson tears.  The lonely child in the corner.

Two beats.  A rhythm, again and again; a tune drowned in the voice of the beautiful.  Sick laughter in its normality.  Its own song.

Eyelids dropping.  Tired.  Crashed out on the sofa, desperate arms hug themselves tight around the body.  Turned away from the crowd, their own attention ignorant.  Silence drenched in noise.

Stomach rumbles.  So full of hunger but afraid.  Restricted.  The pain in the long run driving so much fear.

Don’t give in.



Why do you think you’re here?

Voices drop.  The awkward nothing that falls over empty conversation.  They just sit there, quiet movements falling over twitching ears.

It almost brings a smile.

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