Tag Archive for: Tracy Davidson

Pink Devils

by Tracy Davidson

 

Later, they said it was toxins in the salt water that sent the flamingos psychotic.

They went from docile to deadly in seconds. Half the missionary camp wiped out.

We fought with everything we could. Sister Mary strangled one with her rosary… then got shredded by two more. Beaks, sharp as scalpels, slashed, sliced and slurped through habits, hassocks and holy water.

Help came in the morning, with guns and dogs. Half-dead myself, still I lashed out with my crop, helping finish off the last pink devils. For my dead sisters.

Maybe some of that salt got to me 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, 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.

 

Friend of the Forest

by Tracy Davidson

 

They dare come here with chainsaws and guns? Chop down my children, frighten fauna, shoot for some sick sport, killing innocent creatures that would have done them no harm. I, however, can do plenty of harm.

I send whispers through the trees. Warnings of what’s to come. Some flee. Some watch.

My breath rips weapons from human hands. I make my own sport. Their laughter turns to screams and panicked attempts to run. How easily the teeth of saws cut through flesh. How bloody the outcome of bullets.

The forest floor opens, swallows up what’s left. Peace returns. For now.

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.

 

 

Sweet Hearts

by Tracy Davidson

 

The detective doesn’t understand. He thinks we’ll turn on each other. But our bond is too deep for that. It took a lifetime to find her, someone whose dark soul was a match for mine, someone equally thrilled at the sight and smell of blood, the sound of screaming.

Scarlet suits her. She wears entrails wrapped around her neck, like a feather boa, while we make love.

The detective still has his entrails. For now. His body untouched, more or less. He is my wedding gift to her. She will feast on his heart. And our unborn child will grow.

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 Lady

by Tracy Davidson

 

Some call me myth. Others believe. None get my story right.

I’ve lived a thousand lives, in many forms. I’ve waited and watched as humans developed and spread. I’ve loved them. I’ve hated them. Or, rather, hated what they have done to this world. What they still do.

My purpose is to protect. But not them. They have doomed themselves. Left unchecked, they will doom all. Time to stop waiting and watching.

I leave my lake behind. My arms morph into swords, ready to slice through the true monsters of this world.

My name is Excalibur. My legend begins anew.

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.

Whose Purge is it Anyway?

by Tracy Davidson

 

He had waited months for this night. Months of patient planning, honing weaponry skills, studying his primary target. During the purge, he would happily kill anyone crossing his path. He wanted one person in particular. Not just to kill, but torture—punishment for deserting him.

He knew her well. Knew where she would run and hide. Becoming an instant widower would be quicker and cheaper than divorce.

The alarm sounded. Heavily armed, he stepped out of his front door. Barely saw the machete gleam in moonlight, before it buried itself in his chest.

 His wife… widow… knew him too 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, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, Versification, Poetry Pea, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

 

The Bus Shelter

by Tracy Davidson

 

No locals use this bus shelter at night. Few use it in the daytime. Something about these three urine-stained, graffiti-marked walls drives them away.

Some smell decay. Some hear voices. Some see shadows dance. And some feel sharp slashes across backs and bellies, though no wounds appear.

Such sensations deepen in the dark. Only out-of-towners stop here then.

Like this one. He looks lost. Lonely. We like them lonely. They don’t get missed.

He shivers, despite the humidity. My invisible sisters surround him, begin their games. I let them play. It’s been a while.

Tomorrow, another shadow will dance here.


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, Artificium, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

The Diner

by Tracy Davidson

 

Manager and monster struck a truce.

It was easy enough, in an out-of-town diner, to drug an on-foot drifter or a hitcher in between rides. Easier still to escort them out back, leave them unconscious in a dark corner, hidden from the highway.

Like this vagrant, tonight.

The manager retreats. He watched once. Never again.

The monster smells fresh meat. It’s hungry. No prey comes near his territory anymore. It prefers human flesh anyway, however seldom it appears.

It bites…slashes…gorges on gut and gore.

Before morning, the manager will clear the mess away. As a good brother should.

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.

Redbeard

by Tracy Davidson

 

Redbeard chose the wrong island to plunder, his ship the first to find it in decades. No sealife swam near, no bird flew over. No human walked its streets.

Redbeard’s first mate was first to die, skin shredded by invisible talons. The second was turned inside out, intestines wrapping around a third’s neck, squeezing until it snapped.

Another disintegrated into atoms.

Redbeard’s men scattered in panic, swords raised. But blades were useless against invisible enemies.

They all fell. Until only Redbeard remained.

Unlike his men, Redbeard saw his fate. Rabid dogs feasted on his flesh.

The island vanished once more.

 

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.

Dying With Laughter

by Tracy Davidson

 

If you’re gonna die, die laughing, that’s what I always say. I make sure all my clients go out that way. I prefer to call them ‘clients.’ It sounds so much more professional than ‘victims.’

Not that it’s genuine laughter of course. Poor things are usually far beyond that kind of reaction. But I’ve perfected a cocktail of gas and drugs that reduces them to hysterics. Literally. So much so, it’s too much for their weakened hearts.

My latest client has stopped laughing. His wide grin is frozen in place, forever. I cut it out, to add to my collection.

 

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, Writing Magazine, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

Taran’s Hunt

by Tracy Davidson

 

No longer a child. Time to prove his manhood.

Some called the strange creatures in the next valley ‘monsters’, others ‘aliens’.

Whichever, they were not welcome.

For three days he watched over their settlement, tracked their movements. Mused over their peculiar shapes, unwieldy gaits, discordant voices.

On the fourth day, one creature wandered off alone, carrying something on a stick.

Taran’s knife broke the creature’s head shell with ease, exposing grotesque bulging

eyes. Taran took them as a gift for his father.

For his mother, he took the colourful cloth on a stick. She would like the stars and stripes.

 

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, Writing Magazine, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.