Tag Archive for: Tracy Davidson

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.

 

The Cellar

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by Tracy Davidson

 

My arms ache from swinging the scythe so often. Must have decapitated fifty already today, and it’s not even lunchtime.

They outnumber us now. Most human survivors shelter offshore. Zombies don’t seem to like oceans. But I’m still a hundred miles from the nearest coast.

Dammit, here’s another one, drooling at the sight of flesh. My scythe’s by the door. I throw the nearest object, running for my weapon. But don’t need it. The zombie’s head melts away.

A salt cellar? Salt! No wonder they avoid oceans.

I stock up. I’m gonna make it after all. Maybe we all will.

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 Destroyer

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by  Tracy Davidson

 

The last of the Nephilim, dormant for millennia, rose in the year 2022. Its destiny was to destroy, wreak havoc on humanity, cause catastrophe. One swipe of wings could level cities in seconds.

But, no hurry. It was curious to see how humans had evolved during its long sleep.

On the first day, it walked the Earth, east to west, north to south.

On the second day, it sat and wondered why it bothered waking up at all. Humans were doing the job for him.

On the third day, it flew away. Maybe another world was in need of mayhem.

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. 

 

Pink Devils

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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

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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

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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.