Muse: Paranormal Thriller (flash fiction) Inspired by the Fairy Tale, Prince Ariel


Muse

by Dorlana Vann

 

Since Jackson couldn’t channel his frustration onto the blank page, he used his fist to pound it into the desk. “Ahhh,” he cried, swooshing his fountain pen and several loose pieces of writing-paper to the floor.

His caged birds squawked with excitement from the sudden movement.

Jackson stood up, his breaths labored and lonely. “I’m sorry ladies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He draped a stack of dark sheets over his arm. “Are you ready for your beauty sleep, my Echo?” He covered her and moved on to Valley, giving her several sweet kisses. Continuing his ritual, he covered all twenty birds, leaving Isis as his last goodnight. The two-foot Scarlet Macaw blinked her yellow eyes at him.

“Sleep well, Love.”

He ran his fingers through his slick hair, noticing how dark and stale the room had become. He opened the window, lit a lantern, and picked up the paper and his pen. He thought about writing another letter but knew they were only stall tactics. “I’m a novel writer,” he tried to reassure himself. “Now write something novel!”

But he didn’t know what else to do. He had moved to one of the most crime-ridden areas of London to conduct his research. When observations had stopped inspiring his writing, he had taken his study to the next level. The firsthand accounts had given him dozens of pages: a feel for the weapon in his hands; the reaction on the faces of the women when they knew they were going to die; and the color and temperature of the blood. After each attack, he had sped home and written feverishly. But soon the words stopped, died on the page.

“Why am I still blank?” he said in a sob. “Why?”

Isis began to squawk.

“Shush,” he said off-handedly. “I’m having a difficult enough time as it is.”

“Let me out.”

Jackson turned his head slowly toward the covered cage. He listened. Sure, Isis could talk: “Pretty lady.” “I love you.” But never “Let me out.”

She said it again.

Jackson scooted his chair back and stood abruptly. “Was that you, Isis? Did you learn something new?”

“Open the cage, Jackson. Let me out.”

Jackson shook his head. Obviously, because he was exhausted and tense, he was hearing things. That was all it was. Still, he walked to the cage.

Swiftly, he uncovered Isis.

She sat on her perch, head down, asleep.

“Isis?” he whispered. “Was that you?”

Jackson’s heart thumped when he heard rustling coming from the other cages; the sheet coverings were moving.

Remembering that he had just opened the window, he laughed nervously and walked back over to it. He stared out into the still evening, deciding to take a stroll to clear his head.

When he turned around, all the cages were uncovered, and the doors were open.

Jackson gasped and backed up against the window—arms stretched out and palms wide—trying to keep the walls from closing in on him.

It was like morning: birds were inside and outside their cages bouncing, stretching out their wings, walking, and singing. Isis’ eyes were open now, but she still sat on her perch.
Jackson peeled himself away from the window and cautiously moved toward her.

“Love?”

“Come closer, Jackson.”

He felt terrifyingly wonderful. Sweat gathered on his brow and above his lips. “Isis? Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

He tried to steady his sudden continuous blinking; he shut his eyes hard and then reopened them. “Why now? Why not before? I have told you my most intimate secrets and feelings and you never spoke an intelligent word.”

“The time was not right. I am here when you need me most. Let me be your inspiration.”

“Oh, Isis! How I do so need someone to talk to. I have many troubles. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me now.” He put his arm in her cage, enduring the sharp claws he usually protectively wrapped his arm against. He stroked her red feathers. “My beautiful, Isis, what words do you have for me? Do you know what I must do to finish my story?”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“You have watched, but you have never felt. In order to achieve realism and depth, you will need to experience the pain for yourself.”

“Yes, yes! I see. I see what you mean. But how? How can I achieve this insight?”

“I will be near whilst you sink the edge of your knife into your skin. Not too deep my dear, just enough to feel a twinge.”

“Marvel upon marvel, you are my muse!” He set Isis on the back of his chair and ran to his bedside table and pulled out his knife. Its long thick blade was still stained from his latest research project. “Where? Where shall I feel it?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

Isis moved her head to and fro with tiny jerks. “The same as you wrote. The same as you gave.”

The coldness of the blade against his neck caused his heart to quicken with excitement. “Just this fills my head with ideas, with words.” He sucked in his breath and pressed a little harder, the sting bringing quiet tears to his eyes. “How absolutely stimulating.”

He heard them before he saw them, but only by a second. All his beauties came at him, Isis in the mix, their feathers, and beaks, and claws causing his hand to yank deeply inward and then slide to the side. Falling backward, Jackson still imagined how his ghastly and perfect pain would translate onto paper.

As the feathers settled and the squawks calmed to a low murmur, Jackson’s last breath was accompanied by his last vision: five female ghostly figures swayed above him. And then he heard the words, “Jack the Ripper, our story ends in revenge,” as his eyes closed.

The End

New SFT cover 2019.jpgMuse is one the short stories from my collection: Supernatural Fairy Tales. It was inspired by Prince Ariel from, “The Fairy Tales of Madame D’Aulnoy” France: 1697

 

 

 

 

 

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