The Edge of Familiar
Three Flash Fiction stories that slip into the strange
Hello and welcome to The Curious Magpie, I’m Océane and once a month I write an essay about life, curiosity or creativity. My hopes, dreams, fears and everything else in between. Thank you for coming along and I hope you enjoy reading my words.
I first stumbled into the world of flash fiction last September—drawn in by its brevity, intensity, and strange little windows into imagined lives. In November, I shared my first three stories. You can find them here if you’d like to give it a read.
Now, I’m back with another trio: one daunting, one dreamlike, and one set at a Christmas meal like no other. The third story of this set I read aloud at a Substack meet-up hosted by
back in January this year and I’m still buzzing from the experience. Reading my words to a group of people felt equally nerve wreaking and wonderful.I'm writing my way towards a collection, one small story at a time.
I hope you enjoy reading them.
Océane xoxo
Bon Appétit
The turkey was dry, the gravy lumpy, and she could not stop hearing how loudly he chewed his food. She wondered by what miracle none of it fell out of his mouth. “I should give it to him,” she thought, “if it weren’t so disgusting, it could almost be considered a skill.”
But it still put her off her food as she played around with the broccoli on her plate. His mother had made yet another comment on how skinny she looked and told him this wasn’t the way a woman was supposed to look—a “real” woman, as if she weren’t in the room. And he had said nothing to defend her, no kind word—nothing. She wanted to spit out that her lack of curves certainly didn’t stop Uncle Jim from groping her arse as he politely took off her coat when they had arrived earlier, but she said nothing.
She knew it would be over soon. She would get through this dinner, they would go home, and she would poison him with the rat poison she had bought specifically for that purpose because, of course, they didn’t have rats. Then, she would be free and would never have to sit through another dreadful Christmas dinner with his family. “Merry Christmas,” she thought with a smile.
The Pear Tree
Last night she dreamt of her old house. She stood by the iron gate which led up the stone path to the garden. Rain fell heavily and as she felt the grass under her bare feet, mud settled between her toes. She grabbed the gate with both fists expecting it to pry open, but it failed to give way. But then, she remembered the key under the stone by her feet.
The gate creaked loudly as she pushed the key in as if it had been decades or even centuries since anyone had opened it and walked through. She hurried up the stone path, pulling up her white night dress, careful not to slip. Her long curly hair felt heavy down her back as it carried the weight of the rain. She stopped at the sight of the pear tree at the bottom of the garden and observed her surroundings; it was her garden but she barely recognised it. Nature had taken over, there was no order, and everything felt dull and cold. As she stood under the tree and reached out to grab a pear, it crumbled under her touch and turned to ashes. On the other side of the tree, her childhood swing hung while it rocked slowly carried by the wind. The swing’s ropes looked frail and torn and she thought she could see the ghost of her former self swinging back and forth, untouched by events that would come to pass.
She woke up in bed the next day with no memories of her dream. Only when she stood in the shower readying herself to turn the taps on did she notice her hair felt damp and there were traces of dried mud on her feet.
No Way Out
She stirred as light pressed through her eyelids. Something was wrong. Her face felt stiff, her head delicate. Had she forgotten to take off her makeup? Had she had too much to drink? Worse, she couldn’t remember falling asleep. She couldn’t remember anything at all.
Her legs felt strange as she stood, wobbling as if they weren’t her own. The furniture towered over her—massive chairs, a bed she didn’t recognise. Where am I? she thought. She opened the door and heard faint voices in the distance.
The door opened into a kitchen, everything perfectly in place. The table was set for four, but there was no smell of food. She moved urgently, searching for clues about who she was, but her body felt uncoordinated. The picture frames held only landscapes, and the cupboards revealed nothing but neatly stacked dishes. Some drawers wouldn’t open, no matter how hard she pulled.
Grasping a cup from the table, she froze—it was glued to the table, just like the rest of the plates. Panic crept in. Something is very wrong.
She rushed out of the kitchen, desperate to find the front door, but there wasn’t one. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips.
Suddenly, a loud noise filled the air. She looked up, horrified, as the roof of the house lifted away. She dropped to the floor, paralysed with fear. A gigantic hand reached down, casting a shadow over her.
“Let’s play, Dolly,” a child’s voice said.
Really good ones!! 👏