THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
Fatin Noor Mayukh
“The woman stops in her tracks suddenly, her eyes glued to where you first entered the room. The air shifts and a silhouette materializes: dark and ambiguous. A chill runs down your back. It advances.” // HEADER PHOTO: No Place to Hide © CBS 1981
short story, feb 24
short story, feb 24
The building is dull except for a single window, an eerie luminosity battling alone. The clouds shriek, and soon a droplet breaks through the still; a drizzle turns into a downpour. The light flickers for a second.
You blink and it zooms into the window, the droplets gathered have clouded the glass and the blurry outline of the inside is visible. A sudden thunder rattles the scenery. The scene refocuses inside the room; the blurry outlines are replaced with tangible borders. An unmade bed greets the observer, weeks-old laundry scattered across the floor like a minefield exposed under the glaring light. A large clock hangs from the wall with its seconds’ hand ticking indifferently. The contender sits in the middle of the room: heavy, singular, and occupied.
She takes a bite of the bread in her hand. It is tasteless yet necessary. Her eyes are dilated, but it is hard to discern her focus. Her body sits as still as possible, save for her jaws and hands. On the floor there are several discarded plastic wrappings, paper cups, and cardboard boxes—all in a multitude of colors. A trail of ants lead to an abandoned mass in the corner. An unknown stench follows your eyes. The rhythmic droplets of water falling from the kitchen is the only source of order in the scenery.
The woman stops in her tracks suddenly, her eyes glued to where you first entered the room. The air shifts and a silhouette materializes: dark and ambiguous. A chill runs down your back. It advances.
one…
two…
three…
A watery afterimage of the foot is left with each step. Her eyes follow.
The footsteps stop in front of the woman. It bows down and wraps its hands around her. The woman blushes, but sits unanimated, her hand still stopped at mid track. She blows air out through her mouth precariously and closes her eyes. The hands of the clock freezes; the stench clears; the woman smiles absentmindedly.
You blink.
The silhouette has dissipated, leaving you alone in the empty room. You no longer see yourself, you see the half-eaten bread in your hand. You feel empty without the hands embracing you. You take a deep breath and open your mouth.
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
Fatin Noor Mayukh has just finished her A’levels and now spends her days in lethargy. Recently, she has taken up the hobby of begging money from foreign universities. // instagram
THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
THE OUIJA GAZE
Fatin Noor Mayukh
“The woman stops in her tracks suddenly, her eyes glued to where you first entered the room. The air shifts and a silhouette materializes: dark and ambiguous. A chill runs down your back. It advances.” // HEADER PHOTO: No Place to Hide © CBS 1981
short story, feb 24
short story, feb 24
The building is dull except for a single window, an eerie luminosity battling alone. The clouds shriek, and soon a droplet breaks through the still; a drizzle turns into a downpour. The light flickers for a second.
You blink and it zooms into the window, the droplets gathered have clouded the glass and the blurry outline of the inside is visible. A sudden thunder rattles the scenery. The scene refocuses inside the room; the blurry outlines are replaced with tangible borders. An unmade bed greets the observer, weeks-old laundry scattered across the floor like a minefield exposed under the glaring light. A large clock hangs from the wall with its seconds’ hand ticking indifferently. The contender sits in the middle of the room: heavy, singular, and occupied.
She takes a bite of the bread in her hand. It is tasteless yet necessary. Her eyes are dilated, but it is hard to discern her focus. Her body sits as still as possible, save for her jaws and hands. On the floor there are several discarded plastic wrappings, paper cups, and cardboard boxes—all in a multitude of colors. A trail of ants lead to an abandoned mass in the corner. An unknown stench follows your eyes. The rhythmic droplets of water falling from the kitchen is the only source of order in the scenery.
The woman stops in her tracks suddenly, her eyes glued to where you first entered the room. The air shifts and a silhouette materializes: dark and ambiguous. A chill runs down your back. It advances.
one…
two…
three…
A watery afterimage of the foot is left with each step. Her eyes follow.
The footsteps stop in front of the woman. It bows down and wraps its hands around her. The woman blushes, but sits unanimated, her hand still stopped at mid track. She blows air out through her mouth precariously and closes her eyes. The hands of the clock freezes; the stench clears; the woman smiles absentmindedly.
You blink.
The silhouette has dissipated, leaving you alone in the empty room. You no longer see yourself, you see the half-eaten bread in your hand. You feel empty without the hands embracing you. You take a deep breath and open your mouth.
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
Fatin Noor Mayukh has just finished her A’levels and now spends her days in lethargy. Recently, she has taken up the hobby of begging money from foreign universities. // instagram