Dreams and Nightmares

Beneath the cloak of night, in the silence that suffocates like a thick fog, my true work begins—work that the faint of heart would dare not even whisper about. It’s a craft that dances on the edge of shadows, where the line between the ethereal and the corporeal blurs.

Each step I take is measured, a silent pact with the darkness, as I weave through the alleys and backstreets of this sleeping city. My tools? Not the crude instruments of flesh and bone, but the delicate threads of fear, ambition, and desire. I’m an artist, a sculptor of the intangible, moulding the very essence of human emotion into something palpable, something that can be touched and felt.

As the world slumbers, ignorant of the forces that sway just beyond the veil of their comprehension, I toil. And as dawn’s first light breaches the horizon, I retreat, a spectre dissolving into the mists of morning, leaving behind my creations to stir and unsettle the waking world. My work is never seen, but always felt—a whisper in the mind, a shiver down the spine.

For in the quietest moments, in the depths of night, I am the architect of dreams and nightmares alike.

Sally, From The Tills

In the glaring fluorescent lights of of aisle three, between the tins of beans and the packets of rice, there’s this sort of quiet that settles. It’s like the world pauses for a breath, and in that stillness, I find myself thinking about her. Sally. It’s a simple name, isn’t it? But there’s something about the way it sounds when I whisper it under my breath, amidst the shuffle of products and the beep of scanners, that feels like it’s filled with unsaid things, with stories only I’m privy to.

She’s over there now, on till four, the one closest to the exit. It’s always the busiest, but she handles it with this grace, you know? Like she’s dancing between the barcodes and the bags. I watch how she smiles at the customers, and every time, I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to have that smile directed at me, just once.

I know it sounds daft, me, a shelf stacker, harbouring these secret feelings for the girl on the tills. But when you spend your days surrounded by the mundane, by rows of products that never change, you start finding the extraordinary in the people around you. And Sally, well, she’s like the burst of colour in my otherwise grey day.

We talk, sometimes, when the manager isn’t looking and the queues die down. About normal stuff: the weather, the latest offers, the state of the staff room fridge. And in those moments, I’m not just the bloke restocking the soups or checking for expired yogurts; I’m someone she’s laughing with, sharing a part of her day with. It feels like being let in on a secret, like I’m suddenly more than what my name badge says.

But as quickly as those moments come, they vanish. Reality rushes back in with the next customer, the next shift, the next delivery. And I’m left stacking shelves again, holding onto the echoes of our conversations, replaying them in my head, imagining different endings, braver confessions.

It’s not like I haven’t thought about telling her, about stepping out from behind these aisles and saying what’s been simmering in me since the day she started. But what then? What if she doesn’t see me the way I see her? What if I’m just the background noise to her daily routine, as forgettable as the awful inshore music we pretend not to hear?

So, I keep quiet, keep stacking, keep stealing glances when I think no one’s looking. Because in a world where everything has a price tag, these feelings, this hope, it’s mine. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now. To be here, in the quiet corners of a supermarket, secretly in love with Sally from the tills.

The Waiting Room

In the sterile hum of the waiting room, I find myself perched on the edge of a too-hard plastic chair, the kind that makes you wish for anything softer. Around me, the air is thick with the antiseptic tang that hospitals specialise in, mixed with the undercurrent of worry that seems to be everyone’s unwanted companion. The magazine in my lap lies forgotten, its pages filled with the promise of distraction I no longer have the heart to seek.

I’m not sure when this place, with its flickering fluorescent lights and the relentless tick of the clock, became a regular fixture in my life. It seems like only yesterday that I was on the outside, glancing in through its windows with a mix of curiosity and detachment. Now, here I sit, a fixture as much as the chairs and the potted plants, waiting.

The faces around me are a blur of stories untold. Each person carries their own burden, their own reasons for being here. And yet, in this moment, we share a commonality—a thread of understanding that binds us together in silent solidarity. We are all waiting. Waiting for news, for answers, for a reprieve.

I can’t help but think back to a time when the biggest decision I had to make was what to cook for dinner or which film to watch on a Friday night. Now, those mundane choices seem like luxuries, taken for granted in a life that was once filled with so much simplicity it almost seemed dull.

My mind drifts to him, to the reason I sit here today. It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly our priorities can shift, how the ground beneath us can just give way, leaving us scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto. He’s my rock, my reason, and now, as I wait for the door to open and for a face to emerge with news I’m both desperate and terrified to hear, I realise just how much of my world revolves around his orbit.

The waiting is the hardest part—the not knowing. It’s a limbo of sorts, a purgatory where hope and fear dance a delicate tango, each step measured, each breath held. I find myself bargaining with God, promising anything, everything, if only for a favourable outcome.

I glance at the clock again, its hands mocking me with their steady progression. Time, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour, moving both too swiftly and too slowly all at once. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and muster the semblance of calm. I have to be strong, for him, for us.

Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You wait, you hope, and you hold onto the flicker of light in the darkness, no matter how faint it may seem. And you believe, with every fibre of your being, that somehow, someway, everything will be alright.

So here I sit, in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers yet feeling more connected to them than ever before. We are all warriors in our own right, fighting battles unseen, holding onto hope as our shield. And as the door finally opens, my heart skips a beat, ready for whatever comes next.

A Haven For The Aged

They say this place is home, a haven for the aged. But to me, it’s a prison painted in pastel hues, where every day is a monotony, and every meal tastes of longing for the past. They plucked me from my garden, my sanctuary, where time was marked by seasons, not by pills and schedules. Here, walls whisper pity in the silence, and faces blur into a sea of forgotten stories.

I never thought I’d end my days in a place like this, a repository for the once-loved. They visit, yes, but their eyes betray the truth—they wish to be anywhere but here. They see not the man I was but the burden I’ve become.

And yet, there’s an oddity in my tale, a peculiar twist. At night, when the world sleeps, and this place holds its breath, the walls… they speak. Not in the pitiful whispers of the day, but in clear, vibrant tones of life and memories. They recount tales not of my life, but of others long forgotten, tales that no living soul could remember.

At first, I thought it madness, a trick of an old mind. But then, the truths they spoke, the secrets of the past they revealed, were too precise, too real to be the fancy of senility.

What eerie sorcery this is, I cannot say. But these walls hold souls within them, and at night, I listen to the voices of the past, sharing in their laughter, their sorrow, their lives. In my isolation, I’ve found a bizarre companionship. It’s as if this place, this care home I so despise, is alive with the echoes of those who once were.

And so, I wait for the night, for the moment when I’m no longer alone. But I cannot shake the chilling thought—what happens when my voice joins theirs? Will a new occupant of this room, years from now, hear my tales, my regrets, whispered in the dark? It’s an eerie comfort, and perhaps, in this unexpected twist, I’ve found my place within these walls.

A 340-word short story.