Mind on Fire Books

Today marks Day 3 of Flash Fiction Month, and I’m diving into the challenges set by FFM. The prompt called for a story centered on an item we’ve interacted with, placing the protagonist in a situation where they can no longer engage with it.

My chosen item? The above-ground pool in my backyard. As a dark fiction writer, I let my protagonist’s imagination weave a subtle, eerie twist into this tale—adding a touch of color to an otherwise quiet scenario. I hope you enjoy this short piece, and thank you for reading! Based on your taste in fiction, I think we’d get along famously.

The Depth Beneath Stillness

The day the diving board cracked beneath my feet, I realized how fragile belonging could be. I owned the pool outright: a black-tiled basin sunk into the earth like a wound, surrounded by tall pines that whispered secrets when the wind found them restless. I designed it exactly how I liked—sharp angles, depths shifting like a trapdoor, and water as dark as obsidian ink. Every evening, I’d slip into it, letting its cold embrace unspool the tension in my shoulders.

Now I stand on the terrace, watching the surface ripple with the sun’s last breath. The pool belongs to me, but I can no longer touch it. My left leg, twisted in that careless fall, refuses the communion of water and skin. I am an exile upon my own land.

I remember the first night I swam beneath a full moon. Its pale light pried open the water, and I moved through it like a shadow reborn. A sudden creature—slick and silent—brushed my calf. My heart thrummed in triumph and fear. I surfaced laughing, the pine needles clacking overhead like applause. That thrill still echoes in my bones.

Tonight, I half-hope something slides against the tiles, a spectral fin, as if daring me to remember. But only the water moves, drawn into miniature waves by a silent orchestra. I taste salt on my tongue, though no salt has ever touched these walls. Memory is a trickster.

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Based on your taste in books, I think we could be great friends!

The Depth Beneath Stillness – Flash Fiction Continues

Inside, the house is hollow. Each hallway stretches too long, echoing with the sound of my own footsteps. I wander until the walls blur into grey. The builder carved these rooms for a life I once led—an active life, bright with sweat and sunburn. Now my days are measured in doses of painkillers and the drip of a morphine pump. The pool stares back at me, mocking me with its still perfection.

Sometimes I imagine I could will myself back—to feel the cool slide of water past my hips, the surge of buoyancy pushing me upward, my lungs expanding into freedom. But the mind, that sulking conspirator, reminds me that the bone is shattered beyond repair.

So I sit by the edge, fingertips just grazing the surface. A ring of ripples folds outward, then settles back into the unnatural calm. I press harder, leaning forward until I feel the wet chill across my skin. It’s exquisite—sharp as regret. My vision blurs; I swear I see a creature flicker beneath the tiles. A fin, arching like a promise. For a moment, I believe it’ll lift me on its back, bear me into its dark cradle.

But the water only ripples again. And I remain here, a king without his waters, a phantom in the grand estate of my own creation. The moon dips below the pines. Night grows colder. My reflection quivers.

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Thank you for visiting with us. For more Flash Fiction, visit our blog at The Ritual.