Cycle by Jam Guibone
Is it moving?
I squint into the darkness.
Yes, it is!
No, wait, I was wrong.
It can’t be moving. It shouldn't be moving. It's just a shadow.
But the longer I stare, the less sure I am.
I should have taken the train home, shouldn't have waited for Carlos—who had apparently left without me, shouldn't have decided to walk home. And now here I am in a dark alley, immobile under a streetlamp, afraid to step one foot forward because there's something in the darkness—something that will come for me as soon as I move.
The wind picks up, and the dead leaves scritch-scratch erratically across the pavement, dragged against their will. The breeze stings my eyes, but I don’t dare blink for even a second. I widen my stance, prepared to run.
And the thing—whatever it is—does the same exact thing.
A single street light shines above me and hums a thin tune that sounds sharp against the dead night.
We’re at a stalemate, me and whatever this thing is.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m hallucinating. It’s probably nothing.
I reshuffle my feet and relax my shoulders—there! There's something alive in the darkness. The wind howls, and this time, it sends a strong gust of brown leaves, dust, tiny gossamer wings, and other dead things into my face.
And this time, it steps forward.
The shock jolts me into action. I twist in fear, stumbling over my own feet as I throw myself away from the streetlight, away from the moving it.
Blood roars in my ear so loudly I can’t even hear if it’s chasing me. I run, but I don’t get very far. Something sharp and hard appears under the thin sole of my shoe, and I topple forward in surprise and pain.
I groan and roll over. A rock with rough edges! I stumbled on a rock!
I rise to my feet—and then I see it standing under the same streetlamp I had left. It’s a silhouette, blurry and human-like in shape, but its edges curve and dance like smoke. It’s looking back at me. I see no eyes, no mouth, no face—but I know it’s looking at me.
I take a deep breath and slowly drag my feet backwards. It mirrors my movements.
I hold my breath and freeze. It stops moving.
I let out a tired exhale of resignation. There is no escape, after all.
“I didn’t think this micro-fiction piece would ever find a home because it’s not in a traditional style, but it isn’t experimental enough either. It is a finished unfinished story: It’s about being stuck in a situation that never ends—a loop, a cycle (which is a horror story in itself). It was a hard sell, so I tucked it inside my folders and kept an eye out for its rightful home.”
Jam Guibone (she/her, on Twitter @jamguibone) is a huge fan of speculative fiction and is born and raised in the Philippines.