Jay Olivier Morel
He / Him
LGBTQ writer with ADHD
A fan of Queer stories, cosmic horror, science-fiction, and contemporary literature.
Also a fan of non-fiction, history, science, biographies, and wellness.
What Awful Hour Is It, Mr. Owl?
I. The candle wax drip-drop; the bottle and pills flip-flop; the spinning hands tick-tock. What awful hour is it, Mr. Owl? A cuckoo, a clip-clop, heavens know I want it to STOP! But I cry, and I cry, but it does not stop. I want the air to stop howling, but it does not stop. I want the water to stop dripping, but it does not stop. How fair is it, that I must be subjected to such horrendous conditions in my state?
Through the thick fog and musky air, it glided through the water, eyes glowing bright orange against the pale dark sky with an unearthly determination. This abomination we uncovered continued to haunt me in my sleep. In the dreams, it chased me until I collapsed. Then, it swam right up to me, and I could not move. It opened its jaws as it crawled onto land, hissing a low growl that reverberated through my very core like a drone of constant, loud tones with the occasional neighbouring creature offering its own cry to create an unpleasant harmonic resonance. It was coming for me as it came for all of us. All the ones before me, swallowed by the demon in the bayou. Let me in, it beckoned me softly, let me inside… I woke up from the dream, only to return to the nightmare.
The Mirror Below
She stood at the edge of the water, her toes slowly sinking on the gravel and sand, grounding her feet on solid land for the last time. She exhales, emptying her lungs completely, before inhaling rapidly, filling her lungs with new air. She kicks off, throwing a foot full of sand, as she plunges into the cold waters of the lake. The drop-off falls steep and deep, allowing her to dive safely. Behind her, a wisp of fog swirls behind her, then covers the area in which she plunged.
Polar Bears and Forest Fires
It was mid-February and the late fall heat wave was finally over. Outside, the temperature was cooling. I felt the cold hit my face for the first time in years since migrating north. I was eight when our family decided to take the journey to escape the southern heat. Both Papa and Daddy said that up north, we might still have a chance to live a comfortable life, even if it’s completely dark for parts of the year. I was nine now and my sister was six. For the next week and a half, I was going to get the chance to experience true winter. While I didn't know it at the time, Baker Lake was going to freeze over completely for the last time.
I normally wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night, especially since I could sleep through most of my alarms. However, I knew something was wrong when I felt the heat of the light toasting my eyelids. When I came to, the first thing I remembered feeling was my stomach turning. I felt like I was sleeping on the ceiling while my body was planted on solid ground. The second thing I remembered was seeing the green light flooding my room. I could tell the source came from outside and was moving. And yet it was as if the light itself was leaking into the room, contorting itself into a myriad of shapes, glowing in corners where not even sunlight goes. It beckoned me to follow it, to spring out of my bed. I knew then my time in this capsule on this moon had come to an end.