Selina De Luca

Reimagining Hansel and Gretel in Microfiction:   Three microfiction pieces submitted to a Fractured Lit competition using the prompt "bread crumbs"  Escape      Each breadcrumb was manna to our hungry eyes. Our own shadows pushed us onward; any one might be the enemy close behind.      We had walked right into their illusion, drawn like children to sweets.       “Go back!” I had screamed. “It's a trap!”       Too late. Gloved fingers reached, silver instruments tormented, sharp minds probed, and our silence slipped into spoken secrets. We were powerless against those who could lure us into their hidden stronghold in the woods.       And was this escape just another mind trick? we wondered, as the crumbs marking our way turned to drops of blood in the snow.  Thanks, but No Thanks      Before learning to bu...

A flash fiction fractured fairytale also submitted to the Fractured Lit competition.   Pale as Ashen Snow My tears blurred my needlework as I stitched another blanket for another new mother in the village. The snow and ice around me was gray and barren, and I felt the emptiness in my soul. Still I didn’t dare go inside, where my husband would mock me for my tears and any errors on the embroidery that might ensue. I wept, for my own desire to have a little one to wrap in a blanket such as this proved fruitless winter after winter. I sucked in a cold breath as I pricked my finger. My tears, blinding me, had led to this mistake. Foolish woman! I chided myself.  A single drop of blood beaded on the crystal snow, and as I looked at the stark contrast of colors, I prayed for a baby with skin as white as snow and lips as red as ruby blood. Little did I realize, you do not make prayers with curses on your breath. For curse I did: cursing my mother and father for marrying me off late;...

A flash fiction (1000 words or less) fractured faiytale submitted to the Fractured Lit competition A Thorn to Wake the Dead “Hello?” My quivering voice seemed too loud even in that grand foyer, echoing around the cascading chandelier and curling between every finely carved detail on the walls and ceilings.  Who speaks? A shiver pricked at the nape of my neck. Had I imagined that voice, or had someone spoken? “I am looking for my father.” He is not here. The spidery voice beckoned me as though it had entrapped me in gossamer threads, reeling me towards the marble staircase. “Where is my father?” I demanded, mustering any courage that hadn’t fled upon first heaving open the doors to the mansion. Not here. I climbed the dark stairs, brushing away shadows that tried to ensnare me with long, cold fingers. With every step, a rhythmic ticking sound grew louder and louder: it was a grandfather clock, looming over the hallway, glowering and urging me to go faster with every tick – go, go, g...