Microfiction short story: Empty influence
A quiet 900 word horror story.
Welcome to The Inciting Incident. Every week there’s a newsletter with original horror stories, critiques of writing methods, writing tips and exercises, or other fun things. If you enjoy horror and the craft of creating fiction, this is the place for you.
This week we’ve a bit of a melancholy short story…
Empty influence
I didn’t feel any change at first. Maybe my followers noticed the glint in my eye was different—emptier—but inside I felt fine.
It took years to build my following. I kept my rigid schedule of recording new reels, streaming, AMAs, guest spots, and collabs. People think it’s easy being an influencer, but I worked hard to get here.
When I’d talk with others like me, we’d say how it was natural to fall out of love with the work. We got into it because we loved sharing ourselves, our personalities and quirks, but after a while these things start to feel like walls—we have to be like that, perform like that, fulfil that expectation, otherwise our followers get angry. We can’t grow. But that’s okay. It’s worth it for the life. And the real OG influencers, they’re just machines: they can record on and on and on. They live for the screens.
The thing is, if you’re the guy who built your rep on squealing at every jump scare in a spooky game, you’d damn well better not get used to those scares. Keep squealing, or the followers are gonna leave. Everything you poured into that camera will be gone.
But then a started to feel thinned out, like I don’t know who I am without a script, like I’ve nothing to say without the camera in my face and a product to rep.
To get a new spin, I went on a trip, off into the mountains. I reached this lake, pure clear water, trees hugging the edge all around, and only a few places to sit and just take it all in and get a good shot. Birds circled on the breeze above like they never wanted to land again. It would make a great backdrop.
I composed some lines about how energising it was, how blessed I am, and pulled out the selfie stick to get the footage, but I couldn’t hit the red record button. My hand refused to follow my orders.
My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. This fame, this freedom to travel and be myself, was what I always wanted. A fragment of me deep inside screamed ‘yes!’, but it was so quiet I barely heard it.
A tiny old woman with skin the colour of sunsets strolled along the path. She sat beside me with a sigh, so close I could smell her; her fragrance reminded me of pumpkin spice lattes, though that was out of season and the closest Starbucks must’ve been a million miles away.
“You think it’s beautiful?” she said.
A breeze stirred ripples and a dragonfly skimmed across the surface. I wanted to say ‘yes’, but I couldn’t get the lie out.
She nodded, as if I’d answered. She picked up a twig and twirled in between her fingers. She pointed it at the lake, like she was giving a lecture with an invisible screen. “Back when I was young, much younger than you, my granddaddy told me ‘cameras take a piece of your soul’. You ever hear that?”
I shook my head.
“A piece of your soul,” she repeated, then tossed her twig onto my selfie stick. It bounced off my phone screen. “That thing takes movies?”
“Hi res, good in low light, best front-facing camera on the market.” I’d memorised the blurb so I could drop it into reels at opportune moments. Just a typical part of the agreement for getting the kit for free.
“You don’t say.” She wore faded blue dungarees over a yellow T-shirt, and took a moment to check the straps, not hurrying any movement. When she was satisfied, she returned her attention to the lake. “So that’s a lot of pictures per second.” She pursed her lips and made a clicking sound. “That’s a lot of soul to lose.”
I laughed, barking out my trademark ‘hahaha!’. Millions would recognise it. If she knew who I was, she didn’t show it, and that vaguely pissed me off. “Nah,” I said. “I’ve been doing this for years. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
She squints at me. “If you say so. Mind you, I didn’t say it takes a lotta soul, each picture, but just a bit. Just a tiny little bit each time. Nibbling away. Gets nibbled so much you might have almost nothing left.” Her gaze bores into my eyes, like she’s peering into a mountain’s train tunnel, trying to see light at the other end. “When you’ve got plenty, losing a little feels easy. But when you’re nearly empty, well, you gotta pay mind to it.” With a grunt of effort, she stood then brushed dirt from her legs. “But don’t let me go botherin’ you with old stories. I’m sure it’s nothing. You just watch the lake, enjoy the view. Feel it whisper to your soul.”
Her feet crunched stones and twigs as she went on her way.
I thought about the others like me, reciting the words we’re given alongside our sponsors’ gifts, how the shine goes from our eyes, the joy drops from the smile, and how quiet it is inside me, how hollow.
The selfie stick lies beside me.
If lake was whispering to my soul, but I couldn’t hear it.
The end
This was a bit of a different kind of horror from my usual stories: quieter and more low-level.
If you fancy something different, try dipping into my short story archive.
Next week I’ll be back with a critique of this story, digging into the choices made along the way and the writing techniques I used.
Have a fantastic week, and remember to experience your life in-person, not just through a camera!
Mata
xxx