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Swifty is a haunting flash-fiction portrait of obsession, identity, and devotion, written by Alison Little. Blending lyrical repetition with intimate psychological insight, this short story explores the blurred boundary between admiration and self-erasure through the voice of a devoted fan consumed by celebrity worship. Rich in rhythm, sensory detail, and emotional tension, Swifty examines themes of belonging, inheritance, longing, and the fragile architecture of selfhood—making it a compelling piece for readers drawn to contemporary literary fiction, experimental narrative voice, and character-driven storytelling.

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Swifty

My curves are your curves.

My curls are your curls.

I carry myself as you carry yourself.

I want to be you, Taylor.

I dress like you.

I follow all your media.

I subscribe to all your services.

I will go to all your gigs.

Live or online.

I watch, I re-watch, and I pre-watch.

I know your birthday, your star sign, and the high school you attended.

If I knew how you peed,

I’d pee like you too.

I learn the dance routines

to every performance.

The words

to every song.

Photos from every concert

plastered over my

walls

ceiling

floor.

They part only for the light switch and the vanity mirror.

That’s where I do my male-up: your make-up.

I replicate your eyeliner, red lips, and bright blush.

Faithfully pencilling the loops, brush-loading rouge, flouncing the cheeks, finishing with forever glitter.

Your brand: Pat McGrath.

The Divine Rose palette,

costly at over £100,

worth it to strike as you.

Dressing,

I delicately trudge the perimeters of your pictures.

Afoot, the splits between images.

Bodysuits, sequins, and lashes are plentiful.

Cowgirl hats, others.

Regular cowboy boots.

Faithfully sinking into these when required to leave the house.

Extortionate price, custom made

due to my size.

If you want to capture Taylor Swift’s sequin sparkle in a piece you can wear every day, check out this bomber jacket.

I tore an image once, a corner from the Red tour, but I replaced it that very evening, after tea.

In a rush that day, my mum shouted at me. I had a college place appointment and she nagged me, non-stop, to attend. Her hair was tied into an aggressive topknot, finished with a scrunchie. When she wears her hair like that there is no reasoning with her; she is in destruct mode. She screamed in my room once, then downstairs furthermore. Then she came back into my room again to shriek at full pitch, hurling a black puffer jacket at me, the one she’d bought last Christmas but I’d never worn. She used to get me things I liked: clothes like you wear, your albums and posters. But last year this ceased. Diddly I wanted for Crimbo. No fringe tops, sequin skirts, or glitter dust puffs. From that point onward I haven’t been able to utter a word about you in her company; she abruptly changes the subject and demands “No more.”

It was actually she who got me into you. The first song I recall: We Are Never Getting Back Together blasting through the room we shared in the mixed accommodation unit. She had split from another short-term relationship and played it constantly after the break-up. It wasn’t from my dad. I never met him. Well, I have, but I was too young to recall. I remember doors banging in the old house, from all the floors, and going to Grandma’s heaps, and a garden where we could sit on warm days. We were given the house we have now before I started school.

I poured over the idea of her getting back together with my dad so I could meet him and be his kid too, not just Mum’s. Not just Grandma’s either; we often get mistaken for mother and daughter. She was only in her thirties when I was young, in her forties now. When she’s had her tanning treatment and hair done she looks younger again, young enough to be my mum. I used to ask about my dad, but she would scream and lockdown. All Grandma could tell me was that he was called Liam and he used to go to the Liverpool matches. That’s why I’ve come to see you here, Swifty, at the Kop.

I went to the college place interview, but there was no need for me to be there. The only thing I want to study is you.

Looking for the Swifty style with a flattering fit for fuller curves? The Bardot Scuba Jumpsuit is the perfect choice.

What your mother and father do.

Every vacation you ever took.

Your favoured ice cream.

Soda choices and how they vary by season.

I don’t usually dress this dramatically.

Typically, trousers as well.

I have them especially made,

like all my clothes.

But for a performance

I wear just the body, your body.

I talk to you as ever,

every day in fact,

some days more than others.

You mostly talk back.

It’s you who tells me to dress this way.

Marvellous and beyond

is why I mirror your look.

Au courant, no blather with your favoured fan.

I will jab again tomorrow.

Bye, Taylor.

Bye, Taylor Alison Swift.

Bye, soon-to-possibly-become Taylor Alison Swift Travis Kelce.

Bye, Swifty.

Bye, Swifts…

Girls on the Edge is a great read for parents worried about there teenage daughters becoming obsessed.

The image displayed above was captured solely to document members of the public assembling for a concert held at Anfield Stadium and bears no relation to the accompanying text. The written content pertains to a fictional character and a fictional portrayal of a fan of Taylor Swift.

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