Now it's grab that hot beverage (best make it a large) that you have become accustomed to and enjoy these fantastic short stories in no particular order. Much love, C.S
Sunset Dreams by C.S. Bailey
The sun glistens off the seas teal surface as it starts to set, the air is as fresh and clean as it’s ever been and as the sand caresses the soles of my feet, I crack a smile.
For the very first time, it feels like I’m home.
Suddenly I am approached by a stranger, dressed in a long black cloak with the hood covering his face. His hands gripping a scythe, yet I feel no fear.
He walks straight past me slowly and mutters the words “welcome home” in his gravelly voice.
So this is what heaven looks like.
The ravens peck hungrily at the crumbs, relishing the freshly-baked bread. They are starting to get full, but no matter how much they eat there is always more crumbs ahead.
They meander further into the garden, following the ornamental hedges and gobbling up the bread.
They sense a trap, but the food is just too tempting to ignore.
Farther and farther they travel, winding their way through the hedgerows, always following the feast. Up ahead, they can hear people arguing “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Absolutely! We only need to follow the breadcrumbs to escape the maze…”
Hold-up at the Hold-up by Bryan Thomas
"Everybody hit the deck!" The armed robber shouted.
Everyone lay on the floor apart from one elderly man.
"Open the safe, old-timer, and fill this bag with cash," the robber said.
"We don't have any money, would you like me to put some sausage rolls in your bag?"
"Sausage rolls! Quit stalling and fill the bag or I'll blow your freakin' head off."
The robber approached the old man and pointed the gun at his head.
"I've told you already, we don't have any money."
"This is a bank, isn't it?"
"Yes, this is a bank - a food bank."
Algernon had been seeking promotion in the War Office.
Finally, he had received his invitation to the diplomatic dinner, and he was determined to make the most of it.
On spying a beautiful girl, he immediately took the seat next to her and poured them both generous drinks.
They were soon giggling away so he slipped his hand under the table and caressed her knee.
As there was no reaction, his hand moved higher to the edge of her panties.
He smiled as she passed over a note.
Don’t give the game away when you reach my balls. Berkley - MI5.
Tabloid by David Wailing
Like every morning, John Drake reads the papers during breakfast. He’s giving this new personalised digital newspaper a try. Apparently they’ve turned their job into a precise art.
At his touch, the data-plastic broadsheet lights up.
The Daily You
Monday 25 November 2024
YOUR DOCTOR SAYS “60% CHANCE MR DRAKE WILL DIE OF HEART DISEASE WITHIN FIVE YEARS”
ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS HAVE MOVED IN AT NUMBER 88
CAUGHT ON CCTV: YOUR DAUGHTER KAREN’S CRACK HOUSE SHAME
John chokes on his cornflakes, pulse racing, vision blurring. Too late, he realises what the tabloids’ job really is: delivering fear.
OBITUARY: JONATHAN DRAKE, 57.
I stare at my face in the mirror and I can’t be sure that it’s really me. My eyes are hunted and bruised from nights of disturbed sleep. A dread has stalked my dreams, twisting them into nightmares that linger even in dawn’s embrace.
In the mirror I glimpse a malformed shadow lurking behind me, its touch is cold upon my skin and fills me with terror. My will fails and I fall into the mirror, my final scream frozen in glass.
I gaze at my reflection and admire my new face, I think I’ll wear it for a while.
When Authors Kill by Ken Magee
She said she hated him. She said she would break his arms. Then she said she would break his legs. After that, she said she would scream abuse at him and then she would kill him. Then she said she would have a glass of wine and toast his demise.
The claw hammer swished almost silently through the air and caught her with a sickening, bone-crushing blow on the nose. Her whole face exploded in a star burst of blood spatter; pasting the wall with a gory, dripping pattern of steaming brains.
“Show, don’t tell,” he whispered into the corpse’s ear.
Tree of little life by Lisa Williamson
Life makes a way not matter the conditions. The water lapping gently against the rock teases the roots of my being. I reach to the sky with arms so small yet so strong. Within me there is strength and vibrancy that you can see and feel if you take a moment of time.
Green is my blood and brown is my bone, I am life and wonder and all that surrounds your world. Come drift upon the waters and brush against my being, today we are brothers in the soul of imagination. Can you find in yourself a new dream?
No Escape! by A.K. Michaels
Lightning flashed and the girl gasped, eyes wide as she frantically tried to find an escape. Heart beating wildly in her chest as she senses them closing in. ‘I’m not going to escape!’
“No!” she screamed, terror in her voice as the first of her pursuers appeared.
Stalking towards her, hate in his eyes, dressed in black leather. She knew she was done for when more joined him. A dozen, all dressed alike, all holding the same death in their hands.
“You’re not getting away this time!” their leader shouted, the moon glinting off the silver stake in his hand.
Killed in Hiding by Marie Norman
"Keep away from the bloody windows," she pulled the boy away, the blinds twanged as he released them.
"Fuck off," he twisted away from her.
"There's snipers out there. You know what they are, don't you?"
He glared at her.
"Sorry, did I hurt you?" She felt sorry for the little toe rag. It wasn't his fault they were in this mess.
Then there was a crack of glass as the window shattered, and a sharp pain in the side of her head. She and the boy stared at one another. He was a rabbit caught in headlights; like a mirage in her sudden swimming vision.
Then he was alone.
FAMILY GAMES by Paul Beckman
My brother and I played “Blink” growing up. We’d start the game by standing back to back and stepping off five paces. Then we’d turn around and stare into each other’s eyes until one of us blinked. Next, if neither blinked, we’d move forward a step and do it again until finally we were only inches apart staring while complaining of the other’s bad breathe.
Our parents often played “Silence”. They could be sitting next to each other at dinner or family function and not speak a word. Ask them why they weren’t talking to each other and you got the ‘fish eye’. Why the ‘fish eye’? It was easier to make the ‘fish eye’ than to remember why they weren’t talking--that’s why.
Betrayal by J.P. Royan
The moonlight bathed the courtyard. Garth silently crept up on his mark, stiletto slipping down his sleeve into his open palm. The lord sat facing the gates expectantly. She's not coming Garth knew.
He closed in on his prey, his pay day. Shifting to attack he noticed beneath the lord a dark pool. He sniffed, the unmistakable scent of blood on the air. The smell of betrayal! Like lightening he moved to the side as two bolts thudded into the lord's corpse. Rolling to a crouch behind a wall, throwing knives in hand, Garth snarled. "Slowly, these two I'll kill slowly!"
Lightning flashed and the girl gasped, eyes wide as she frantically tried to find an escape. Heart beating wildly in her chest as she senses them closing in. ‘I’m not going to escape!’
“No!” she screamed, terror in her voice as the first of her pursuers appeared.
Stalking towards her, hate in his eyes, dressed in black leather. She knew she was done for when more joined him. A dozen, all dressed alike, all holding the same death in their hands.
“You’re not getting away this time!” their leader shouted, the moon glinting off the silver stake in his hand.
Killed in Hiding by Marie Norman
"Keep away from the bloody windows," she pulled the boy away, the blinds twanged as he released them.
"Fuck off," he twisted away from her.
"There's snipers out there. You know what they are, don't you?"
He glared at her.
"Sorry, did I hurt you?" She felt sorry for the little toe rag. It wasn't his fault they were in this mess.
Then there was a crack of glass as the window shattered, and a sharp pain in the side of her head. She and the boy stared at one another. He was a rabbit caught in headlights; like a mirage in her sudden swimming vision.
Then he was alone.
FAMILY GAMES by Paul Beckman
My brother and I played “Blink” growing up. We’d start the game by standing back to back and stepping off five paces. Then we’d turn around and stare into each other’s eyes until one of us blinked. Next, if neither blinked, we’d move forward a step and do it again until finally we were only inches apart staring while complaining of the other’s bad breathe.
Our parents often played “Silence”. They could be sitting next to each other at dinner or family function and not speak a word. Ask them why they weren’t talking to each other and you got the ‘fish eye’. Why the ‘fish eye’? It was easier to make the ‘fish eye’ than to remember why they weren’t talking--that’s why.
Betrayal by J.P. Royan
The moonlight bathed the courtyard. Garth silently crept up on his mark, stiletto slipping down his sleeve into his open palm. The lord sat facing the gates expectantly. She's not coming Garth knew.
He closed in on his prey, his pay day. Shifting to attack he noticed beneath the lord a dark pool. He sniffed, the unmistakable scent of blood on the air. The smell of betrayal! Like lightening he moved to the side as two bolts thudded into the lord's corpse. Rolling to a crouch behind a wall, throwing knives in hand, Garth snarled. "Slowly, these two I'll kill slowly!"
Left Sock Murderer by D.S. Scot
Did I ever tell you why they called me the “Left Sock Murderer?" It’s a weird name, I know, but there’s a reason. Before I kill someone I take their left sock and gag them with it. Well, when I got to my last victim I got careless and didn’t pay enough attention. I kidnapped the guy but he stayed quiet. I guess he was in shock. Anyway, I would have gotten away with it but he finally screamed. I tried to shut him up but it was too late. That stupid son of a bitch was wearing flip flops!
Did I ever tell you why they called me the “Left Sock Murderer?" It’s a weird name, I know, but there’s a reason. Before I kill someone I take their left sock and gag them with it. Well, when I got to my last victim I got careless and didn’t pay enough attention. I kidnapped the guy but he stayed quiet. I guess he was in shock. Anyway, I would have gotten away with it but he finally screamed. I tried to shut him up but it was too late. That stupid son of a bitch was wearing flip flops!
This crumbling ruin was once the stronghold of King Halgor the Stubborn. When the torrents of rain came beating upon the earth, and the ground split open like the hungry maw of a giant from the legends of old, King Halgor stood fast and refused to leave his keep. When the dust settled, and the villagers returned, they discovered that most of the solid stronghold had folded into the sea and sunk without trace, leaving behind one tower, lonely and haunted.
Steeped in memories and soaked in superstition, it still stands, a humble sentinel, with ghosts its only occupants. Some say the King was swept out to sea with the rest of his keep, still sitting astride his golden throne. Others say his restless spirit climbs the steps of the tower, walks the surrounding lands, leading the unwary to their deaths over the jagged cliffs.
I never believed in ghosts. I never thought of them as real. Not the sheets and clanking chains type of ghosts, and certainly not the transparent spectres which now haunt my memory every bit as much as they ever haunted that ruined and rotting old keep. Now I know.
Let me tell you my story...
The black dog by Francine Samuel
Once upon a time, in a far away forest, lived a young couple. Every day, he left early for work, coming back late. His wife would hang a lantern at the window to guide him but he was so worried leaving her alone, he bought a black dog to guard her.
The black dog loved her at first sight. Jealous, he knocked over the lantern, extinguishing its light.
She ran out, calling for her husband, now lost. It is said their ghosts still wander the night, searching for each other.
The black dog? no one knows what became of him.
Dessert by Nicky White
“Dinner was delicious, thank you.” Nicolette gives a warm smile, her hazel eyes twinkling from the flicker of the candle light.
Stuart nods his head but says nothing.
The door swings open as the butler enters the dining room.
He gives Stuart a knowing smile as he approaches the table with a silver tray.
Nicolette takes notice of the fruit, ice cream, chocolate, and whipped cream.
“This looks delicious.” her mouth waters.
“This is not for you.” Stuart says with a wicked grin.
Nicolette pouts, “But why not? Dessert is the best part.”
“Oh but Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”
The Stabbings by Jonathan Hill
He was ruthlessly efficient. In it went, out it came. Job done.
In most cases, the victims never even saw him coming. Stab, stab, stab. Cutting through skin as if it were butter left out of the fridge, forgotten.
He didn’t often see blood, but the speed with which he moved on to his next victim meant that his eyes didn’t linger for long on the point of penetration. When he did catch a glimpse of red, though, he looked at it without bother, unblinking.
And every victim heard the same final words called. “Next one for the flu jab!”
Coyote Ugly by Kristina Canady
Tossed with sleep and dreams too hot to bear, I exasperatedly throw back the covers.
Dark eyes and devilish good looks plague me. One day, endeavours to ride the man-whore of a bartender from the local bar until the birds sing will be had.
Splashing cold water on my face, I head back to bed only to realize that my dreams may not be so hypothetical.
Peering over the bunched sheets in anticipation, the glare of a balding head stares back.
Damn the drink that has landed the bar-fly accountant in my duvet whilst making me think it was another.
Disbe-leaf by Matthew Drzymala
Father Whitworth O'Grady growled incandescently. How dare the local newspaper accuse him of stealing leaves. What kind of man in his forties painted leaves and splodged them onto paper to make colourful leafy collages?
He was a priest. A respected pillar of the community. Such wild accusations could belittle all the good work that he had done in the small village.
He looked up. The evening was cold but the headlines of the day had stoked his boiling temper.
"Scurrilous allegations," he mumbled as he stuffed a handful of leaves into a bin bag before setting off for home.
At the Cemetery by Jolie Shanoian
At the Cemetery there is a large wrought iron fence that stretches the length of the whole hill. A long driveway takes us to the gate.
The mortician is standing at the gate to greet my mother and I upon our arrival.
There are many grave stones of all shapes and sizes.
At the far end of the cemetery there is a mausoleum that is where my mother and I are going.
The mortician leads the way and takes us through heavy double doors that lead through many rooms and a maze of corridors. It is deathly quiet.
We exit the mausoleum; we are now at the top of the hill.
From the cemetery you can see all around the valley below.
My mother is carrying white roses with her today. We put them on a very special grave. It is my father’s, he died last year.
The mortician looks on as my mother places the roses on the grave.
It will be night soon. My mother and I thank the mortician. He says he will pick her up at 8:00.
We wave as we drive back through the cemetery gates.
Many hands wave back.
The End
Steeped in memories and soaked in superstition, it still stands, a humble sentinel, with ghosts its only occupants. Some say the King was swept out to sea with the rest of his keep, still sitting astride his golden throne. Others say his restless spirit climbs the steps of the tower, walks the surrounding lands, leading the unwary to their deaths over the jagged cliffs.
I never believed in ghosts. I never thought of them as real. Not the sheets and clanking chains type of ghosts, and certainly not the transparent spectres which now haunt my memory every bit as much as they ever haunted that ruined and rotting old keep. Now I know.
Let me tell you my story...
The black dog by Francine Samuel
Once upon a time, in a far away forest, lived a young couple. Every day, he left early for work, coming back late. His wife would hang a lantern at the window to guide him but he was so worried leaving her alone, he bought a black dog to guard her.
The black dog loved her at first sight. Jealous, he knocked over the lantern, extinguishing its light.
She ran out, calling for her husband, now lost. It is said their ghosts still wander the night, searching for each other.
The black dog? no one knows what became of him.
Dessert by Nicky White
“Dinner was delicious, thank you.” Nicolette gives a warm smile, her hazel eyes twinkling from the flicker of the candle light.
Stuart nods his head but says nothing.
The door swings open as the butler enters the dining room.
He gives Stuart a knowing smile as he approaches the table with a silver tray.
Nicolette takes notice of the fruit, ice cream, chocolate, and whipped cream.
“This looks delicious.” her mouth waters.
“This is not for you.” Stuart says with a wicked grin.
Nicolette pouts, “But why not? Dessert is the best part.”
“Oh but Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”
The Stabbings by Jonathan Hill
He was ruthlessly efficient. In it went, out it came. Job done.
In most cases, the victims never even saw him coming. Stab, stab, stab. Cutting through skin as if it were butter left out of the fridge, forgotten.
He didn’t often see blood, but the speed with which he moved on to his next victim meant that his eyes didn’t linger for long on the point of penetration. When he did catch a glimpse of red, though, he looked at it without bother, unblinking.
And every victim heard the same final words called. “Next one for the flu jab!”
Tossed with sleep and dreams too hot to bear, I exasperatedly throw back the covers.
Dark eyes and devilish good looks plague me. One day, endeavours to ride the man-whore of a bartender from the local bar until the birds sing will be had.
Splashing cold water on my face, I head back to bed only to realize that my dreams may not be so hypothetical.
Peering over the bunched sheets in anticipation, the glare of a balding head stares back.
Damn the drink that has landed the bar-fly accountant in my duvet whilst making me think it was another.
Disbe-leaf by Matthew Drzymala
Father Whitworth O'Grady growled incandescently. How dare the local newspaper accuse him of stealing leaves. What kind of man in his forties painted leaves and splodged them onto paper to make colourful leafy collages?
He was a priest. A respected pillar of the community. Such wild accusations could belittle all the good work that he had done in the small village.
He looked up. The evening was cold but the headlines of the day had stoked his boiling temper.
"Scurrilous allegations," he mumbled as he stuffed a handful of leaves into a bin bag before setting off for home.
At the Cemetery by Jolie Shanoian
At the Cemetery there is a large wrought iron fence that stretches the length of the whole hill. A long driveway takes us to the gate.
The mortician is standing at the gate to greet my mother and I upon our arrival.
There are many grave stones of all shapes and sizes.
At the far end of the cemetery there is a mausoleum that is where my mother and I are going.
The mortician leads the way and takes us through heavy double doors that lead through many rooms and a maze of corridors. It is deathly quiet.
We exit the mausoleum; we are now at the top of the hill.
From the cemetery you can see all around the valley below.
My mother is carrying white roses with her today. We put them on a very special grave. It is my father’s, he died last year.
The mortician looks on as my mother places the roses on the grave.
It will be night soon. My mother and I thank the mortician. He says he will pick her up at 8:00.
We wave as we drive back through the cemetery gates.
Many hands wave back.
The End
Fabulous! Wonderful drabbles folks x
ReplyDeleteEnjoyable!
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