Category Archives: short stories

Magic Stick

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The stick, without a doubt, was unique, magical, no longer was it lost amongst the woodlands fallen, a delightfully crooked stick had tickled my fancy, held my attention without ceremony.

Waiting for me to notice it, call it to my hand; to grasp it, hold it aloft my busy dome, with childish influence.

The stick imprinted its distress and aged decay onto the palm of my soft, puffy hand; in the colours of the earth and leaf.

This staff, or a wand, some kind of weapon of my calling, or just an old warped walking stick, was to defend myself against the unknown, in shadow, as I sometimes danced staccato through woods and hedge way.

Unscathed, my unspectacular home door, now unlocked, into my actual security. I leave the stick outside, importantly, in the back garden, propping up the garage of course.

Now, somehow, my stick has gone, from too much time being forgotten, time stretched so thin, washed out, into an unnecessarily detailed painting of an adult realm, crumbled into invisibility, to earth, maybe it has travelled back to its place where I first owned it… maybe.

 

 

 

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Today, I Buried the Car

Today, I buried the car under the garden, or enterrer la voiture sous la Jardin; it makes no difference to me. As I sit on its corroded roof of raised ochre paint and brushed steel. By coincidence, I sit at sea level to distant oceans that are full of old weather and distress.

I know there is never a sea that’s forever as level as this laid lawn, and so I recall, on purpose I left the engine running. So it is that I’m repeated to fade as time delays the dream in which I sit, statuesque, waiting on my cars dented roof, for something to erase what I didn’t mean.

Then, suddenly the car drives through the soil, searching for oil. I’m destined to travel with it. With consummate ease, I’m driven forwards, for I assume that is where I face, and above an underground road, with all speediest motion of the most stubborn small hand of a basic clock, through terrain as varied as the subconscious memories of the recent dead.

My progress never slows until I discover the edge of this world dissolving like an old cake from age, churned from its constant turning. Now I’ve slipped into another world, of some sense. As I arrive, seamlessly through a subtle zipped window, I’m suddenly driving through dull traffic, so dense; with the clumsy authority of a process mounted car on set. I’m steering the wheel, it’s looser than I imagined, it’s no use, and the scenery is a little disjointed from the direction I steer in. Maybe the next world will find me before I find it! Or before I find the brakes.

Room Service

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Jon White was alone in his bed sleeping; his only support was his new memory foamed mattress. At 3.05 he awoke with urgency, needing the bathroom.  He hadn’t yet seen, encountered, the heart pulsating shock, which was; the dark figure standing, facing the opposing wall.

A totem in the blackness, she stood in the centre of the room; silent, motionless with no acknowledgement of her surroundings. Jon’s only thought was for the sweet blessed relief he would feel in the bathroom.

He grabbed his duvet and purposefully flung it away from his tepid body. Now, exposed to the arctic impression of the bedroom, the atmosphere in the room sent Jon’s skin temperature to plummet; tightening around his bony adolescent frame like an invasion. With his skin no longer flexible and encasing, Jon not only felt the harsh cold but increasingly ill, only once before had he felt this sick; when he was witness to his father’s death.

Little Stone

You chose a beautiful stone; held its smoothness, smothering it entirely for

safe keeping, your lucky stone.

Then one day you skimmed it across an ocean. Never did it stop, that little

stone, not for one second, for it was unable to sink for fear of never being

found again.

Alone, it skimmed, alongside container ships and fishermen, over dancing

shoals, around islands, deemed lost.

It played with sea monsters, memorised the coordinates to shipwrecks and

lost aircraft.

The little stone also survived the greatest storms and skipped through

waters as flat as a mirror.

Only then did it pause for reflection. Then on it went, to find a perfect beach to

settle on.

On the beach, it rested, hopeful for another hand, your hand,

the Holiday Stone.

The Witch

DaddyDaddy!” I hear the fear in a small, distant voice.

Suddenly I am half awake.

Then I hear,Daddy!and the voice, less small and no longer distant.

I bolt upright in my bed; groggy, confused, heavy, drugged by my sleep.

“Ok, Ok, I’m coming I’m coming, what’s the matter? I’m coming!” I reply.

I take a glance at my wife’s uninterrupted sleep, I can’t see her, more feel her… She is there. With my eyes, not yet adjusted to the dark, I step out of bed and stumble clumsily. Using my left thigh like a blind man’s stick, I bounce, to and fro from the edges of my bed.

Until, eventually, I make it somewhere near my bedroom door, and I grab at it with more luck than judgement. I find the handle and pull the door open with more force than necessary. Gingerly I step onto the landing and find my son opening the door to his bedroom to meet me.

“What’s the matter darling?” I ask with whispered concern.

“There’s a witch in my room!” he whimpers. As I kneel down to his eye level he walks into the top of my shoulder and nuzzles his cheek into mine, I rub his back.

“A witch, Oh, there’s no witch,” I whisper calmly into his ear. There’s a temporary hush in background noise, then I notice the wind rush, buffet our house. I acknowledge the weather for the first time; it’s invisible force throws smaller unknown objects into the much larger and more guessable ones.

“It’s just the wind,” I say.

I kiss him on his cheek; looking over his little shoulder and into his bedroom, I notice something strange moving in my son’s bed.

Whatever it is writhes like a large worm, slithering in the darkness, I stare, panicked by its nonsense until the duvet cover falls away, exposing a face, it has my son face, no, it is my son.

In bed, my son calmly asks me, “Daddy, what are you doing?”

I’m unable to answer, for my shock injects itself into my rapidly beating heart, pumps a poison round my veins, I rot internally and then in no time at all, I pass out.

Noise War

A dog raises his head and barks while a man drops his head and shouts.

The dog barks and lifts its head as the man continues to shout.

Near-bye, a waiting car, its engine revs in frustration, the man shouts at

the car.

The dog continues to bark at the man, at the car, at itself.

Then, across the road, a woman, from her house, opens a window, and she

shouts from afar.

The man looks at the woman and shouts while the car engine revs that little bit

louder.

When a child is heard crying, the car then screams with revs while the

dog proceeds to bark at everything.

The woman in the houses’ phone rings. Her ringtone replicates the

the sound of a barking dog.

She answers her phone and says, “Hello?” Suddenly a temporary silence

deafens the neighbourhood; shortly before everybody feels the drum of

mysterious aeroplanes.

The Caretakers Moon

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On a moon coloured in pastel by Martian gods, is a shed with a caretaker as secretly ancient as he his obvious in youth.

With every rotation of his moon, he leaves his shed to stand in perfect black shadow, precisely the same time as a series of planetary alignments allow a galactic causeway showing him his journey from where he once came.

The Caretakers causeway; interrupted by comets as they so travel, rolling silently at their own individual speeds. He recognises the subtle differences within their empowering thunder; with giving each broken star his full, undivided attention, they speak of their magnificent beginnings.

The continuous comets with their immeasurable tails sweep up the remains of lost satellites, so crude in their making, harbouring evidence that nothing ever happens like the scientists say (but some are closer than they think!).

The Caretaker, having lost his home in such unexplainable circumstances, he then transmits his sorrow through dark space matter to create positive universes.

Over, around, between and through time The Caretaker regenerates, flesh to matter, it is then he stares at a cluster of irregular stars as they near. Suddenly he is with his predecessors; a vanguard that smothers the entire surface of the moon with their vaccine.  Linking themselves together by heads they spin cycle the moon into a devastating and most wondrous nebula.

Meanwhile, on a quieter side of an opposing Moon, is another shed entrance that shares the reflection of everything, in times past, present and future. One message clearly resides by every communication possible, ‘Please take care!’

It is then, out of the shadows of planets, a new caretaker makes his way.

 

Brainwashed

The last man to find Denholm didn’t know what to think. Denholm, on the other hand, is the very word think, having done nothing else for centuries. Denholm stores the answer that everyone craves; the meaning of life.

Denholm has currently outlived, destroyed and humiliated seven generations of voluntary human vessels. These vessels have physically transported and slaved themselves through injury and neglect over countless, irrational commands.

One thing is for certain, Denholm always remains, with one desire, however painful, inevitable exclusion from society is; endeavouring to revolutionise the backward world he was forgotten for dead in.

Now, decades after his last walking/talking case of limbs, Denholm senses a new visitor tapping inquisitively at his encapsulating tank. The clear fluid gently caresses as it ripples with subtle response, Denholm swells and thinks, ‘everything will be different this time.’

Planet Human

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With the Sun burning holes in everyone and the fog entering us at will, the world is pushing us around.

We decide, we don’t need the world and find ways to propel ourselves, creatively, through our planet’s atmosphere.

Our flesh and bone leave home, playing out various mimes to our past interests; some cycled, some swam the breast stroke, some sat and watched TV and waited to be carried by the wind.

Meanwhile as we render our hobbies useless we’re now aboard nothing except ourselves. At the point of entry to a most spectacular bar, from such a devastating height our beliefs are shattered.

As we continue to travel in the bar, through portholes we catch a glimpse of a traditional marble, so small, a ball of purity with such an engaging transmission of strength. We are beginning to slur our thoughts, slouching, getting drunk at the all night bar.

We decide that we think it is late, but right now, it will be forever late. Together, we all agree, that for the time being, we are better off loitering here.

Then the last order bell rings. The queue is infinite. Some-kind of door opens and creates a powerful vacuum, it spins us around playfully like bland snowflakes; head to tail chain of unwanted meat. We are out of our control.

Whilst spinning, we discover that the galaxy is a comic genius, when the punchline is timed perfectly against us and we all float off towards billions of twinkling lights. To the next planet then, maybe, but first we must become sober and enrol, for there must be a job waiting for us all.

Anger Mismanagement

When it came to the anger management classes, Deano thought he had it sussed. In his last session, he kicked through the doors, eyes popping and fizzing like inflatable light bulbs. Deano was bloody furious! Spewing words out like a fleshy sick gun. Words Like, Flipping twerp!

Git!

Swine!

Bastard!

Rotter!

And maybe worst of all, twats!

Barking such demonic filth at individual class members sent him crimson, his spit drenched chin shone (a la Rhubarb and custard).

Meanwhile the class slid from their chairs, coughing lunch out of their holes. The Laughter shook them in the room like a child shaking a box of mewing kittens.

The sound of laughter only made it worse for poor old Deano. Through his fingers, he looked at what he’d created. Deano slumped to his knees, cried into his hands and screamed, “I am so angry!”

Then there was a round off-beat clapping from the darkened corners of the room.

The Class was over.