All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

Neverland by Jono Naito

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I gave him what was left of my hand because he asked for it with such a kindness; he even called me miss. It was the kindness you forget about when you run out of family and end up in a home off the soggy edge of the Everglades. Rosecliff, they called it, to make it sound less like swamp muck. I didn’t know how well I could stand anymore until that man, the father of the head doctor, told me we were leaving for somewhere better. You don’t get feet to disintegrate like mine unless you traveled, and traveled I did, and travel I would. All that man had to say was please, you know, before I remembered how to walk again.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Romance, Story of the Week

The Troubadour by Tobias Haglund

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”Hello, sir.”

”Yea?”

”Uhm. I’m here to see Pam.”

“My daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You the kid?”

“Uhm…”

“I mean the kid she’s been sneaking off with. The … No, let me think. The Williams boy, right?”

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All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

The Boat Song by Tobias Haglund

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“Dad! Dad! Are we there yet? Are we?”

“No.”

“But we’ve been driving for-EVER!”

“Quiet back there!”

Frida held her breath. Jack looked up in the rear-view mirror. “What are you doing?” He turned to Hanna. “What is she doing?”

Hanna turned around. “Are you holding your breath to be quiet?” Frida nodded her head enthusiastically. Hanna held out her hand and gave Frida a high-five. “I’m also going to hold my breath. We can’t disturb Jack!”

“Alright, ladies. I get it. Should I turn on the radio? Will some music make you happy, honey?”

…at an age of seventy-five. We celebrate his memory with a song Robert Broberg crafted in 1967. Here it is. The classic; ‘The Boat Song’.

One of the sailboats said, to the other that, you are lovely,
we should be boarding in hand, courting far from land,
sailing off unmanned, like only sailboats can,
Bada-bam-bam-bam-bam, bada-bam-bam-bam-bam…

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All Stories, Horror, Humour, Story of the Week

The Devil Went Down To Ayrshire By Hugh Cron – Adult Content

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The Devil went down to Ayrshire…He was looking for a soul to steal.

He walked along the River Ayr passed the Auld Kirk and headed towards The Auld Brig. He had a snigger at the dead people and came upon a park bench where a Gentleman Of The Road sat.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Story of the Week

Where Cherubs Sleep by dm gillis

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Vancouver 1949

There’s a direction a city takes when kids go missing. The virtues of due process are quickly abandoned, and the closet vigilantes come out. Suddenly, everyone has an opinion and a plan.

Supposition becomes fact. The police become worthless stooges, in league with the perversions of dark and faceless perpetrators. Rights and freedoms become the sole domain of the self-anointed, raging against the printed word that breaks the news.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

Chipped Trivets by Elizabeth Swann Lewis

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A greeter stood in the driveway wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, a set of Halloween cat ears atop his head, and had pulled a ladies negligee over his clothing. “A smile, that’s what I like to see. That’s why I do this. What a weirdo you say. But you’re smiling. Everything priced over a dollar today half off.”

Roy clutched the handles of the dog-eared backpack slung over his shoulder. “This is my father’s house.”

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction, Story of the Week

Why Can’t She See The Difference by Hugh Cron – Adult Content

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He picked up the phone and dialled. He thought that there would be no answers, no advice, just someone to listen. He wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted.

“Samaritans, you are talking to Sarah….”

He took a breath. He lifted the whisky and sipped.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

Flanders Fields by Tobias Haglund

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Jack drives and I give direction. He stops at a smaller war grave cemetery in the countryside around Ypres. Large trees grow here and there, two by the entrance. He puts his hand on one of them and looks up along the trunk. He caresses the bark and repeats it on the other tree. Once in a while a car drives by, bird song comes from the tree tops and if you listen carefully you can hear the canal behind the bunker. We pass a few graves on the way to the bunker. Despite the daylight the inside darkens quickly, after only a few meters. Four small rooms, too small for Jack to stand up. He strokes the smooth mold. I also do. He closes his eyes towards the inner wall and breathes in and out. In and out. I step outside. A small brook flows below, not deep at all and it probably risks freezing every winter. Jack still kneels in the darkness. I call for him and he gets to his feet. He stops by the bulletin board outside. In Flanders Fields. Jack reads the poem by John McCrae and stands silent in front of it for a minute. He looks out over the thousands of poppies and says:

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All Stories, Historical, Story of the Week

Cold, hard iron blade of the sea by Shane Bolitho

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For more than a month that horizontal plane, the cold, hard iron blade of the sea, has scythed around this lonely spite-filled ship, the Meeuwtje, the Seagull. Our only constant: that unwavering edge. If only we would come to it and tumble off into the void.

I am consumed with the vilest thoughts; acidic loathing, a derision that stoops my shoulders. This sinful, wind-blown bastard-mongrel pack with whom I share this stinking pile of creaking timber, rope and sailcloth!

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Story of the Week

Looking for Nipsey by dm gillis

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It was still December, but Reggie had a bug up his ass about the high school reunion in June. He didn’t seem the type to me, to organise something so mundane. But he was on the line, breathing heavily, while I examined an ancient list of guests to our long ago graduation party. How the list came into my possession remains a mystery.

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