All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Hans By Hugh Cron – Warning – Strong Language.

Hans returned home from the pub.

He stomped up and down on the bare floorboards of his living room. He grinned as he thought about the neighbours moaning at the noise but never complaining.

Hans turned on the radio, it was more static than station. He settled down on his white painted kitchen chair that sat in the middle of the living room. It was cold. The wind whistled up through the floorboards. He pulled the collar of his donkey jacket higher and pulled his cap lower and then put his hands into his pockets. He shut his eyes to sleep.

Something woke him.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Horror

Regrets de Foie Gras by Mitchell Toews

The shuffling line stretches out before Maurice and Estelle.

“Walmart on Black Friday,” Maurice quips. His face is red with effort and a drop of sweat is stranded in unfamiliar territory on the tip of his nose.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction, Writing

Joint Claim (A Modern Marriage) by Hugh Cron – Warning Adult Content.

“Err…Ladies and Gentlemen…The Groom.”

The wee mousey man backed away out the door. The groom stood up championing Sports Direct and eating a Gregg’s sausage roll.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction, Writing

Concealer by Hugh Cron Warning – Adult Content.

Miss Shaw, please take a seat. I’m Bill Nixon…So you’ve filled in your new claim and you’ve stated that you walked out of your last employment. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You do realise that you may be sanctioned and won’t receive any benefit?”

“I know.”

“Well in your own words, could you tell me what happened.”

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction, Writing

Soup by Hugh Cron – Adult Content. Strong Language.

“What about you Dave, what’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

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All Stories, General Fiction, Writing

Scenes From An Ayrshire Chip Shop by Hugh Cron – Adult Content

Here son, Haggis Supper.

“Cheers.”

“I want a kebab.”

Well fuck off to the kebab shop, I’ve told you, we only do suppers.

“Some fucking shop this is.”

Do you want anything else?

“Give me a packet of Gypsy Creams.”

I’ve ran out.

“Fuck this I’m going for a Chinky!”

Well off you fuck!

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All Stories, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction

Mannie The Moocher by Hugh Cron – Warning – Strong Language.

Alan joined his sister.

“You OK Trish?”

“I’m getting there. I’m no good with this.”

“I know, you can’t handle a hamster dying never mind anything else.

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All Stories, Humour

Sophia’s Shoes by Lisa Gaultier

Gaultier, LisaSophia only owns one pair of shoes. They’re cute, chubby heels, short enough that she can walk all day long relatively painlessly. They’re black, varnished, the kind that attract no attention whatsoever, so it would take you a while to notice. If you meet her in the summer, and you start hanging out, say you take her on a date to the beach, you might notice then, because you’re wearing flip flops (which isn’t a great idea on a first date, your toes aren’t that nice) and she’s stumbling in the sand, tripping, looking quite stupid. It’s alright though because she almost falls and you catch her in your arms like a princess and you both laugh and blush, you say why don’t you take off your shoes and she does, a little self-consciously. Now you feel a little less stupid about your flip flops even if they keep going flip flop. She tells you about being a vet and her scratch and sniff sticker collection, about how in college she auditioned for The Voice but didn’t get picked. By the end of the day you’ve had so much fun her shoes got lost somewhere and you didn’t realise it. You laugh it off and carry her from the beach to the Uber and from the Uber to her apartment, it’s lovely and romantic, you kiss her goodbye and you feel giddy, excited, you think about it at night, but Sophia has no shoes and she’s wondering how she’ll get to work tomorrow.

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All Stories, Fantasy

A Hipster Apocalypse by Spoonage

I was looking out the window of my 3rd story deluxe apartment, the ceiling high windows the selling point of the hip, modern home. All the people below looked so different, yet eerily similar. Long hair, man buns, side shaves, and bright awful color streaks through their hair to match the dull plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

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All Stories, Humour

Busting Willie Sherman by James Hanna

Since retiring from the San Francisco Probation Department and relocating to Sarasota, Florida, I have been lunching with Roscoe Bennett in a pizzeria on Route 41. We don’t go there for the pizza, which tastes like warmed-up cardboard; we go for the happy hour and a generous choice of beers.

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