Tag: short story

All Stories, General Fiction

Shrodinger’s Choice By Hugh Cron

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Two men walked towards the elevator. The older man took out two key cards and gave one to his son.

“I promised you that I would take you into the tower when you reached twenty-five.”

“I was fed up asking.”

“Dennis, you have worked hard over the last eight years. I am proud of how quick you have picked up on the businesses I run, sorry, we run. You are my son and my partner and I had to make sure that you would be able to handle what you are about to see.”

His father stepped back and Dennis swiped his card.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

A New Perspective or That Time I Was Allergic to Wussing Out by Alex Rezdan

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There’s nothing like almost killing yourself to put things into perspective. The slow, dull lull of life seeping out of your body one drop at a time, and you, rushing to say all you need to say before it’s all over. And by you, I mean me, of course.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Revelation by Hugh Cron – Adult Content

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Jardine walked towards town. Town was what all the residents called the shit heap that was a few shops and two halls. The shops consisted of a butchers, which supplied good enough meat, a Spar, which was the usual Spar shite, a bookies and the mandatory charity shop.

Jardine was heading to one of the halls. The other was for Masons only.

He looked around himself and considered.

“What a dump!”

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All Stories, Romance

Before Hitting The Ground by Tobias Haglund

Tobias Haglund

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”Did you know Leonardo da Vinci was a farmer’s son?”

“No.”

“He was. Born out of wedlock by a mother who was a farmer.  You can imagine how it must have looked. Fifteen century Italy, born and raised by a single mother, yet he still managed to accomplish those many great things. It really is a great argument that every social class should be given a chance, right?”

“Right.”

“The next Leonardo da Vinci might be raised right now by a single mother.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Look. If you don’t want-”

“I want to. Let’s just talk for a while first.” Kevin sat down on the bed. “Would you? Would you please say something. Just… I wanna hear you talk. It soothes me.”

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All Stories, Fantasy

Sadistic Justice by Tobias Haglund

Tobias Haglund

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In a damp cellar the mould mixed with the scent of urine coming from his rags. A drop of sweat still dangled at the tip of his black hair from an excruciatingly painful hour as the hatchway closed. He was strong, the strongest, but he had never endured that level of pain. Moss and mice were signs of hope, or at least hope of life in the dark.

Conspirator. Traitor. Your house shall burn and your name will be dragged in the mud.

And they dragged his face in mud. Along the wooden planks and the stone. From one side of the long wall to the next. Two hard punches to the back of his head threw him into the stone. He lost teeth. A man stamped him in the lumbar region, which was the reason he couldn’t stand up.

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All Stories, Horror

The Violin He Played Downstairs by Ashlie Allen

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He won’t do anything else. All he ever does is sit downstairs and stroke his violin. No one recognizes the notes he plays. Most of the time he makes no effort to play pretty sounds. Maybe pretty noises break his heart because he thinks he’s ugly inside and out.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

The Choice by Hugh Cron – Adult Content

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You’ll have to choose.

“Who said that?”

You did.

“No I didn’t.  Who is taking the piss?”

…Mirror, mirror on the wall…We all know the rest.  You said that.  Do you deny it?

“No.  I was only mucking about.  For fuck sake I was only having a shave.”

You should never muck about with your soul.  You are in trouble now!  You’ll have to choose.  One of three.  If you hurry you will be able to stay but if you don’t…Well…

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

Ultra-Belfast by Dave Louden – Adult Content

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I had been in hell a week by this point. It looked a lot like Belfast. I knew it was hell because I couldn’t find any of my favourite bars and it was the 12th of July every day. The streets were awash with track-suited skinheads and chippie wrappers, and smelt of dark orange piss. I died the same age as Bukowski, seventy-three years-old. He had wanted to go at eighty making it with an eighteen year-old, I was just happy making it beyond fifty. It was a rare landmark for the men in my family.

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