Showing posts with the label SHORT STORY


People go missing whenever Dad’s around. I can’t explain it. They just disappear. Mum disappeared. Greg disappeared. And now Stephanie has disappeared. What’s the latest caper? I’ve not been out of prison one week and I am sitting in the back of his car and he’s handing me an envelope with a map inside. It’s one of those safe storage centres. There’s a few brands around: Big Yellow Storage – the print out said.   He tells me that he knows someone that made off with all these precious First Edition Books in a murder/house-robbery and he’s got them stored in one of those big storage centres. “Books?” I say, “you can’t even read.” Never learned how to read. Never saw the need to. That’s why I was holding the map to the storage centre. “Someone tells me you get these books, they’re classics, almost 90 years old. They sell for about twenty thousand pounds a copy – that’s one book. You know Deacon? He managed to get inside a bookseller’s house. Made off with all these p

RATLINES [Historical Short Story]

Rat Lines they called it.  Dirty rats escaping through their dirty tunnels and away from their justice.  As Europe burned and flamed – Berlin a decimated crumbling heap. Millions hungry, grieving and lost and all because of the lying rats - and yet they scamper away like a mischief with their fake passports and ‘pity me’ act. “Sir, I am just a normal German trying to escape the horror.” – the horror that you created.  Scamper away you dirty rat. You’ll be found. You’ll all be found. Santiago, Chile 1962 Arriving at the same cafe every day to make his order, the elderly man didn’t speak any Spanish and had to point at what he wanted. The staff were used to this and managed to remember his order anyway, which made the pointing pointless. The older man had an older gait accompanying a hunched way of walking. He looked frail and held a face of defiant defeat.  He’d take his coffee and whatever sweet treat they had made fresh that morning and walk to the outside veranda where he rea

Breakdown Service [500 word thriller]

Esmeralda sat on her car and waited at the side of the road for a kind stranger on a dark night to help her. What she got was Stefan. Fat, hairy, belching Stefan pulling up in his Peugeot 3008 and smiling that fat, toothless smile. “You got car trouble?... Stefan.” Stefan introduced himself and spat a blackened wad – wiping his mouth across his hairy arm. “Yes, I have been broken down here for awhile.” Esmeralda said. Deer in headlights, Stefan thought, I can have some fun with her.  He smiled that long toothless smile again. Esmeralda felt revolted.  "I can help you out if you really want me to. But what’s it worth?” Stefan rubbed his crotch and spat again. I could be in a real predicament here. Esmeralda felt that isolated, helpless fear creeping. “I just want my car fixed or I can wait for the breakdown service, that’s all.” Esmeralda said, her voice wavering with a slight quiver. “Alright, alright – well, let me see.” Stefan said. He walked over to the side of

Dinner Time [A 500 Word Horror]

It was a pleasing ritual for Vivienne to cook a meal for her love Marco. Light candles, put the player on and play a light jazz, stare into each other’s eyes. Tonight was a steak, boiled potatoes with a honey glaze and red-wine jus. A meal fit for a king, a meal perfect for a devoted-husband. Marco was once a worldy go-getter, constantly away on work. Now Marco spent all his time in that room with his books and his thoughts – a solitary, skittish-figure.   It pleased Vivienne greatly to know that as Marco aged and responsibilities caught up with him, he had become more docile – content to spend time alone and less restless   - this relationship would have died long ago had Marco always been elsewhere. The dinner ritual was important for them.   A chance to communicate and lay down a foundation of trust. It also was a chance for Marco to be regular, not the hermetic creep he’d become.   “So how was your day?” Vivienne asked; the way a good wife asks a good husband. Ask a

Elevator - Based on a True Story

I had the call come in about a reported missing person. It’s early and I’ve barely finished my coffee. Her name was Anthea Dixon and she was last seen in her apartment building using an abandoned, out of order, old disused elevator. An elevator? Well; according to the CCTV this was where she was last seen – going into the elevator and she  never came out again . Naturally my first question was: How did she get the elevator working? You said it was disused. But I was told that I didn’t understand exactly. The elevator doesn’t work. My partner Duncan told me. I know, you said that, how did she get it working? Again, it didn’t make sense. She didn’t.  Duncan said. Then why did she walk into the elevator to use it?  I asked. Duncan shrugged. All we know is that she walked into the elevator and never came out again. It didn’t make sense until I watched the footage back and all became clear (well, clearer for now). She literally walked into this old, dusty, derelict elevator and she never ca

Bulimia Nervosa

I had an eating disorder throughout my childhood and it followed me all the way to today. It wasn’t from a desire to be skinny or beautiful but instead came from my own adversarial relationship with food. But now that I am pregnant I have made the decision to seek help and get therapy. The first thing my therapist told me was to try and describe the root of this conflict I have with food. I don’t think she was expecting something like this. But here goes: We were a family of three – my abusive father, my subservient mother and me – too young to really understand. I came from a volatile home – and my father was a violent and toxic influence on the household. The safety and comfort of me and my mother always depended on what mood my father was in, and his moods could be BLACK. Sometimes he’d come home scowling at me and say something vicious because, as I was growing up, I had poor posture and I was overweight. I wore baggy clothes to hide my big belly and people at school nicknamed me Q