Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors

by Hugh Howey

  Around me I could hear the Knights begin to chant, as if they were cheering me on. It penetrated deep into my soul and opened a gate to a part of me that I had buried deep inside long ago. I screamed with anger and pressed my attack.

  Rage fueled me as the chant flowed through my body. I was moving faster and swinging harder than I ever thought possible. One of the Knight’s guard faltered for a moment, and I took advantage of the opening by swinging with all my newfound strength and speed. There was a resounding crack as another Knight intercepted my blow with his staff. I swung again and again, attempting to beat back the Knights, who continued to expertly deflect and redirect my blows.

  My rage continued to grow, and soon all I could see was that wretched Farlith. Gone were all the honorable Knights. Each of them was replaced with images of him. I pressed my attack, holding nothing back. The harder I fought, the less successful I was. I was putting all my might into my swings, yet they were being turned away like I was a small child.

  Eventually my strength failed me and I collapsed. I felt Spectra’s familiar paw rest gently on my shoulder. I looked up into her big, green eyes.

  She greeted my gaze with a gentle smile. “Feel better?”

  “Yeah, a little.” The rage was gone, drained out of me and leaving me feeling used up. “That was frightening.”

  “How so?” asked a deep voice.

  I probably should have looked for it, but instead Spectra reached out and pulled me close. “Because that was not me. I don’t do things like that,” I said.

  “What happened, then?” asked the voice.

  “It was like a fire built up inside of me. All I could think about was how to hurt Farlith.”

  “You are a warrior, Master Dusty, if a somewhat reluctant one. All warriors have that inner animal that tries to break out, and yours did. It happens to all of us. Sometimes the best way to deal with it is to just let it rage for a while,” said the voice.

  I pulled away from Spectra and looked back to see an older Knight on one knee behind me. Around the room there were Dark Knights tending to each other’s wounds. “Wow, Spectra, you did quite a number on them,” I said in awe.

  “It was not all me. You beat back a few yourself,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” I said.

  “Master Dusty, you and your wife are among the most powerful magi in our realm, and as spiritualists you play in realms of darkness. Today was just a dam breaking. If you are not careful, more and worse is to come,” he said. “That is what the Kar Fa Lan is for: the release of pressure so that the dam will hold when you need it most.”

  Vincent Trigili

  is the author of the Lost Tales of Power, which is an open-ended series of novels set in a vast multidimensional universe. This story, Rage, is set in the Lost Tales of Power universe and features some of the key characters. It was originally slated to be a chapter in Spectra’s Gambit but it was cut ultimately and rewritten to be a stand-alone short story for this anthology. If you enjoyed this story, then you will likely enjoy the rest of the series. To find out more about this great series, visit his website.

  Vincent Trigili’s Website

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  Young Adult

  Abyss

  J.E. Taylor

  “I heard the gulf-stream is full of striper,” Rob said during a rare October Indian summer. “Your boat is still on the river, right?”

  Nodding, I peeled my shirt away from my sweat-soaked skin. “You really want to take my boat out on the open ocean?”

  His grin was answer enough.

  “Okay. Let me grab a couple things, and I’ll meet you at the dock,” I said, heading for my house.

  My father drilled the virtues of being prepared for anything and even now, his voice invaded my thoughts. A dry phone and book of matches could save your life.

  I grabbed a Ziploc bag, slipping my phone inside along with my Swiss army knife and a lighter from the kitchen cabinet before burying it in my pocket.

  I scribbled a note saying I went fishing and would be back for dinner, before grabbing our cooler and hoofing it toward the dock. Rob met me on the path and lifted the lid on his cooler, revealing a twelve-pack of beer. I sighed, grateful I’d had the forethought to grab some snacks. Getting drunk on the open ocean could be a dangerous endeavor.

  When we settled in the boat, Rob pulled out the chart, pointing to a spot well beyond Boon Island.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said, pulling the boat away from the dock, and toward the mouth of the river.

  “It’s the best fishing spot around. My Uncle Charlie swears by it.”

  He raised his eyebrow and cocked his head in a silent dare, waiting for me to agree. Rob had a way of getting what he wanted, when he wanted, and sometimes it irritated me, but the fact he invoked his uncle’s name told me he spoke the god’s honest truth, and I agreed to the crazy adventure.

  Time flew as fast as the biting fish. By early evening, we had a full cooler and the first crack of thunder reached my ears. Both Rob and I turned toward the open sea and he blanched.

  Dark clouds lined the sky, rolling across the waves at a pace I knew I couldn’t outrun. Lightning flashed like a stealth strobe crawling closer and closer with every breath, and I swallowed hard.

  I glanced at my best friend, regretting the decision to take my used speedboat out so far. Surveying the seascape, I realized the closest refuge was Boon Island, a small outcrop of rock that housed a long-deserted lighthouse. If I could just get there, maybe we’d be safe.

  “Haul up the anchor so we can get out of here,” I said and Rob tugged the anchor aboard, dropping it on the deck in a messy pile of dripping rope.

  Fierce gusts of wind blew my hair into a frenzy. Thunder boomed with a baritone quality that resonated through my frame, drowning out the rough putter of the motor. The electrical current in the air left a bitter tang in my mouth and I pushed the small engine, revving it to the point it screamed over the now constant rumble. Another glance over my shoulder told me what I already knew; this storm was faster than my aging boat.

  I looked at Rob. “You might want to put on that life vest.”

  I pointed my chin toward the stowed vest, sounding much calmer than I felt. My heart raced, pounding against the security of the life vest encasing my torso and I met Rob’s questioning stare. He turned aft, and his expression transformed into crazed panic, driving my gaze in the same direction.

  A wall of water rolled toward us and time halted, transitioning into the sluggish quality of a nightmare.

  The back of the boat lifted into the wave as Rob frantically tried to get the life vest over his head. He screamed like a girl and it struck me funny until the anchor whipped into the air, hitting him in the forehead, leaving a bloody welt. His body tumbled, suspended in air for a brief instant.

  My laugh turned into a high-pitched shriek, and I reached for him but gravity won the fight. My boat capsized, plunging us into the icy ocean. Rob descended into the darkness, leaving a thin trail of bubbles behind. The pull of the wave tugged at me as it sailed over the capsized boat. I tried to reach Rob, but my life vest stopped my progress and taking it off wasn’t an option my panicked brain would entertain. My lungs burned, and I knew if I didn’t get to the surface soon, I was a dead man.

  The cold water bit my skin, draining heat and precious energy but I pushed toward the flickering lightning. Surfacing, I gasped, drawing a deep breath while thunder pressed against my eardrums. Boon Island sat less than a football field away and by the time I climbed onto the rock, my fingers were stiff claws, too cold to straighten and the numbness crept along my limbs, throbbing all the way to the bone.

  Bitter wind raked over me and I crawled toward the safety of the lighthouse, refusing to entertain the possibility of freezing to death. I inched to the shielded patch of sand and collapsed. When I opened my eyes again, all was quiet except for my chattering teet
h.

  My breath came in plumes and I turned my head toward the shore. The small movement seized my muscles drawing a raspy groan that hung on the darkness. Praying for a miracle, I forced my hand into the damp pocket of my jeans, pulling out my phone. Tears burned my throat, clouding my vision.

  I had never been so thankful to see two slim service bars.

  Every day the soft whisper of the water lapping the rocky shore reminds me that I killed my best friend. Whenever I close my eyes, I still see him falling into the abyss with bubbles drifting from his mouth.

  In my nightmares, he’s pulling me down with him.

  J.E. Taylor

  is a writer, a publisher, an editor, a manuscript formatter, a mother, a wife, and a business analyst. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children and during the summer months enjoys her weekends on the shore in southern Maine.

  Visit her at her website and sign up for her newsletter for early previews of her upcoming books, release announcements, and special opportunities for free swag!

  J.E. Taylor’s Website

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  Literary Fiction

  A Father’s Fist

  Hugh Howey

  A small arm braves the wind at highway speeds and pumps the air, reaching and grabbing at invisible rungs that lead up to the heavens. There is an urge in that young mind, a desperate craving to be seen by this stranger in a truck. It’s the fear of being missed, of being passed right by.

  The reward comes. Sweet relief in the form of a terrific blast from that rooftop horn, a man with a Michelob hat yanking that cord and waving, air brakes like a machine gun and tires thundering by taller than a six-year-old.

  My father wore a hat just like that. He loved me with every ounce of that great big heart of his. I knew this as early in life as I knew anything. The way he swept me up in his arms and swung me around, the roughness of his beard on my cheek, the smell of cigarettes and air fresheners and Armor All. When he was home, I lived on his lap. I ate off his fork. And at night, I would sneak out behind the house and climb that impossible ladder of skidsteps and sideview mirror jungle gyms and tricky door handle up to the cab of his Peterbilt, that great steel treehouse of my youth. And I’d sleep on the bare mattress in the back while his thousand-mile sheets tumbled in Mom’s dryer, and I’d pray that he didn’t find me, that the next time he set out, I’d sneak along with him.

  The ferocity of my father’s love made its sporadic nature confusing. Like winter storms, I couldn’t understand how something so large and with so much power could just pass right through. In the calm before and after, my young mind thought the wind would never stir again. In the middle of each storm, it seemed the noise would last and just go on forever. Mom said he hit the road because he loved us. He had to provide for us. But there was only one thing I ever wanted.

  The truck with the Michelob hat grumbles down the interstate and out of sight. A small arm is pulled back inside, the window raised on this intrusion of noise, a plane ticket flapping and thinking, briefly, of leaving its tucked hideaway behind the visor and shooting out on the breeze. There’s a briefcase on the floor in front of the passenger seat, and my son’s swinging and fidgeting shoes can’t quite reach it. He says he doesn’t want to go to school. He asks how long I’ll be gone this time.

  I have to check the ticket to be sure. And then another truck—you never know when they might appear or disappear—slides into view behind us. My son rolls down the windows again, climbing that heavenward ladder with one arm, the wind ripping through the quiet car like a storm, and my fingers on that ticket unsure. Maybe they would let go. Just let go. And grab something else.

  Hugh Howey

  is the bestselling author of the WOOL series.

  Hugh Howey’s Website

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  Science Fiction — Thriller

  Trauma Room

  Samuel Peralta

  I’m ushered into the trauma room two minutes after the senator’s been wheeled in, twenty minutes after the shooting.

  The room is small, square, twenty feet to a side, filled with men in suits, men wearing dark glasses, men with wireless receivers tucked behind their ears. They ring around the doctors and nurses surrounding a gurney at the far end. In one corner of the room, an auburn-haired woman is sitting, comforting a sobbing boy, watching with her lips mouthing a name and the words I love you, over and over. The blue of her suit is stained with swatches of lavender from her husband’s blood. Her face is grim.

  I clutch my shoulder, the pain still flashing from one of the bullets that hadn’t been meant for me. “I can’t do this,” I say. “No one’s ever done it before, breached a dead man.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” says the colonel.

  I move closer, see that blood is still flowing from a gaping wound in his temple. One doctor has the patient’s head in his hands, steadying it as the others begin an incision on the throat, a tracheotomy. Another attendant watches as fluids level through an intravenous tube into his left upper arm. A monitor counts time with a rhythmic, oscillatory trace, faint and fading.

  The eyes are still open, staring at the ceiling.

  I know the score. Without active blood flow from the heart, the nerve cells in the brain begin to die. Two minutes, and his cerebral cortex, his conscious centre, will have used up whatever oxygen was left in the stagnant blood. The midbrain might last half an hour, and at the process level of the midbrain, there might be some emotional response; and the nerves in the spinal cord might last perhaps an hour. But these are of no use to me. My two minutes were up long ago.

  “Keep his heart going,” I say to the colonel, even though we both know it won’t make a difference.

  I flick up the collar of my black suit jacket, unfold the tucked-in hoodie hidden underneath, and flip it up, over my head. That motion, and the glint of the parabolic printed-circuit board lining of the hood, haloing me like radar, makes the woman turn and finally realize I am there, standing in line of sight of her husband.

  She’d have been expecting me; the colonel had to have approached her, earlier, to ask the question required by the forty-third amendment, to bring me in. It’s a long shot, they both know it, but they have to try.

  Her eyes are on me, but I don’t try to catch what she’s thinking. It’s only for a moment, then she turns back to her boy, and her silent prayer. The man in the gurney – his eyes, they’re still open. They’re blue, deeper than her suit. I breathe in. His eyes, like my grandfather’s eyes. I close mine. I see –

  My grandfather, a soldering gun in his hand, leaning over a crystal radio set he is teaching me how to build. A plume of solder vapor, mixed with melted insulation wrap, wafts to the ceiling.

  Most of that radio is a mystery to me – a nine-year-old coping with the paradox of parents in the middle of a divorce – but when he inserts the jack, puts the headphones on me, and flips the switch, it is a revelation.

  Telepathy is like radio. When you first tune in, you’re flooded with static, ambient noise, the almost-too-strong blare of someone else’s song. Knowing roughly where you want to be – the music you’re looking for – you ignore the static, turn the dial to scan for that frequency that will bring you the swell of strings. You pass through the peak signals of other transmitters, hear snatches of lives – some beautiful, some mundane – excerpted melodies, thoughts, monologues.

  You don’t stop to think that all this is coming from somewhere else, ten, twenty miles away; not from there, where you stand. A kaleidoscope swirl of distant information plucked from the ether.

  Slowly, you push into the envelope of the target’s thoughts. Perhaps you go a little too far, and the signal drops, enough that you know you’re vectored away. You reset triangulation, back up just a touch, and you’re there. Mozart.

  But for the man in the gurney, it’s different. I’m experienced, I know I’ve breached him, but ther
e’s nothing there. Where he should be, is a radio station that’s stopped transmitting, nine long minutes ago.

  I pull back. Immediately the swirl of doctors’ thoughts comes over me. How the bullet entered the skull, how it traced its trajectory across the intracranial cavity and through the brain, how it ricocheted from the curved inner table of the skull to penetrate the brain – again.

  I re-focus on the man in the gurney. Nothing.

  Not an awareness of his surroundings, of light, of movement – sometimes you get this when sensory inputs are still firing. No thoughts, no memories, much less what the colonel is looking for, standing with his secure phone open and ready to transmit – the code-word that would abort the launch of missiles that, in seconds, could be skimming a predetermined path across the atmosphere, along the earth’s curvature, toward our enemies, toward a ricochet of mutual destruction.

  One of the doctors moves back. There’s a tangible droop now in his shoulders, a resignation. I’m not the only one who sees it. The woman starts crying.

  “Oh God,” the colonel says.

  Behind him someone begins a mental countdown. Sixty-six, sixty-five, sixty-four, sixty-three –

  I move closer to the gurney, taking the doctor’s place. Inside — in the patient’s memory palace, in the labyrinth of his mind — I’m searching everywhere, in every vestige of neural tissue, every axon, every glial cell; across the frontal lobe, parietal, occipital, temporal. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Then, suddenly, there it is:

  A holographic echo in the midbrain, his trauma room, kept alive like an ember, a flash from a phosphorus flame nearing the end of its taper, one single thought he’s held on to through twelve minutes of an inevitable descent into darkness –