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

by Hugh Howey

  The women are worse than the men. Much quicker to judge, the women.

  I count the change. The coins are warm from where he’d held them in his fist—his hot, privileged, well-fed fist. Four pounds and thirty-seven pence. It could buy a cinema ticket, a happy meal, or a comic.

  My options include bread three times a day for fourteen and a half days. Or bread for breakfast and a bowl of soup in the evening for twelve days. But maybe I should opt for a shower and clean clothes. There’s a place down the street selling five minute showers for two quid. I could buy a new jumper from the Oxfam shop with the change.

  I’ll sleep on it. The ground is frozen tonight so underlay is more beneficial than overlay. Those with jobs totter past and assume I have no skills. They’re wrong. It’s things like how to make a good bed in a doorway that people like me learn on day one. It takes time and concentration getting the balance right and a bed needs to have a degree of comfort too. The pain from a stiff back after lying on wet concrete all night lasts all the next day. Trust me on that.

  That’s what I was doing, making my bed, when the kid gave me all he had left in his pocket. Four pounds and thirty-seven pence.

  His mother asked him, “What the bleeding hell are you doing? That’s all you’ve got left, innit?”

  He was a skinny runt of a thing, his limbs too long for his clothes, for his body even, but he’ll grow into them. To be honest, he looked rough. What with his skinhead haircut and tatty gear. That’s a cheek, isn’t it? Coming from me in my shop doorway.

  He spoke with his mother’s attitude. “It’s my money, innit? I’ll do what I want.”

  I looked right into his eyes when I thanked him. Some don’t let me do that, because they’re embarrassed or ashamed or whatever. But I think it’s important to try.

  That’s another thing. People assume because of where I live I must have no manners or social skills. But I know which knife to use and that port should be passed to the left. And I know which drink should be my last—more than can be said for a lot of people.

  Yes, I have a story, but doesn’t everybody? And if a person’s story isn’t dull or pretentious then it makes for uncomfortable listening. I’ve heard them all in my time: Born, went to school, university, worked, married, kids, retired, died; Born, school, rebelled, so clever, travelled, astronaut, such fun, very jolly, died; Born, abused, took drugs, got beaten up, jailed, died.

  Nobody asks my story but, if they did, I’d say the world was rosy before it turned red, so I left. And now it’s black. Blues and greens must be nice, even grey. Yes, grey would be good.

  The kid looked too young to have given up. Kids believe they will be different, stand out, change things. But then they become adults and give up such dreams. They learn how much easier it is to simply conform. And if they have to live by the norms—house, job, car—then everybody else should too. But in the end, what any of us do during the in-betweeny living bit doesn’t matter. We’re born and we die. That’s the deal.

  “It’s my money, innit? I’ll do what I want.”

  The mother looked at him with her mouth open, then at her husband who stood a little way off with his hands in his pockets.

  “It’s up to him.”

  His wife’s tone tripped into nag and she gestured towards Tam. “She can afford to keep a bloody dog.”

  Tam costs me nothing. She eats the stuff I scavenge out of the bins and, most days, the butcher gives her a bone. She should love the butcher more than me by rights.

  The husband shrugged his shoulders. “Dogs are good company.”

  He wasn’t wrong there. I talk to myself, I know that. Lots of people do. I see them as they’re walking along, muttering to themselves. Nobody seems to mind the suited and booted rehearsing their interview pitches out loud on the train. Or the managerial office types practising presentations as they stride along in their three-hundred-quid brogues. But some lonely old man without a friend or family sings himself a tune and everybody assumes he’s doolally. People understand when I talk to Tam.

  The kid tickled under Tam’s chin. Some try to pat her head—she doesn’t like that, but she loves a chin tickle. “You’re her friend, aren’t you?” he said to her. Tam thunked her tail against my leg. She moved her eyes to meet mine, letting me know this kid was okay, but she loved me more. See? We know each other. We don’t need words, really; we get along fine with the eyes. Words are for people. The boy looked at me. “Good luck,” he said.

  As he walked away to catch up with his parents, this kid of seven or eight, I heard him say, “Maybe the dog’s her only friend.”

  I’m not sad. Not today. My tears should taste of honey and chocolate — sweet, like hope.

  Bob Summer

  lives on the Pembrokeshire coast in Wales. When she isn’t writing or reading, she’ll be found walking the dog or gazing out of a window.

  As a child, Bob refused to do as she was told. As an adult, she still hates following rules and is eternally grateful she has never had to work a ‘proper’ job.

  She’s published two books: Breaking East, a Dystopian Romance for Young Adults and Alone But Not Lost, a story about a woman teetering on the edge of sanity.

  Bob Summer’s Website

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  Mystery

  Death Sentence

  E.A. Linden

  The old Ford sat on the cracked concrete driveway. Its lone occupant, head leaning against the window, chin to chest, looked as if he might be dead.

  Gregory Oliver Devereaux was anything but dead. His heart was racing and while his grip on the steering wheel might be called a death grip, it, too, was anything but. He had never felt so alive. While not an overly religious man, he was still a bit concerned about what he had done. It was high on the big list of NO NOs, but was this really a sin if he’dcommitted it? Maybe it was God using his own hand to punish the wicked.

  Yes, the wicked, evil tongues that must be held accountable. Gregory liked the sound of that.

  He looked at the clock on the dash and was astonished that more than twenty minutes had passed since he had gotten home from work. The neighbors would start to notice if he didn’t go inside soon. Luckily it was almost dark now and nobody would see the blood.

  Clean-up and contemplation, that’s what was next.

  He hadn’t meant to kill her, he realized as he washed the specks of blood from his shirt. He had just snapped. They were the last to leave the museum, and he’d made the mistake of asking Tiffany about her weekend. Her response was, unfortunately, all too typical of today’s youth.

  “Oh, you know my boyfriend Harry, well me and him went to the movies and it was just literally mind-blowing.”

  Before he knew it, Gregory had his hands around her throat, screaming, “He and I, you imbecile, he and I, he and I, he and I!!!” She’d slipped to the ground between her car and the hedge surrounding the parking lot, literally dead as a dodo. The blood drops had sputtered from between her lips as she’d died.

  Leaving her where she fell, the retired English teacher had gotten into his car and headed home as fast as possible without breaking the speed limit. Now, as he thought about what had happened, Gregory thanked the powers that be that the new camera system for the museum parking lot had not yet been installed, and that Tiffany had left the area with the cameras well after he did. If only his briefcase hadn’t popped open, spilling his papers for the heavenly winds to scatter, she would not have caught up to him. She would still be alive, would still be committing her foul murder of the English language.

  “So…I guess she deserved it,” Gregory said to no one. What had happened was simply divine justice.

  After all, he wasGOD.

  Gregory

  Oliver

  Devereaux

  E.A. Linden

  writes mysteries and children’s books. One of her mystery stories, When Life Gives You Trolls, Make Lemonade, will soon be published in a charity antrollogy entitled
For Whom the Bell Trolls.

  E.A. Linden’s Facebook Page

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  Paranormal — Young Adult

  The Witching Well

  Sarra Cannon

  “Welcome to the witching well,” the old woman said. She moved from her perch on the stones, a frail figure with long white hair and yellowing teeth.

  I froze at the entrance, tossing a look over my shoulder toward my group of friends. They’d moved on to the colorful Lollipop Shop—a favorite at the fair this year. Part of me wanted to run after them, but part of me felt drawn to this spot. There was an energy here unlike anything I’d ever felt.

  “Come closer, my dear,” she said with her thin, papery smile. “Don’t be afraid.”

  I shivered as I crossed under a trellis that had been decorated with the most beautiful red roses. The air shifted around me. Colder here somehow, despite the summer evening.

  “This is the place where wishes are made. Where your every desire can be realized.” She motioned toward the stone well at the center of the space. “All you have to do is step a little closer.”

  My legs trembled with each step that carried me toward the well.

  “Why do you hesitate?” the woman asked. She wrapped a bony hand around my arm and guided me forward. “There’s no reason to be afraid. The power you feel is the magic of the well. It speaks to you, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded, not finding my voice. My eyes were glued to the witching well with its dark gray stones and mossy exterior. How strange that it seemed a permanent fixture here. Wasn’t this a traveling fair?

  “Here you are, dear. Look down, deep down into the water below,” she said, a sweetness dripping from her words like honey. “Tell me what you see.”

  Shivering, I knelt at the mouth of the well. With a shuddering breath, I leaned over and peered down into the mirrored depths below. My own simple reflection stared back at me, a plain girl with stringy brown hair and glasses slightly too big for her face.

  “Tell me what it is you long for,” the woman said. “Beauty?”

  At her words, a ripple formed in the water. I gasped as a new vision of myself appeared, smooth-skinned with shiny hair and eyes of bluest blue.

  “Fortune?”

  The image changed again. I saw myself wearing stunning jewels and driving a sleek white car. The vision was so clear, I could almost feel the cool leather of the steering wheel beneath my fingertips.

  “No,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes. “It’s true love you seek.”

  I leaned closer as the image in the well shifted one final time.

  There he was. A perfect replica of his green eyes and tousled hair. I knew the angles of his face and every movement of his body. I’d been watching him at a distance for years, but there he was in front of me. He turned and looked deep into my eyes. My breath caught in my throat and a warm flush spread up the back of my neck.

  He looked so real.

  “How does it work?” I asked, my voice shaking. I searched my pockets, pulling out a handful of coins.

  The woman smiled. “True, there’s always a cost,” she said. She placed her wrinkled hand upon mine and shook her head. “But coins are not the currency here, my sweet.”

  Confused, I put the money away. “I don’t have anything more,” I said.

  A cool breeze blew around us as thunder sounded in the distance. An eerie smile spread across the woman’s ancient face as she placed her hand over my heart.

  “You have so much more than you know,” she said. “For there’s a little bit of witch in all of us.”

  Sarra Cannon

  writes contemporary and paranormal fiction with both teen and college-age characters. Her novels often stem from her own experiences growing up in the small town of Hawkinsville, Georgia, where she learned that being popular always comes at a price and relationships are rarely as simple as they seem.

  Her best-selling Young Adult paranormal series, Peachville High Demons, has sold over 150,000 copies and been featured on Amazon’s Top 100 eBooks for Children & Teens. The first book, Beautiful Demons, is currently free to download, and a spinoff series will begin in late 2014.

  She is a devoted (obsessed) fan of Hello Kitty and has an extensive collection that decorates her desk as she writes. She currently lives in South Carolina with her amazingly supportive husband and her adorable son.

  Sarra Cannon’s Website

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  Literary Fiction

  The Tipper

  Carol Kean

  That awful dog of hers looked like Hitler, with his little mustache of dark fur above perpetually bared teeth. She could have passed for a Nazi prison guard. It’s true what they say about dog owners resembling their pets. These two had the same cold, hostile stare for me every morning at ten.

  The old lady settled into her usual table, facing the door — the table of last resort for everyone else. Her black hat and coat, as last-century as she was, guarded her against the draft that blew in with every customer. Dogs weren’t allowed, except for medical reasons. What did this woman suffer, besides hatred for all humanity?

  I prepared a triple latte and set it on the counter for the cute guy in a suit that could be Armani, it hung so well. "Charles," I called out. Cell phone glued to his ear, he smiled and left a clean dollar bill in my tip jar. He could’ve stepped from one of those paperbacks about handsome young billionaire sadists. Not that I had time for romance novels anymore. In sleep-deprived moments I suffered lurid fantasies about my math tutor, a quiet guy who’d be handsome if he learned to smile. Charles, though. That smile. It just glowed.

  Mrs. Klein set up her battered laptop. Karski, a tawny little cattle dog with tall brown ears, sat at her feet. Their matching stares focused on me. PanDoro was self-serve, so she should have come to the counter to order our cheapest brew in her familiar "any mug but white," but I’d taken pity on her once and now she expected full service daily.

  I walked a steaming yellow mug of Dark Roast to her table. She always paid with coins, exact amount, but today she handed me two wrinkled dollar bills. Keep the change — a whopping twelve cents.

  Her Nazi stare was fixed on Charles when I came back to refill her mug. "Watch that one," she said in a dramatic whisper, the kind that makes your hair stand on end even though you’re a sane, rational person who doesn’t hold a grudge against mankind. Her eyes shifted and caught me in a sepulchral stare. A low snarl rose from the dog’s throat, his deranged Hitler eyes firmly fixed on Charles.

  "Will that be all, Mrs. Klein?" I said, eyes fixed firmly on her.

  She leaned forward. The twelve-cent tipper had another tip for me: "The devil hides in the most civilized guys."

  Guys? Or guise? Either way, she’d called my favorite hottie a devil.

  Back off, lady. That devil is mine. Mine, mine, mine.

  When her two hours ran out, she shut down her laptop. Karski bolted to attention and watched her ascension from the chair. I could set my clock by their routine, but I could never be sure of Charles.

  A week after the old lady’s "tip," Charles arrived a few minutes before closing, well dressed even in jeans and a hoodie.

  Charles at midnight? What a sweet surprise.

  Sipping his latte-to-go, he asked my name, age, major, hometown. Whatever would entice a girl to give up balmy Mount Pleasant for the tundra of northern Iowa? Scholarships, of course. Music.

  Walking with him out into the street, it dawned on me that I’d never told him my hometown of Mount Pleasant was in South Carolina, not southern Iowa. Maybe he was good at spotting accents? Most people said mine was barely detectable. Charles, of course, was not most people. He laughed as easily as he smiled, and the way his eyes sparkled set off atrial fibrillations in my heart.

  Funny, he looked even more like those sadistic, handsome paperback covers when he pulled that rope from his pocket.

  Dawning Re
alization #2: Charles had talked and walked us into an alley.

  "I like your taste in literature," he said. "Shady. Exciting."

  How did he know? Stalker.

  Oof! My head and shoulders hit a brick wall.

  "You cute little thang," he whispered. "Sing for me, like you did in that musical. You know. Some like it hot."

  The tingle in my spine was not an erotic thrill.

  "Some like it up against a wall. Like this."

  My heart launched into full-blown tachycardia. I tried to scream but the rope tightened around my neck. My vocal cords squeezed out a pathetic little rabbit squeal.

  His zipper snicked down in the quiet night.

  A bag of cans and bottles clinked nearby. There was no warning bark — just a Frisbee of fur flying through the night and slamming Charles onto the cobblestones. A whoosh of air blasted from his lungs; his arms rose to cover his face. A terrifying snarl-arl-arl growl drowned out any sound the man under the fangs might make.

  The tipper’s little dingo had gone Doberman.

  "I got you." In her black hat and coat, she blended into the night. "You dirty little bastard." Gripping her cane, she kicked Charles where it would have hurt — some other time, some other place.

  Charles thrashed. He flung out an arm, and I gasped. Knife in hand, he just missed Karski’s throat.

  Mrs. Klein raised her cane. Snick! Out popped a blade. Into his side it went. Charles stopped thrashing. Dark liquid seeped over bricks. Oh, Charles! He’d bleed to death before an ambulance and a fair trial.

  "Now they’ll find a DNA match for all those girls he left in Dumpsters." Her voice was a mixed brew of bitter and weary.

  I felt for the brick wall and sagged against it.

  She pulled a cheap phone from her coat pocket. Focusing on me, her eyes held ancient sorrow and weariness as she reported a body in the alley.