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 Storage of stories written for The Bradbury, 2025 and 2026. |
| Various stories created at the (hopeful) rate of one a week for the year 2025, |
| The Importance of Planning The tree gave very little protection against the rain. Standing right next to the trunk, I was less conspicuous but just as soaked as the small group of mourners by the grave. I watched as the coffin was lowered with handfuls of sodden earth to follow. There is something depressing about a funeral in the rain. It may be appropriate in that it sets the mood, but it still amounts to adding insult to injury. Is it not enough to lose a loved one? I promised myself that next time I would check the weather forecast before selecting a victim. Word count: 100 For Microscopic Stories and The Bradbury |
| Names “It’s all in the name,” said Grant, leaning forward as he enthused over his theory. “Your name is a ruling factor over your life and influences everything you do.” Orson sipped at his beer before answering. Then he wiped the foam from his upper lip. “I don’t see how that follows,” he said. “You’d think my folks named me for Orson Welles but they never mentioned any particular respect or liking for him. Maybe they just fancied the name.” “Doesn’t matter,” replied Grant. “The parents’ reasons have nothing to do with it. It’s the name itself that brings influences and provides a framework for your life. You won’t notice how it affects you but it’s there even so.” Orson shook his head. “A rose by any other name… Old Bill Shakespeare wouldn’t agree with you.” “And yet it may have been his name that drove him to write all those plays. Maybe he had an ancestor who could see through people and knew when they had bad intentions. That might have been the reason for all that spear-waving and Bill, through the name, inherited the ability to read people.” “Could as easily have been genes,” objected Orson. “Nah, genes are for physical things like eye colour and big noses. Names decide character.” Orson took another sip of beer while he pondered this. He was not particularly concerned by Grant’s argument and was just looking for a way to end a pointless conversation. Humouring the guy might work, he decided. “Okay, let’s say that you’re on to something. How d’you think my name has affected me?” Grant went silent and his eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s your constant attempt to be in control of all situations. That would figure with your namesake’s career in film directing.” “Possible, I suppose.” Orson paused again before asking, “And what about you? Does your name cause your liking for beer? I know General Grant used to drink a lot.” Grant laughed. “Could be, I guess. But I prefer to think it’s the cause of me always getting into battles like this one.” Orson spread his arms in surrender. “Alright, you win. I can’t argue with that.” At a nearby table, a small man with dark moustache had been eavesdropping on the conversation. If that’s true, he thought, I’d better change my name from Adolf. Word count: 388 For The Bradbury, Week 3 2026. |
| Responsibility I told you that I can’t stand heights, that my will faints when on the edge, and my body longs to fling itself into the abyss. You never listen, do you, and you didn’t this time either. And still you push me right to the highest point, where the awareness of the void at my feet calls to me whether my eyes are open or not. “Don’t look down,” you say, as though that makes a difference. So it’s no wonder that I am seized by vertigo and, in clutching at your support, I sent you spinning to your death. Word count: 100 For The Bradbury 2026, Week 2 |
| Moth Karl found himself unexpectedly awake at three a.m. Soundly asleep at one moment, he was fully aware at the next. He listened to the sound that had hauled him so rudely from slumber. It was a soft sound, low and unremarkable, a sound he could identify with some accuracy. An insect was hovering close by, the beat of its wings feathery and muted, typical of the nondescript moths so common in the region. Karl listened to the frrfrr of its flight in the darkness. It was coming closer. Had it been the hum of a mosquito, Karl would have been lashing out in blind fury to keep it away. But this was so clearly a harmless moth that he waited without moving, curious as to its intention. The sound continued in fuzzy indecision before going suddenly silent. Karl felt sure it had landed on his hair, although he could feel nothing. The creature was too light and formless to impact his nerve endings. Karl swiped lightly at his head, aiming at his best guess of the insect’s position, and then lay still again. The flutter of soft wings rose from the darkness, just a brief flourish before going silent again. His attack had missed its target apparently. For a while, Karl waited quietly, hoping that the moth would give away his position. In the dark silence that ensued, sleep crept upon the listening human, stalking him like prey. Karl’s eyes closed and his head began to slip sideways. Then suddenly the noise of the moth’s wings filled his awareness, this time louder, a quick burst of activity accompanied by the light touch of a foreleg in the entrance to Karl’s ear. Now the staccato blips of wings came one after the other as the moth forced its way inside. Too late, Karl clapped a hand to his ear. The moth continued to try its wings so that Karl was constantly aware of its struggles. He remembered that he had read somewhere on the internet that hackers released little sound files that mimicked the sounds of insects burrowing into ear canals. He wondered whether he could be experiencing one of these. But that was ridiculous. How could such a file give so realistic an impression of an insect in the ear, especially without an attendant computer to carry it? Karl realised that he must be at least half asleep to have imagined such a thing. He focused again on the sounds his little visitor was producing. The moth’s struggles were getting weaker and more intermittent. Karl had expected that he would feel it scratching at his eardrum but it was only the sound of wings that advertised the creature’s presence. And even these stopped after a few more desultory efforts. It seemed the moth was either exhausted or dead. Karl considered how he was to remove it from his ear. A warm water spray should do it, he reasoned. Then the sounds began again but in a different key. Karl’s wife had turned her head away and was now snoring quietly into the empty space on the other side of the bed. He marvelled at her ability to snore in such an excellent imitation of an insect’s flight. Word count: 538 For The Bradbury 2026, Week 1 |
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