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 Storage of stories written for The Bradbury, 2025. |
| Various stories created at the (hopeful) rate of one a week for the year 2025, |
| 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 |
| Apocalypse at Last It was six months before Martin faced the inescapable fact. That’s a long time to run away from the obvious but Martin was not a quitter. The end of the world was not something that happens every day, after all. Easy enough for people in jokes or sci-fi tales to jump to conclusions after the earth-ending event, but reality forces us to consider the possibility that we’re not the only survivor. Especially when the event that signifies the end is a disease. The likelihood of there being only one person with immunity is farfetched, to say the least. So it was perfectly reasonable for Martin to spend his first six months of post-apocalyptic life in search of other survivors. And the final acceptance of his singularity came grudgingly and after long mental struggling. Inevitably, his thoughts turned then to what action he should take in the light of his conclusion. Life alone was not impossible, he had discovered. When there is no competition, it takes forever to empty a supermarket of its foodstuffs and supplies. Choice of transport becomes a matter of whim, there being an unlimited supply of options available. Even such luxuries as electricity and tap water continue for quite a long time before breaking down. Martin really wanted for nothing. He expected to feel the need for companionship quite keenly but, as the days passed, he found that there was more truth than he had thought in his many previous confessions to being a loner. The problem was not so much the lack of people to talk with but the sheer pointlessness of it all. It seemed to him that God had made a terrible mistake. To leave only one person alive was to ensure that humanity was doomed to the lifespan of that lone individual. Apres moi le deluge indeed. Martin lay awake at night trying to find a reason to carry on, to live out his meaningless life until the day Death finally caught up with him. He could not shake the feeling that he should cut it short as a form of protest at the idiocy of it all. In the end, he decided that there was no reason to continue. He found a gunsmith store and chose a suitable firearm. Just before committing the terrible deed, he reflected on the irony that he was indeed special, since those whom the gods hate die last. Word count: 401 Foe The Bradbury, Week 16. |
| Samarra Can Wait Auberon stared across the crowded marketplace, his gaze held by the hooded man that watched him with equal intensity. The figure raised an arm and beckoned to him with a skeletal finger. Auberon knew that attempting to outwit Death was a fool’s game. He began to make his way through the crowd toward the dark and waiting figure. Arriving in front of the hooded spectre, Auberon spoke boldly. “Have you come for me at last?” Death shook his skull. “Not at all. I was surprised to see you in this place since our appointment is not due for many years.” Word count: 100 Flash fiction aimed at exactly 100 words For The Bradbury, Week 15. Note: The reference in the title is to the tale entitled Appointment in Samarra, which tells the story of a man who sees Death watching him in the market and tries to escape by journeying to Samarra. Once there he meets Death, who explains his interest in the market by saying, “I was surprised to see you there because I had an appointment with you later that day in Samarra.” |
Word count: 462 For Personify Writing Contest, June 2025 and The Bradbury, Week 14 Open prompt. |
 Detective Story Holdfast leapt into the car and hightailed it round to the condo, too late once again to catch the Rainbow Paint Bomber. Word count: 22 For The Bradbury, Week 13 |
Word count: 294 For Daily Flash Fiction Challenge, 06.08.25, and for The Bradbury, Week 12 Prompt: Include the words flower, quote, silver. |
| Henry Has a Dream Henry heaved himself off the couch and walked the three paces to the television. He reached down to the controls and switched it off. For a moment he watched as the screen went dark. Finally, there remained only a tiny pinpoint of light in the centre of the blackness. He sighed and wandered off to the bedroom. Later that night, Henry had a dream. Although it did not strike him as strange, the picture was in colour. He held a black plastic implement with buttons arranged on its face. Most of the buttons were small with strange symbols on them, but one was central and shaped like a cross. There were arrows inscribed on each of its arms. Henry pressed one of the buttons and the picture on the screen changed. He realised that he’d changed the channel. Naturally, he tried pressing again. The channel changed each time he pressed the button. For a while Henry was absorbed in pressing buttons. As he altered the activity and settings on screen, it dawned on him. This was a form of remote control, allowing him to change channel from anywhere in the room. And then he woke up. He lay there in bed, thinking of his dream. But, in the end, he shook his head and dismissed all contemplation of what he’d experienced. Why, if that were ever to come true, he’d never have to leave the couch. In time he’d become so unfit and overweight that he’d wind up in an early grave. He turned over and went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that it was just a dream. Word count: 270 For The Bradbury, Week 11 2025. |
| Holdfast Under Pressure It was a year to the day after Holdfast first opened his private detective agency that a stunning blonde walked unannounced into his office. Holdfast, who had been dozing in his chair, chin propped up against a fist, raised his head at the sudden interruption. The sight of the gorgeous lady before him quickly brought him to full consciousness. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” said the gumshoe. “How can I help you?” Best to assume that she was here on business, he thought, rather than having entered the wrong room. She stood for a moment, looking down at him, before collapsing into a chair. “Oh, Mr Holdfast, you’ve got to help me. I’m in big trouble.” Her voice was low and husky, her manner grave and immediately focused. Holdfast could tell that this was not the usual domestic type of case and he straightened his tie. “Certainly I will, ma’am, if I can. What seems to be the trouble?” The lady leaned forward earnestly and uttered just one sentence. “Someone is trying to kill me.” “I see,” said Holdfast. “But how do you know this?” “Letters,” she replied. “Threatening letters and, and, um things.” The last word was spoken with fear and loathing, her lip curling just a little, as though disgusted at the memory. “What sort of things?” “Horrible things. Dolls with broken heads spattered with red dye, knives with dark stains on the blades, stockings tied in knots, that sort of thing. And now he’s even sent a bullet with one of the messages.” Holdfast was a bit taken aback. This was not the sort of thing he was used to. “And what do the messages say?” He asked this more for time than interest. If his suspicions were correct, he had a good idea of their content already. “Promises to kill me,” she said. “Figures,” muttered Holdfast. Then he continued, “So you want me to act as your bodyguard?” She shook her head, her long locks twisting from side to side. “No, no, I want you to follow me and watch for suspicious characters. I’m certain the man follows me around because he knows so much about me. His messages always refer to things I’ve done that day.” Holdfast was disappointed. The case had looked as though it was going to be very different from his usual run of business. He was becoming tired of spending his days trailing shady hoodlums and errant wives. “Well, even private eyes gotta live, ma’am. I’d have to charge you for that sort of service.” “Not a problem,” she replied. “What are your going rates?” Holdfast considered his usual fee, made a quick assessment of the lady’s likely wealth judging by her clothes, and doubled his estimate. She accepted without hesitation. The detective rose from his seated position to shake her hand. “We have a deal, Miss err… I don’t think I know your name.” “I’m Marcia Willens. You might have heard of me.” He had heard of her alright. You don’t earn the title of twenty-ninth most wealthy woman in the States without becoming fairly well known. Holdfast later cursed himself for not wondering why such a woman would be interested in his services. But his excitement at landing such an important customer was entirely too much for him at the time. He accepted details of her expected itinerary for the next few days and began his usual course of shadowing the subject while keeping an eye on what was going on around him. She was not overly onerous to keep watch on. Her tall and willowy figure was easy on the eye and those long blonde tresses made it impossible to lose her in a crowd. Even so, by the sixth day, Holdfast was becoming bored with the task. He was good at disappearing into backgrounds but there was no sign of his client’s enemy and he was beginning to think her fears might be due to an undiagnosed case of paranoia. And then he noticed he was being followed. At first it seemed a coincidence. A flashily dressed fellow, with trilby hat pulled down as if to hide his face, stepped back into the shadows of a shop doorway when Holdfast turned around unexpectedly. Holdfast gave no sign of noticing anything but then watched carefully at every opportunity. It became clear that the guy was tailing him and was not as good at it as Holdfast himself. The detective bided his time, waiting for the right circumstances. And then, when the moment came, he pounced from a dark alleyway as the man hurried by, afraid that he’d lost sight of his quarry. Holdfast had him in an armlock from behind and dragged him into the alley. He snarled into his ear. “Who are you? And why are you following me?” The man was not struggling and seemed eager to cooperate. “Go easy, Holdfast. I can hardly breathe. Loosen up and we can talk.” Holdfast tightened his grip briefly but then eased off and the man began to speak. “The name’s Arnold. Harry Arnold. And I’m a private eye. My job’s been to follow you for the last few days. Don’t ask me why, I dunno.” “A likely story,” said Holdfast. “Who’s paying you?” “I can’t say. And you wouldn’t believe me anyway.” Holdfast tightened his grip on the man’s throat again. “Try me.” “Aargh, steady on, man. You’ll throttle me.” “Answer me and I’ll think about it.” “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. Just let me breathe, will ya? It’s the dame you’ve been following, she asked me to do it.” “You were right,” said Holdfast. “I don’t believe you.” But he loosened his hold. There was something weird going on here. “It’s true, I swear it,” said Arnold. He squirmed a bit under Holdfast’s grip. Holdfast was puzzled. The man sounded authentic but it made no sense. Why would a woman hire a private eye to follow her around and then set another gumshoe on his tail? It did not make sense. “So why’s she doing it?” he asked. The man wriggled again. “Look, I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t tell you, but you have to promise you won’t tell her that you know what’s going on. Just drop the case and let it lie.” “Deal,” said Holdfast. He could always renege on it if it turned bad. As his father always said, a verbal contract ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. And so Arnold told Holdfast the whole story. “It’s like this: Marcia Willens is active on that social media thing they call Tik Tok. And there’s a craze on it at the moment. Seems the idea is to have a stalker as a status symbol. But you have to produce proof that you have one. It’s the sort of thing only the rich can indulge in and that makes it all the more competitive. “So she hires you as the stalker and then gets me to take photos of you And the photos are proof. It’s silly but hey, it’s worth a living to me.” Holdfast was stunned. It was bad enough being made a fool of but those photos could be used against him one day. With evidence like that, who would believe his crazy story? “You delivered the photos yet?” he asked. “What? No, I’m supposed to produce them tonight.” “Give me the camera,” said Holdfast. He tightened his grip again as a persuasion and Arnold fumbled in his coat before producing the desired object. He handed it over. Holdfast released him. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “You’re going to make up some story about me catching you and destroying your camera and photos. You’ll get paid and I’ll be paid off because her plan failed.” Arnold nodded glumly. “And one more thing,” said Holdfast. “Not a word to anyone about this or I’ll find you and make you regret it.” Word count: 1,331 For The Bradbury, Week 10 2025. |
| Self Assessment Jason considered himself in his morning mirror. It was the old, familiar face that peered back at him, rather more stubbled than usual thanks to his not having broached the matter of shaving yet. He raised a hand to rub the stubble thoughtfully. It felt pleasantly rough under his touch. His hand dropped away as he considered his face. Not unduly handsome, yet with a tough, experienced look that he felt must be quite attractive. The stubble added to this impression and he wondered whether it would be worth growing a beard again. But that reminded him of how they itched at one stage and then the difficulties of shaping it quite correctly. Best to keep it clean, he thought. Still, he gazed at his reflection. This would make quite a good photo for the cover of his first publication. His hair was a little wild but that windswept look was very popular at the moment. Yes, he might just leave it as it was today. Then he noticed that, towards the back of his head, a tuft was standing up and making his head appear strangely distorted. He smoothed it down with his hand but it kept on springing back. A quick dash of water from the tap persuaded it to stay down and he resumed his study. The brow was broad and smooth, with just enough hint at lines to indicate a serious disposition. A lock of hair at the front described a jaunty swoop above one eye, a suggestion of derring do and eagerness for adventure. The eyes were deeply set, enough to be interesting at least, some indeterminate colour between blue and green, and again lines radiated from them at the corners to indicate a sense of humour. His interest switched to the nose and he noticed a light white spot on its end. It completely spoiled the effect he’d been building in his mind. A finger came up and scratched at the spot. A flake of dry skin fell away under the finger’s pressure, leaving a larger, angry, red blotch where it had been. Suddenly he looked quite ridiculous. The image of his cover photo vanished, only to be replaced by a picture of himself as a clown. He smiled up at God and turned to prepare his shaving tackle. Word count: 385 For The Bradbury, Week 9 2025. |
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