In the words of Rod Serling; I never chose to write, I succumbed to it. I wrote my first story when I was nine for a school assignment and have never stopped. If you love the macabre, then consider my work submitted for your approval.
He Who Controls the Line
This story is dedicated to my fiancee, without whom it would have ended before it even began. He wakes with a start. Within the eternal darkness of his mind, a guttural roar morphed into a high-pitched cacophony that he can now discern as a train whistle.
I can’t summarise an entire person in one word, let alone my father. The man I know as my father has donned the costume of a husband, a brother, a uncle, and a work colleague. To reduce this man’s life journey—the essence of what makes him the man I call “Dad”—down to a single word is not only insulting, it is quite frankly impossible.
The Hunting Lodge
1 The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The sight of its unexpected, soft orange glow had caused June to hesitate whilst she had been approaching the wooden lodge from the surrounding forest. It had been her intention to enter—invited or not—but now, pausing for thought, she began to reconsider. A calloused finger stroked the cold metal of her revolver as she contemplated her next move, her jaw mechanically grinding up a wad of chewing tobacco.
As Calais Sleeps
It was dingier than most. A bulb had extinguished in one of the fridges and another blinked intermittently. The house lights were half asleep, bathing the garage in artificial twilight. Dominic barely felt the change in atmosphere emerging through the automatic doors from the midnight chill.
The crowd are warming up now, swarming around the makeshift table which Zerdin has cobbled together from a few cardboard boxes. His manner is beguiling; his one-liners sincere, his winks to the ladies surreptitious, yet his hands move with the fluidity of water, operating the table with the speed and precision that a real gentleman wouldn't (shouldn't) have.
He never imagined that he would experience fear. It should have been a sombre occasion and yet, when the team had raised the velvety cloth in a flash of chromed metallic-blue, Cutts felt the lining of his guts scream out to escape through his belly. He stood calcified for a moment, dead-eyed and expressionless.
The boy and the girl, ignoring the fading daylight and their curfew, sat on the top of a broken fence taking it in turns to flick pebbles at the panes of glass still intact inside their window frames. The house where the glass resided bore a “condemned” notice on the large metal security slab blocking the front door, generously provided by the local council. Not that it prevented the adventurous, the drunk or the indifferent from gaining entry. There is more than one way to skin a cat after all, and the same applies to the act of breaking-and-entering.