Short Story
The Great Sermon Handicap
I. The Fateful Weekend at Twing Hall Bertie's Boredom and Bingo Little's Proposition: The story opens with Bertie Wooster enduring a typically dull weekend at Twing Hall, the country estate of his Uncle Willoughby and Aunt Caroline. Bertie is yearning for some excitement when his friend Bingo Little arrives, bursting with a peculiar proposition. The Genesis of the Handicap: Bingo explains that the local village is holding its annual fête. A key event is the competition between the vicars of two neighboring parishes – Reverend Rupert Pringle of Upper Bingley and Reverend Aubrey Upjohn of Lower Bingley–to deliver the longest sermon.Bingo's Betting Instinct: Ever the gambler (and usually unlucky one), Bingo sees an opportunity for a "bit of sport" by organizing a sweepstake, or "handicap," on the length of these sermons. He intends to assign handicaps (in minutes) to each vicar based on their past preaching tendencies.
By Sarwar Zeb2 years ago in Fiction
The Timekeepers
People said time moved slowly in the coastal New England town of Cronsmouth, where sea fog crept through narrow streets and rooftops bowed beneath age and salt. Down a narrow lane off the town square stood a watch shop. Despite its age and the seaside storms it endured, the two-story brick building stood firm. Its windows were always misted, and its wooden sign hung by a rusted chain over the solid oak door. The sign’s once-gilded letters read:
By N.A. Canniff2 years ago in Fiction
Roses
On Sunday morning the house seemed normal, except that mom wasn’t there. When Dad answered the door, his shirt was untucked, and he had small streaks of dirt on his face. I’ll never forget how confused he was to see me despite it being a Sunday. We exchanged our usual loving words while he almost reluctantly stepped aside to let me in. I followed the familiar path to the living room that mom had so carefully decorated with photos, mostly of me. Dad never really liked having his picture taken and seemed content to have mom fill it with photos of me, Mom, and his roses. He would always say that it was “A wall full of the most important things”.
By Mary Arlock2 years ago in Fiction
Vargoth the Destroyer
Sand cooked under the burning sun, as it had done through the ages. A couple of birds had a conversation in the forest and cicadas could be heard singing their anthem somewhere in the distance, but no creature was around to hear the crackling sound that was growing over the sandy dune.
By Pete Crutchfield2 years ago in Fiction
The Button
It appeared on Eleanor’s kitchen table at 7:03 a.m.—a smooth, red button on a steel base, gleaming like it had been buffed by a god. No note, no box, just there. Her morning coffee turned bitter with the unease of it. She didn’t touch it. Not the first day. On the second day, she circled it like prey. Pressing it might mean disaster—or salvation. Her thoughts spiraled: Was this fate? Judgment? A prank from a higher plane? By day four, the button’s presence infected everything. She lost her job. Friends stopped calling. The world grew distant, unfocused. All that mattered was the choice. “Push me,” the silence begged. On day seven, she did. There was no flash. No sound. Just a blink—like the world skipped a frame. Nothing changed. Until everything did. --- It started small: she knew things before they happened. A teacup fell before her cat touched it. The mailman tripped and she gasped before he stumbled. Then it escalated. She began shifting. She'd walk through a door in Brooklyn and end up in Prague. Time buckled. She watched herself reading in her apartment while standing across the street in the rain. And voices. Whispers in mirrors. Her reflection smiled when she didn’t. Terrified, Eleanor tried to destroy the button. Smashed it with a hammer, burned it in her fireplace. It remained pristine. Unbreakable. Watching. She sought help. Scientists, shamans, priests—no one could explain the anomaly or stop the shifts. Everyone who tried vanished. It was a curse, she decided. She’d meddled with a force too vast, too alien. But then—clarity. A voice inside her skull, not hers, but familiar. “You're not Eleanor.” --- Memories she’d never lived began unfurling: A council of architects in a white dimension. Discussions of probability strands. The experiment: Earth-32. A simulated life coded into a shell named “Eleanor.” She wasn’t real. She was the test. And the button? The control mechanism. A trigger for awakening. A contingency. She tore through documents in the simulation’s government archives. Found a facility in Nevada matching coordinates hidden in her dreams. Inside: more buttons. Hundreds. Thousands. Each labeled with names: Marcus, Priya, Lu Chen, Eleanor. Hers glowed red. The others? Dim. She stood before a console marked: “RESET.” And a file opened on the screen: "Simulation #928. Subject achieved partial awakening. Reality integrity compromised. Initiate memory wipe or full reboot." There were only two options. Her finger hovered—then slammed the red “RESET” button again. --- Everything vanished. Except a kitchen table. A smooth, red button. And a woman sipping coffee. Unaware. Until 7:03 a.m.
By Reshal Manzoor 2 years ago in Fiction
Hourglass
He didn’t know whether to stay in or go out. Outside did not look good, it was like a dark rain, but he couldn’t be bothered to go to the window. He had a cup of tea and the television was on, full of infotainment and infoverts, which was enough to keep his braid occupied.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Fiction
