You can find todays tale (“Tea”) here:
This is a video o me reading my short story “The Restless Wandering Shade”
If you want to help me dedicate more time to writing please consider becoming a patreon (from $1 a month)
You’ll find longer stories on my steemit blog too. But this one is just 50 words long!
You can find todays 50 word story “Sorry” here: https://email@example.com/sorry-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge-told-in-precisely-fiftywords
I am currently posting stories (under the user name @felt.buzz) on thé blogging site steemit. Click here to find my latest posts
Or you can click on the individual links links below
Current Serialised Ghost Story: “Haunted”
A family move into a big old house. The house has history. The family have history. Spooky stuff happens.
**Very short stories (stories told in exactly 50 words)**
Miniature Tigers don’t belong in cages. You have been warned.
“The Lion’s Share”.
It is NOT his party, so why is the lion crying?
“Another Crime Involving Rhyme”
Someone is killing words. Inspector Poet is on the case
“When Rhyme Is A Crime”
Theft, murder, bad rhymes…
**Some more of my short stories**
Will we ever learn?
Some people are meant to be together
Some people only have their memories for company…
Don’t read this if you have mother issues.
Some big news for me! One of my steemit stories ([Reunion](https://firstname.lastname@example.org/reunion-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge) – told in 8 parts last month) has been selected to appear in the Isle of Write Anthology (see this post https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-fiction-publication-week-1-roundup). I am so excited to be a part of this. [Please pay them a visit](https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-curation-to-publication-update) and check out the other stories that have been selected too. You too can be curated: [so read the post and find out how!](https://steemit.com/writing/@isleofwrite/isle-of-write-fiction-publication-week-1-roundup
At two thirty in the morning everything in the street is calm.
There is a trash can overturned in the alley on the corner where the deli sits, and a cat sits beside it casually moving it’s paw through the contents.
It must have found something, because it begins to eat. It doesn’t look up as I pass, it doesn’t notice me.
Perhaps, I do not exist. It is a thought I have often, at this time of the night.
When the streets are clear of the noise and bustle of human activity.
Perhaps the world has ended and I am the last human on earth.
Or, worse still, I have died and the world continues on and I am alone, unable to communicate with those around me. It is my nightmare, my terror.
It reminds me of high school when my friends (or at least that is what I thought of them) stopped speaking to me.
They ignored me .
This story was written in 5 minutes using the prompt “it is what I do at 2.30 in the morning when I can’t sleep.”
If you don’t know what a freewrite is visit @mariannewest here is a link to the introduction post: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/writers-or-wanna-be-writers-wanted-be-free-freewrite
Check out my original post on Steemit
This story is part of my Humpbuckle-on-Sea series, stories revolving around characters living in the fictional English seaside town.
Night began as a whisper: a rumour of shadows at the very edges of the Day. But once started, it quickly gathered pace.
Leba knew Day would fail soon. The dark cracks would spread, tendril-like through its foundations. Inevitably, Day would split, shatter, and crumble into the sea.
And when Day failed she would too.
As she ran, Leba risked a glance, back, towards the Waghorn. Immediately, her breath was sucked from her lungs, pulled back back towards the dark rocky outcrop. Despite this sign – this symptom – they were not following.
Not yet, anyway.
The tide was coming in fast, threatening to cut her off from her friends. The hungry sea licked at her feet. It tasted her. It wanted to consume her. Her feet sank a little deeper into the wet sand with every stride. A moment of doubt overcame her. She had left it too late. She would be swallowed by the sea, or the sand. Or the Night.
No. She could make it. She would make it. She had to.
Leba knew her friend’s waited for her, but could not see them. The distance and the diminishing light made that impossible. Over the sound of her breathing – in….OUT….in…OUT – and the pounding of her heart and feet, she fancied she could hear them shout. Encouragement? Warnings? She couldn’t tell.
She could feel the sharp edges of the stolen object cutting into the palm of her left hand. The pain gave her comfort, strength even. Pain meant it was safe.
She could see them now, her friends. Emaj was jumping in the air, hands and arms all over the place. She could hear him, too. His words, shouted over the sand, distinct and clear: “You CAN make it Leba: come on!” Nimos was standing statue-like beside him. She could see he was not looking at her, but straight behind her.
She would not look back. Not now. She had seen them before and had no desire to see them again. She could feel their icy presence, as they closed on her, cold fingers at her neck. Emaj was yelling for her to HurryUpForFuckSake! She was close enough to read the expression of terror on Nimos’s face, to see the dark stain of urine crawl down his breeches.
She was nearly there. Emaj had stopped jumping and was reaching down, his strong hands reaching for hers. She was going to make it.
And then the Night came.