SHORT STORIES
These are pieces which I have written for training, education, competitions or just for fun. They are completely free to use at your discretion, so long as I am credited as the original. Enjoy at your own leisure!
THE NIGHT THE STAR GREW BIGGER
‘There’s nothing in the sky. Are you tired, sweetie? I think someone needs a hot chocolate before bed! Does that sound good?’
That’s what his parents said.
‘Josh, this is a really good drawing, I like how artsy you are. Just remember; some of the other children don’t know whether you’re joking or not. They’re a little scared of all your stories. Save it until you’re a brilliant spaceman.’
His teacher offered that advice.
‘Look, you were probably just dreaming. Don’t worry about it. No-one’s allowed to scare you except me.’
That’s all his big sister had to offer.
‘You know, Josh, children have far greater imaginations than us grown-ups. However, sometimes that makes it difficult to tell the difference between fantasy, and reality. You have to focus, yeah bud?’
The paediatrician came to that conclusion.
‘Yeah, I saw one too once! And it came down and landed in my garden! And aliens came out and gave me a space-gun, I’ve got it at home! Honest!’
That was how his friends mostly responded.
The funny thing is, no-one was concerned about it. No-one seemed bothered over how resolute little Josh was. How certain the boy was at what he had seen. To them, it was little more than childhood obsession. He was a sociable child with plenty of friends, achieved good grades in school, why worry over a story? After all, children are constantly inventing stories that can’t possibly be true, can they?
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You can show a child anything, absolutely anything, and people will only pay attention if it’s something believable.
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It’s annoying, isn’t it Josh? That no-one even considers that you’re telling the truth? It must make you feel distant. Like you’re disconnected from the world. This life-changing experience that no-one else will ever understand. But we understand, Josh. We know how you feel. And we apologise, sincerely.
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We apologise for that night. The night we never intended for. The night when you’d stayed up later than you were supposed to. The night when the heat compelled you to open your window. The night when the stars caught your gaze, beaming on you from the astronomic spiral of matter your small planet inhabits. The night when one star shone brighter than the others. The night when it grew bigger. And bigger. And bigger.
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The night when we scared you.
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It is neither wonder nor shame that you were scared. For our world, the world that touched yours that night, is a world for neither child nor adult of the human race. Perspective beyond sight. Purpose beyond meaning. The lines of life and love dissolved.
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Culture does not divide our kind from yours, Josh.
Biology does not dictate our separation.
Language does not differentiate our species from each other.
It is something else, something beyond.
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Do not expect to understand, the point is that you cannot.
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It is dangerous here. The sky is not blue and black. Our eyes do not even see the same colours as yours. But we saw you, and you saw us. That night, for the briefest of moments, locked forever in the trails of time, our worlds gazed upon each other across an abyss of existence beyond either of our understanding. Were you scared, Josh? Because we were. We were terrified.
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But you need not be scared. You won’t ever have to worry about us again. You’ll continue to go to school, play with your friends, live with your family. They’ll continue to not believe you, preferring their world of predictability to the claim of an untrustworthy child. It’ll continue to annoy and upset you that no-one cares.
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However, as time goes on, your annoyance will fade to disillusion, then to acceptance. You’ll realise that no-one will ever believe you. Eventually, you’ll stop believing yourself, and you’ll tell yourself that it was simply a dream, a make-believe. You will grow up, and become the very adult you resent. We will be resigned to the memories of a young boy’s vision. A vision he outgrew.
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So close the curtain tonight, Josh. Step away from the window, and go to sleep. There’s nothing in the sky.
HUTCHING'S HILL
I awoke with a scream, as I always did.
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Another nightmare. Always a different one, every time. This time it was an albatross, with eyes of fire and talons of steel, swooping from the clouds in a gust of rage and fury. It clawed into my shoulders before I could move, and dropped me from the heavens down to the cold, hard earth.
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With a sigh, a deep breath, and a yet-trembling grip, I climbed out of bed. Nowadays I slept in his clothes, which saved me from fumbling around in the dark at times such as these. Slipping on a gambeson I had tactically hung over the edge of a chair, I went to leave my room.
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The door-hinge was old and hardly noiseless, though after my intense awakening I reasoned it didn’t make much difference. Nevertheless, I was cautious as I made my way down the landing, glancing at my father’s door as I past it. Times were the old man used to burst into my room on a night like this, paranoid for the safety and wellbeing of his only child. Now, he had begun to leave me alone, aware of what it meant. Aware that I preferred to be alone as I gathered my thoughts. Tip-toeing as close to the wall as possible in order to prevent unnecessary creaking, I descended down the stairs.
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Home was a compact tailor’s shop, staggeringly dusty and untidied. Unfolded sheets of fabric almost littered the floor, leaving barely any space to walk. Within each corner hid either a spider’s web or a scrunched-up piece of paper. Needles and threads, rarely attached together, were scattered amongst desks blanketed in sketches of garments. Each sketch contained scribbles and corrections, and the odds were most of them would never be made. The shop would be considered abandoned and derelict if it weren’t for the dresses. Propped up on stands, a fabulous array of colours and creases came together, fabric weaving through fabric, creating picturesque attires which decorated the inside view of the shop from a large window. Other than the dresses, this window was the only part of the room which had been kept suitably clean. I wondered of the upstanding ladies who would eventually be parading the noble halls of the Former Empire, donned in my father’s handiwork, as I quietly moved through the room before noiselessly unlocking the front door and exiting into the night.
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Emerging onto a narrow street, I glanced in both directions to ensure no-one was present. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but all it would take is one pair of sleepless eyes and a few pints in the tavern before everyone would suspect me of being up to something, out at such a late hour. Sure enough, I was alone, so I began making my way through the spacious gaps between buildings. Summer had yet to pass, and the cold of the night was bearable. As I distanced myself from the village centre, gaps between houses widened to obscurity, and said houses became huts, until I eventually reached the foot of Hutching’s Hill.
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Rarely did I ever climb to the top, having usually only woken up 15 minutes ago. Instead I hiked until I reached a point from where I could see out across the village of Wystere, and beyond; the river gently coursing down into the forest, the canopy touching the star-scattered sky, the humble orchards and meadows surrounding the habitat.
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Facing the view of the only life I’d ever known, I indulged in a breath, deep and slow, eventually sinking carefully onto the grass. I took another, a slow sense of meditation claiming me. I felt the touch of every blade against my hands as I lay flat against the hill, eyes now closed in trance-like pacifism. Hutching’s Hill had long been my place of refuge and retrospection, and it was nights like this where it was most needed. No-one knew about it. Not even my father.
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This was where I was safe from the eyes of the world. It alleviated me, gave me a sense of freedom and understanding. From up here, I was no longer the son of a renowned tailor. Up here, I was but an entity, one which had, did, and would exist outside of the shackles of time. An untouchable, untouching observance on the earth and sky. An immortal statue of neither cost nor consequence, embalmed in the blossoms and petals of the forest.
This was then that I realised that my nightmare was a lie; the Earth isn’t desolate and dank. It isn’t rough and cold. It’s warm, coated in the undying beauty of rich soils and plentiful bounties. Soft as the blankets we weave from its life, and in its dense embrace, I was home.
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As I lay there, contemplating the life around me, I wondered if it could last forever. If the natural tranquillity of this world would be undying. If they will remember this feeling a thousand years from now.
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But a thousand years is a distant time. My time was this one. And I didn’t take a single breath for granted.
THE MIRROR MONOLOGUE
Have you ever looked at a mirror?
Not the reflection, the silver itself. The transparent, yet visible, lens through which the reflection is seen. How can reality look so metallic?
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We love the mirror. It can teach us to love ourselves, to see what the world sees when it holds us in its gaze. It shows us things we could not see.
We hate the mirror. It represents the boundary. The border between what we want to be and what we are. The fence that cannot be climbed. The distance, evergaping, that we must traverse to achieve our desires. It shows us things we did not want to see.
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We walk past our mirrors, scared to look.
We glance in our mirrors, to assure our image.
Sometimes we stare at our mirrors for as long as our eyes allow, trying to see more.
Trying to find the final detail that exposes, solves, exacerbates our flaws.
Wondering if the mirror is staring back.
Feeling just a little less alone.
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To consider the mirror is moot. Once your eyes meet themselves in its sullen frame, the image is titanium.
The reflection is constant.
The mirror is undying.
For what happens when you break a mirror? You do not destroy the mirror.
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You simply make more mirrors.