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Stop, Look and Listen
Akeem Balogun
£1.29 Added
Stop, Look and Listen is a short collection of flash fiction pieces. It features Escape, a story about a son who wants to keep his parents together for the sake of his father, Mannequin, a creepy tale about a husband and his wife's disappearance as well as the titular story, Stop, Look and Listen, an exploration of life through instructions. The collection also includes other pieces by Akeem Balogun that have appeared in various publications throughout his writing career. Stop, Look and Listen is an enjoyable read that will appeal to all fans of the short story form as well as to any reader who is entertained by writing that is precise, fun and thought-provoking.
Hugh McPearson and the Agreement Gas
Steve Way
£0.99 Added
In his fifth inconsequential adventure at the request of the Prime Minister our hero attempts to save the nation by uncovering the heinous villain behind the production of Agreement Gas, which very dangerously makes everyone agree with each other! In the course of his adventure he becomes the first ostrich to fly - downwards to go upwards as well as upwards - disguises himself as a corner flag and becomes one of the first ever to sit in a spell. To find out more... read the story! How simple could it be!
I don't believe in vampires
“So, you don’t believe in vampires?” I shrugged nonchalantly: did he really expect me to believe in vampires? This was the 21st century. “And do you believe in God?” The old man was getting tiresome. This job was going to be more tedious than I’d anticipated. “No I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in vampires.” “Yet you seek them out?” He turned and patted one of the two bloodhounds sitting by his side. “I’m interested in contemporary cultural phenomena. I’m a journalist, doing a story on cult groups, hence my interest in your Primave Society, Mr Faust.” “I see.” I took out my notebook and pencil. “Does Primave have a meaning? Is there some Italian connection?” “All things have meaning, young man.” “And is Nero Faust a pseudonym? It’s not your real name, is it?” “Names are just convenient labels. And all names are chosen, the only question is by whom. Take your name, for example. A famous, dare I say, notorious one: Mr William Van Helsing.” “I inherited my name, Mr Faust. It’s useful: my editor lets me write about all things spooky, weird and wonderful.” “Yes, the name intrigued me and I must confess it is why I accepted your request: we do not in normal circumstances allow outsiders to partake in the gatherings of the Primave.” He paused a moment. “So, are you the grandchild of the famed Professor Abraham Van Helsing?” “Grandchild? A great, great, great grandchild, I think. He’s been dead a hundred years.” And then Nero Faust did something strange: he leant towards me and with a long fingernail moved the hair that hung down over my forehead to one side, and started at me intensely. “Yes, I see the resemblance...”
I don't believe in vampires
Tim Kelly
£0.99 Added
“So, you don’t believe in vampires?” I shrugged nonchalantly: did he really expect me to believe in vampires? This was the 21st century. “And do you believe in God?” The old man was getting tiresome. This job was going to be more tedious than I’d anticipated. “No I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in vampires.” “Yet you seek them out?” He turned and patted one of the two bloodhounds sitting by his side. “I’m interested in contemporary cultural phenomena. I’m a journalist, doing a story on cult groups, hence my interest in your Primave Society, Mr Faust.” “I see.” I took out my notebook and pencil. “Does Primave have a meaning? Is there some Italian connection?” “All things have meaning, young man.” “And is Nero Faust a pseudonym? It’s not your real name, is it?” “Names are just convenient labels. And all names are chosen, the only question is by whom. Take your name, for example. A famous, dare I say, notorious one: Mr William Van Helsing.” “I inherited my name, Mr Faust. It’s useful: my editor lets me write about all things spooky, weird and wonderful.” “Yes, the name intrigued me and I must confess it is why I accepted your request: we do not in normal circumstances allow outsiders to partake in the gatherings of the Primave.” He paused a moment. “So, are you the grandchild of the famed Professor Abraham Van Helsing?” “Grandchild? A great, great, great grandchild, I think. He’s been dead a hundred years.” And then Nero Faust did something strange: he leant towards me and with a long fingernail moved the hair that hung down over my forehead to one side, and started at me intensely. “Yes, I see the resemblance...”
The Tower Block
A multi-generational story, set in a tower block in London, told from the POV of a brick in a wall. "At eight by four inches, made of a mixture of clay, sand, lime, a touch of iron oxide and magnesium, fired that distinctive bright-red colour (the heat in those kilns can reach up to three and a half thousand Fahrenheit), I was what people called a common building brick. But I never took no offence; I had no airs or graces. Like the other ten million commercial bricks fired in this factory each year, I was destined for a long, productive working life. Unity is powerful. And whether I ended up as part of a new hospital or new school or new whatever, the sum is always greater than its parts. My story begins in earnest in April of 1964, when I was proud to be included in batch number 117, reserved by Lewisham Borough Council. After firing, we were stacked on wooden pallets, rows and rows of us, like soldiers waiting to go into battle. Day after day, the lads speculated as to where we were headed, and what we were gonna become. Back then, I guess we were all idealists, determined to help make the country great again. Rationing was a thing of the past. Industry was on the up. We were as close to full employment as we were ever gonna get. There was a new sense of optimism in the air. And in our own small way, we wanted to represent traditional values: hard work, endeavour, spirit, all the things which made England what it was: Empire, we'll fight 'em on the beaches, Britannia rules the waves. Imagine our excitement then, when we learned that we were gonna be part of the Jubilee Gardens regeneration programme, a landmark scheme, whereby local government provided funding to build affordable housing for the hard-working people of south-east London. At the time, Lewisham was one of the most deprived areas of the city. Brick by brick, we hoped to breathe new life into the community, like a concrete phoenix rising from the ashes. The day we arrived on site, most of the exterior construction work had already been completed. I remember being loaded off the back of a trailer, two dozen pallets of bricks bathed in warm spring sunshine, looking up at that imperious grey tower block, all sixteen floors of her, and feeling such a sense of excitement, knowing I was gonna be at the very heart of something like this, something good and worthy, something which would stand the test of time. By pulleys, we were winched up the side of the building to the eleventh floor. From what would soon become an open-plan front room and kitchen area, you could, through the gap left for the balcony door, see right out over the estate, over the other two tower blocks then in construction, and the children's play area, the swings and slides and climbing frames which had just been sited below. There were still lots to do to the interior, mind (and that was what me and the rest of the lads up here were destined for: the front room wall)–permanent flooring needed to be laid and the walls plastered. Two brickies, Harry and Eric, were hard at work, like shining examples of what I've just been talking about–about what made England great. Both in their mid-twenties, pouring with sweat, with rough callused hands, they took such pride in what they were doing. They wanted to be the quickest, the best, to lay more bricks in one day than all the other brickies put together. All the time they encouraged each other –Come on, H, another fifty before we knock off for lunch, eh? – smearing trowels with a layer of cement, with one fluid flick of the wrist, like poetry in motion, like each brick was their own personal work of art. And for that reason, I felt a true bond with 'em, like we was kindred spirits, that like the building itself, we represented something special, something to be admired..."
The Tower Block
Neil Randall
£0.99 Added
A multi-generational story, set in a tower block in London, told from the POV of a brick in a wall. "At eight by four inches, made of a mixture of clay, sand, lime, a touch of iron oxide and magnesium, fired that distinctive bright-red colour (the heat in those kilns can reach up to three and a half thousand Fahrenheit), I was what people called a common building brick. But I never took no offence; I had no airs or graces. Like the other ten million commercial bricks fired in this factory each year, I was destined for a long, productive working life. Unity is powerful. And whether I ended up as part of a new hospital or new school or new whatever, the sum is always greater than its parts. My story begins in earnest in April of 1964, when I was proud to be included in batch number 117, reserved by Lewisham Borough Council. After firing, we were stacked on wooden pallets, rows and rows of us, like soldiers waiting to go into battle. Day after day, the lads speculated as to where we were headed, and what we were gonna become. Back then, I guess we were all idealists, determined to help make the country great again. Rationing was a thing of the past. Industry was on the up. We were as close to full employment as we were ever gonna get. There was a new sense of optimism in the air. And in our own small way, we wanted to represent traditional values: hard work, endeavour, spirit, all the things which made England what it was: Empire, we'll fight 'em on the beaches, Britannia rules the waves. Imagine our excitement then, when we learned that we were gonna be part of the Jubilee Gardens regeneration programme, a landmark scheme, whereby local government provided funding to build affordable housing for the hard-working people of south-east London. At the time, Lewisham was one of the most deprived areas of the city. Brick by brick, we hoped to breathe new life into the community, like a concrete phoenix rising from the ashes. The day we arrived on site, most of the exterior construction work had already been completed. I remember being loaded off the back of a trailer, two dozen pallets of bricks bathed in warm spring sunshine, looking up at that imperious grey tower block, all sixteen floors of her, and feeling such a sense of excitement, knowing I was gonna be at the very heart of something like this, something good and worthy, something which would stand the test of time. By pulleys, we were winched up the side of the building to the eleventh floor. From what would soon become an open-plan front room and kitchen area, you could, through the gap left for the balcony door, see right out over the estate, over the other two tower blocks then in construction, and the children's play area, the swings and slides and climbing frames which had just been sited below. There were still lots to do to the interior, mind (and that was what me and the rest of the lads up here were destined for: the front room wall)–permanent flooring needed to be laid and the walls plastered. Two brickies, Harry and Eric, were hard at work, like shining examples of what I've just been talking about–about what made England great. Both in their mid-twenties, pouring with sweat, with rough callused hands, they took such pride in what they were doing. They wanted to be the quickest, the best, to lay more bricks in one day than all the other brickies put together. All the time they encouraged each other –Come on, H, another fifty before we knock off for lunch, eh? – smearing trowels with a layer of cement, with one fluid flick of the wrist, like poetry in motion, like each brick was their own personal work of art. And for that reason, I felt a true bond with 'em, like we was kindred spirits, that like the building itself, we represented something special, something to be admired..."
The Gun Shearer
Clare Chandler
£0.99 Added
The arrival of a young sheep shearer at a farm in New South Wales has a profound effect on the owner, bringing back memories of a pivotal moment from her past. The Gun Shearer was shortlisted for the Costa Short Story Award.
Hard Water
Beryl P. Brown
£0.99 Added
'If we were still in our old house and not this one - this boat - I’d be out with my mates or we’d be in each other’s houses, gaming or just chilling. I couldn’t believe it when Dad said there was no phone signal and no internet on this rust-bucket.' A story about a boy settling into a new life. Would appeal to eleven to fourteen years olds.
Cut Back Flat
Double the rent or half a flat. Your choice. "Cut Back Flat ‘Bit of building work, Miss. George sent us round.’ George is the landlord, and for a moment I entertain some unlikely concepts. Things like upgrade and home improvement run through my mind, pushing darker thoughts down. There are two of them, both men obviously. They troop into my flat in a pile up of battered metal boxes and lengths of sawn timber. One is older, in his 50s, sort of lumpy, not fat but fleshy with exaggerated features. His shoulder length hair is slicked back to the point of recession. The other one could be my age, but is probably younger. He has that gaunt look acquired through serious and dedicated smoking, yellow fingers and teeth to match. They are both in white overalls, though the younger one has somehow rolled his down and is wearing them like hipster jeans, an inch of toned stomach between the waistline and his black tee shirt. He grins lopsided when he catches me looking. They start in the front room with a line drawn down the middle of the bay window. The column of concrete which divides the four panes is struck through in no time, but then the radiator underneath poses a problem, and they are seized by a fit of contemplation. There is a lot of head shaking. Teeth are sucked, pencils gnawed. They unroll a set of plans, consult in mumbles and hisses. More head shaking, loud exhalations through pursed lips. I try to get a look at what’s on the paper, but from my tentative perch on the sofa, the maze of lines bears no resemblance to my mental framing of home..."
Cut Back Flat
Andy Gaskins
£1.29 Added
Double the rent or half a flat. Your choice. "Cut Back Flat ‘Bit of building work, Miss. George sent us round.’ George is the landlord, and for a moment I entertain some unlikely concepts. Things like upgrade and home improvement run through my mind, pushing darker thoughts down. There are two of them, both men obviously. They troop into my flat in a pile up of battered metal boxes and lengths of sawn timber. One is older, in his 50s, sort of lumpy, not fat but fleshy with exaggerated features. His shoulder length hair is slicked back to the point of recession. The other one could be my age, but is probably younger. He has that gaunt look acquired through serious and dedicated smoking, yellow fingers and teeth to match. They are both in white overalls, though the younger one has somehow rolled his down and is wearing them like hipster jeans, an inch of toned stomach between the waistline and his black tee shirt. He grins lopsided when he catches me looking. They start in the front room with a line drawn down the middle of the bay window. The column of concrete which divides the four panes is struck through in no time, but then the radiator underneath poses a problem, and they are seized by a fit of contemplation. There is a lot of head shaking. Teeth are sucked, pencils gnawed. They unroll a set of plans, consult in mumbles and hisses. More head shaking, loud exhalations through pursed lips. I try to get a look at what’s on the paper, but from my tentative perch on the sofa, the maze of lines bears no resemblance to my mental framing of home..."
Unusual Results
A story for 8 to 11 yea-olds. Having eaten some of the wizard's magic jelly, which was supposed to make him sing better but didn't, King Popple spends every day making up football results. Meanwhile for a not unrelated reason everyone has purple wax constantly dribbling out of their ears and all the children under 5 think they are cows. Hopefully the chamberlain might have a useful idea... "The poor queen's nerves were strained to the limit so much of the time that some of her courtiers thought they might spring apart with a loud twang like an overtightened violin string. She was undoubtedly beginning to look much older than her age. The delicate gifts she and her husband received from other kings and queens were all placed on top of the mantelpiece over the fire in the throne room. There was only one problem. The mantelpiece was very old and rickety. The slightest knock could make it shake in an unpredictable way and one of the vases or cups or whatever would fall off. Even a loud noise, like a door banging in the distance, could get the mantelpiece shaking and items falling. Unfortunately, the king had eaten some magic jelly the wizard had made. It was supposed to make him be able to sing better but hadn’t and now he was suffering the unfortunate side-effects of the wizard’s disastrous concoction. The king had become too distracted to order the repair of the mantelpiece or to realise that if one of the china gifts were to fall off and break it would be likely that some form of unpredictable disaster would fall upon the kingdom. This was because all the gifts were imbued with magic and if they were broken, the magic contained within them would be unleashed randomly and uncontrollably. Instead, due to the side-effects of the jelly, the king just sat on his throne all day making up football results or reading them out once the Royal Newspaper arrived on Saturday evening..."
Unusual Results
Steve Way
£0.99 Added
A story for 8 to 11 yea-olds. Having eaten some of the wizard's magic jelly, which was supposed to make him sing better but didn't, King Popple spends every day making up football results. Meanwhile for a not unrelated reason everyone has purple wax constantly dribbling out of their ears and all the children under 5 think they are cows. Hopefully the chamberlain might have a useful idea... "The poor queen's nerves were strained to the limit so much of the time that some of her courtiers thought they might spring apart with a loud twang like an overtightened violin string. She was undoubtedly beginning to look much older than her age. The delicate gifts she and her husband received from other kings and queens were all placed on top of the mantelpiece over the fire in the throne room. There was only one problem. The mantelpiece was very old and rickety. The slightest knock could make it shake in an unpredictable way and one of the vases or cups or whatever would fall off. Even a loud noise, like a door banging in the distance, could get the mantelpiece shaking and items falling. Unfortunately, the king had eaten some magic jelly the wizard had made. It was supposed to make him be able to sing better but hadn’t and now he was suffering the unfortunate side-effects of the wizard’s disastrous concoction. The king had become too distracted to order the repair of the mantelpiece or to realise that if one of the china gifts were to fall off and break it would be likely that some form of unpredictable disaster would fall upon the kingdom. This was because all the gifts were imbued with magic and if they were broken, the magic contained within them would be unleashed randomly and uncontrollably. Instead, due to the side-effects of the jelly, the king just sat on his throne all day making up football results or reading them out once the Royal Newspaper arrived on Saturday evening..."

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