Welcome to my list of Short Stories. This is periodically updated but a more comprehensive list can be found on my website https://www.martindixonshortstories.com/ where there are more categories and links to guest websites to further expand content. The website offers an easier and more comprehensive reading experience. It is also updated more often than this Blog.Click on the link below and go straight there.
My stories can now be viewed on my new website https://www.martindixonshortstories.com/ which I hope will provide a better viewing and easier reading experience. THE STORIES ON THIS BLOG TOGETHER WITH NEW STORIES AND DIFFERENT CATEGORIES CAN NOW BE VIEWED THERE. There is also the addition of THE ADVENTURES OF RICKY DELANEY. A GUEST POST page gives the opportunity to read other writers works with a link to their website to read more of their stories.
The Hunt (For Remembrance Day) The stag lifted its head, suddenly alert, tensed to run but unsure. There had been a sound. The slightest cracking. The smallest snapping sending the minutest disturbance through the forest upsetting the natural harmony. Then dipping its head, turning sharply, rear legs pushing and away as the crossbow bolt punctuated the vacated space to thump, vibrating, into the ancient oak tree. The mist rising surreally from the ground, damp grey, all encompassing, born out of the transition from night to dawn and swallowing the bolting animal saving it from certain doom. “Too slow Billy, you're too slow.” This is Uncle Jack, a tall wiry man with long black hair tied into a ponytail, speaking in a harsh whisper as he relaxed his grip on his crossbow. “Why do you not listen? I’ve told you before aim and shoot. One motion, aim and shoot. The stag hears the forest Billy. Feels the air Billy, the ever present familiar smells. If it senses any change, even the sligh
24 – A Devil’s Bend and a Bunch of Flowers The blue car screeched around the bend, flew past the cyclist and disappeared up the road at more than enough speed. Dust kicked up off the country road. Dried mud from all those tractors. It pooled in the air in a long stream and followed in a trail blanketing the distance in a kind of haze. The road was narrow. The car passing close made the cyclist wobble, stop and get off his bike. He looked along the road following the passage of the car. It disappeared over a slight rise in the long straight section just before the sharp bend that was out of sight but he knew was there. He heard a loud screeching of brakes, a rolling bashing noise ending in a very loud crash. Silence except for a stuttering half-hearted horn that struggled to continuously sound. Holding his bike in one hand the cyclist just stared at the small cloud of dust that was appearing above the hump in the road. Gave a kind of that was inevitable shrug, mounted his bike an
33 - Strawberry Jelly It was dark. At exactly ten, a loud clunk and the lights went out. The eons of time had witnessed the exact same routine. Every night ghosts of past occupants infused the atmosphere in the same contemplation of their sins. A brisk wind and a cloud is swept away, opening a sky hole allowing a shaft of moonlight to penetrate the gloom and like a searchlight illuminating its prey the steel sprung, top bunk is speckled in a fluorescent glow. High up the wall, nearly touching the tall ceiling, the small window is large enough to emit sufficient light to exaggerate the pitifully bleak and monotonous existence of the occupant. Laying on the covers in regulation white, greying boxers and string vest. Right hand behind his head. Sorrowful eyes tight shut. A slight tear in the corner. Left hand nervously rubbing a black stubbled chin and a shaved with a blunt blade nick. Trying to suppress the sounds. He came from a family of undertakers. Dour people. But as an