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Best Stories on the Web
We publish original Short Stories written by accomplished authors from around the globe. You can read them here and also sign up to have them emailed to you. See Subscribe button on left.

To enable further promotion of reading and writing, all stories will now appear on our sister site, www.short-stories.me.

 
All genres, all writers, all here.

Here, on Short-Story.me we publish only the highest quality stories from great writers around the world. To have work published on Short-Story.me is testament to the finest writing ability. Once published, we share your success with others, announce your achievement on Twitter, and give good writing, great publicity. The site receives in excess of 300,000 page views per month and is the number one site on search engines for various genres.

We have a category for everyone. So why not sharpen your skills, your pencil and your wits and commit that story to paper? Give our followers what they want to read and get your name in front of thousands of readers every week.

Best of luck in your writing endeavors.

 

Tweaking the Thrifty Gene

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“I’m sorry, Amaranth Q, your travel application is denied,” said the TTA’s customer-service robot.  Following some pathway in its neurocybernetic map, the robot added, “You understand the Time Travel Authority’s decision is final?”

“Yes,” said Amaranth.

Her application had been necessarily vague, and they didn’t trust her to follow the rules once she got into the past. She didn’t blame them. They were right not to. But some things were more important than bureaucratic rules.

Leaving the Federal Office Building, she walked quickly through the crowded Mariana Trench City center, then down damp, twisted backstreets to the shadowy neighborhood known as Abyssal Alley.  Here, months ago, anticipating TTA rejection, she’d found the time-travel black market, a moldy hallway, and the wizened dealer.  Now, as he smiled at her, the diamonds in his long white teeth were the brightest objects in the room.

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Happy Anniversary

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They had been driving for a couple of hours. The radio was on, tuned into the local station and the interstate had been left behind half an hour ago. They were now bumping along on little more than a well-kept track, which should see them at their destination in six or seven minutes. Tony tried to remember when they had been here last - must be three or more years ago. They had spent a lot of anniversaries up here once the kids had grown old enough to be left on their own, monitored by the neighbors next door.

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Chicken and Egg

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Marjorie opened the oven door and inserted a skewer into the dome of lemony sponge. “Done,” she announced.

Her husband Edward wandered into the kitchen of their tiny cottage. “Looks like a good ’un,” he said as Marjorie slid the cake onto a cooling rack. He licked a finger, pressing it into the stray crumbs that had fallen on the worktop.

“How many times have I told you not to do that!” Marjorie glared at him. Why did the silly old fool never listen?

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What is this White Stuff?

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Sheriff Barnes awoke to the voice of a radio announcer.  “Nobody seems to know where the white stuff came from.  It’s not snow, because the temperature is 81.  Also, and most important, is that fact that it’s not snow.  It feels like Styrofoam.  It’s unbelievable.”

The sheriff rushed to his window.  “What the hell,” he said, and dressed as he listened to the radio.  “What is also strange, is that Greenfield is the only town in the county that is covered by the stuff.

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Abbey

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“Pistols shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
She sees the bartender in a pool of blood
Cries out "My God they killed them all"
Here comes the story of the Hurricane!”

Abbey was proud of herself for knowing the lyrics of the man her daddy deemed “The Greatest of the Greats.” Bob Dylan was practically considered God in her house, and it wasn’t a disturbance to sing his songs as loud as you wanted to. As she showered, the sweet smells coming from the kitchen filled her nostrils. Dinner was almost ready.

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Where the Bodies are Buried

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How shallow was a shallow grave?

He’d never dug one before.  The hole before him, which he’d gouged out of the sandy soil in the heat of the desert looked deep, but now he’d pushed the man’s body into it, suddenly it looked awfully shallow. Could animals or other things get down to the body? Or maybe that was the point? Just deep enough for cover, but not so deep that it took too long for the flesh to turn to corruption.

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Forgotten Memories

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Detective Greg Warren stood over the limp body laying beside the back entrance to McGregor’s Bar and Grill.  Dirty and bloody, it was hard to believe that this was once a man.  He stooped down beside the body so that he could shine his light on the man to get a better view.  The beard on the man covered the premature wrinkling of a face that had seen a hard life.  Warren tried hard to recognize the man but the dim lighting in the alley made it difficult to make out many features.

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Sweeter Tooth

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Ever since the alien invasion Jim had cycled into the village every three or four days to sell a few vegetables, buy necessities and do a bit of espionage. But when he arrived today the village was in turmoil. Two of the alien vehicles were slewed across the road outside Henry's bakery and guards stood in front, their carapaces shining in the morning sunlight.  Jim dumped his bicycle and slipped into the greengrocer's shop.

"What's up, Fred?" he asked.

The proprietor, shaking with fear, crouched behind the counter.

"They came this morning. I thought they were coming for me."

Jim grimaced. He had a lot more to fear from them than the shopkeeper.

"What's happening at Henry's?" he asked.

"I know nothing!" the quaking shopkeeper told him.

"Well at least buy some of  my vegetables. I need the cash."

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