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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

John Waite had been a fisherman all his life. He was a stout man with a large untamed beard and a face that could not hide the years of hard physical toil.

He would rise from the bed every morning at 4am, throwing off the worn bedspread, and slowly climbing out. It was becoming a real effort to lift his heavy aching limbs out of the rickety old bed. His large blackened feet splayed the cold, bare floorboards. He pulled on his thick woollen socks and forced his feet into his boots which required considerable effort, before slowly lifting his huge frame to a standing position like some old prize fighter that had just been knocked down.

He looked into the cobwebbed-covered mirror; the image revealing bright fiery eyes set in a face of criss-cross lines and hard leather-like skin.

He lit the fire in his one room cottage to boil up the water in the rusty old pot for his tea to have with the bread and margarine. This would be his breakfast to re-fuel him for the long day ahead.

He sat at the bare wooden dust-coated table and drank his hot tea which soothed the cold inside him, which still infiltrated his shirt and thick jumper, which he had for ten years, knitted by the hands of his beloved wife Ethel, now long gone to the world beyond, hopefully a better one than the life she had.

He rinsed his cup and wiped his mouth with his large bony hand, before gathering his scrantin and pulling on his thread-bare overcoat, and left the ruin of the cottage.

He had a long walk of about two hours along the coastal path to where his boat lay. The day was still enveloped in a charcoal black, the only light coming from the sea where the waves could be heard visiting the beach. This was his marker; as long as he had the sea to his left he would not get lost. He had done this walk for a very long time and felt every contour of the ground he was walking on, knowing the undulating land like the back of his hand.

His breathing was loud, his heavy boots raking through the long grass. Birds were awakening and warbling melodies that cheered the soul.

He looked back at whence he came; the jagged cliff pointing out to sea looked like the heads of giant rock monsters; the different shapes where the rock had eroded away now resembling miniature islands.

The sun was now full in the sky, drying his damp clothes and bringing much relief to his cold bones. His mouth was becoming parched, so it was good that now he was reaching the little fishing village he always stopped at for some much needed refreshment. The path now started to meander down towards the village which was still tiny in his vision. At this point he looked back at where he had walked. The path cut a long scar in the otherwise unspoilt lush green hillside. He rested and stood on the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea. In his mind he could see large whales just under the surface, the silvery flashes of mermaids jumping out of the water. In the sea of Kernow you could see anything if you looked long enough. As he stood looking out to sea, images and memories came flooding back to him one after the other: his beloved wife and two small boys, his fellow fisherman, going out to sea for the first time with his father.

The sea gods were stirring. He decided to make his way down to the village. The sun reflected in the white wash buildings. Boats were bobbing up and down, only their tethering, stopping them from being swept out to sea. Walkers were mingling around. He headed for his favourite inn; he had been visiting this for many years. He entered the small, enclosed space, solid pot-holed wooden beams strung across the length of the bar. The ceiling built for the small Cornish fisherman of the time, the open fire roared, the logs cracked and popped. This place was a solace, a sanctuary away from the hardship of the fisherman’s life. He sat on the stool he always sat on and lifted his blackened old tankard to his lips and quenched his thirst. Walkers were coming to the bar in their ones and two’s and threes discussing which local ale to sample. They never noticed him.

Fully rested again, he began the last few miles of the walk. He ascended the steep climb back onto the coastal path, the muscles in his legs burning, his heart pumping like an industrial piston. He reached the pinnacle and strolled the grey, rocky path which would eventually lead him to his destination.

After a while he began to descend down towards the deserted stretch of beach where his boat lay. He clambered down the steep rugged trail, pulling himself up, over and down the large slippery rocks using his last bit of strength and energy. He jumped the last few feet onto the wet dark brown sand, his large boots leaving deep imprints which were soon filled with foamy sea water. He rested on a large solitary rock and looked towards the remains of his boat. He took out his scran tin and ate the bread. The boat was now a rotting shrine; seaweed and sand covered large parts of the dead wood. It did not resemble the fishing boat which was John Waite’s pride and joy, a sturdy old beast that had been handed down to him from his father, the boat that had managed to carry ten wicker-made baskets that would catch the fish. After fourteen hours at sea, he would have caught enough fish to sell to be able to feed his family. One day, he never returned, his boat taken by a ferocious storm, only the remains of the boat fetching up on the beach days later.

John Waite’s body was never found, only his lost soul still walks the path of Kernow.

Biog

I have only been writing short stories since January 2014 when I finished a fiction writing course in London.

I have always wrote, but mainly comedy sitcom, so this is my first foray into fiction writing. I enjoy this genre of writing very much, more than I do comedy writing. I think it is because I can write more about personal experiences. “The Path of Kernow” is especially personal to me. It is borne out of my passion and love for Cornwall, and the coastal path which I walk every year.

I will continual to write short stories, because I do get immense satisfaction out of writing them.

Phil Carter

2014

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