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Latest Stories

September 13, 2021
General Stories Kasimir Kozlowski

An Understanding

1 The sharp halogen beams of the Greyhound bus cut a swath of light across the white frozen tundra of the flatlands nearing a small town outside of Winnipeg, and the passengers are beginning to get a little restless. Henry also stirs to life. He’s been…
September 13, 2021
Fantasy Stories Abdulla Ameen

That Memorable Quest

Beneath the starlit sky, which not only had that dark blue shade but also a purple tone, with stars lying flat on the vivid plain, was the cavern he chose to spend the night. The hillside was riskier in the dark and that was the only thought that made him…
September 13, 2021
Crime Stories Benoit

Marseille

Marseille Synopsis Carmine Diop was looking for the Fast Lane; instead, he met his Maker. A mistake, a sin. The wages of sin are death for beautiful Annette and her boyfriend Youbai. Dust to dust. Marseille Every city has its specialties, including Marseille.…
September 05, 2021
General Stories Barbara Dolan

Dreams

She watched him from a distance, wondering if she should, how she should, approach him. Flying to San Francisco from Southern California, Alice took a bus north to the small town on the Russian River, a town she had never heard of, nor had she seen it on any…
September 05, 2021
Flash Fiction Richard Sanders

Leak

“Sir.” With Slayer blaring in his ears, Madison is in his own world scrolling through Twitter. His head is throbbing. He’s had a long week of school and work, not a lot of time for leisure. This is the first date Jordan and he have been on in weeks. He’s…
August 13, 2021
Fantasy Stories André Gouyneau

The Great Leap

Mike River, the owner of the Artificium Gallery situated on New York’s Fifth Avenue, was waiting for Glen Dinano. The brief message from the artist had fueled his imagination. The title – The Great Leap of Ronald McDonald – seemed catchy and he liked this…
August 13, 2021
General Stories Marco

Today's The Day

Still half asleep, Patricia opened her eyes and glanced at the alarm clock. Too early. Next to her, Joe slept soundly. She tried to doze but the excitement struck her. One last hurdle, then bliss, it will all be over. Today our lives change forever. She…
August 11, 2021
Romance Stories Barbara E. Dolan

Desert Fires

The flickering yellow light from the candles seemed to wrap the table in a kind of floating gauze. Her head felt light from too much wine, and it seemed that her body was covered in a warm, soft blanket. They had shared many dinners with Michael and Denise,…
August 11, 2021
Crime Stories NT Franklin

The Next Victim

Bobby put his coffee down as the two detectives walked up to his booth. “You should’ve been there today, boys. The divorce hearing at family court spiraled to new lows.” “Whoa, slow down, Bobby, you’ll choke on that coffee.” Detective Rush smiled when he…
August 09, 2021
Fantasy Stories Azahra Dea A

Meant To Be

It was Saturday morning, wind blew softly through her hair. She was enjoying a frappuccino at a café, yet she was losing her mind as she knew there was a room full of chaos inside of her. It was like a broken compass and she wedged there, screaming for help…
August 09, 2021
Crime Stories Leonore Wilson

The Snakes

Snakes. Long, thick snakes. Small slithery ones. King snakes, corn snakes, milk snakes, rattlesnakes. Residents of the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans had every reason to be anxious. Six years after Katrina and the snakes seemed to be everywhere. Neela Ann…
August 05, 2021
Fantasy Stories Steve Slavin

Joshua And The Chanters

Way back in the early days of Rock ‘n Roll, many popular groups were built around the vocal talents of their lead singer. Among them were Diana Ross and the Supremes, Buddy Holly and the Crickets, Reparata and the Delrons, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Freddy…

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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