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Latest Stories

July 10, 2019
Romance Stories John L.Yelavich

Saccharine Smiles and Sandpaper Personalities

What is the most powerful force in the universe? Is it atomic fusion, military might, volcanoes, tsunamis or any other natural disaster? No, they are not. None of them can create havoc and paranoia in man any more than love can. Yes, love is the force that is…
July 10, 2019
Crime Stories J.B.Stevens

A Good Man

Jimmy hated feeling the delicate orbital bones splinter, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to be free. It was unfortunate. Just the wrong place, wrong time. If he was out he could send money to Sarah. That’s what all this was all about, helping his…
July 10, 2019
Fantasy Stories Roger Ley

Turing Test

Mr Riley liked to start his day in the library. It was a short walk from his house and conveniently situated at the top of the main street in the Suffolk market town that he and his wife had retired to. When they’d first arrived, he’d joined the local writing…
July 10, 2019
Romance Stories Patric Quinn

Where or When

The front doorbell sounded its gentle Westminster Chimes and the thumping on the door started before Hazel even put her pen down on the papers she was working on intently. More curious than annoyed, she stopped writing, shrugged and started for the door.…
July 10, 2019
Flash Fiction Sheila Ash

Working Christmas Again

I always draw the short straw to a chorus of ‘Bad luck’. A reiteration of last year and the year before, and the year before that. Throughout the day, my ‘C’est la vie’ chimes on a constant playback loop. My expressionist shrugs repeat themselves as a…
March 18, 2019
Mystery Stories JD Plummer

Pseudonyms

“Gelb wants you to call him.” I looked at Frankie, opened my mouth, began to slowly shake my head. My reply delayed by the image of Gelb, monocle in eye, brow raised, lips tight, grimacing. I cringed at the thought. “I ain’t calling that prick,” I finally…
March 18, 2019
Fantasy Stories Lucia Balbuena

A Different Story

Her breathing was deep and steady when she run through the dense forest holding her grandmother’s kitchen knife in her hand. Her red cape was torn up, also her legs, hands and her face were cut by the tree brunches. Stop you are the victim, said the forest…
March 17, 2019
Crime Stories Wally Smith

Coda

Luigi Andante’s small apartment sat on the fourth floor of a block in the West Bronx at the corner of 18th and Davidson. It was adequate as a living space, but Luigi craved more than this. “A penthouse overlooking Central Park would suit me just fine”, he had…
March 17, 2019
Crime Stories Walter Giersbach

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Loser

Lorraine Vanderzanden had the thankless task being Lindstrom’s police chief. Her husband didn’t appreciate the risks she took. Her brother didn’t thank her for using her degree for something useful instead of helping on the family farm. Heck, she thought,…
March 17, 2019
Mystery Stories Jenny Webster

"Communicate with me, please."

I have been blind for so long, I didn’t even attempt to imagine what it would be like if I could see. I don’t know any different, all I know is darkness, and I base everything that I can experience mostly through sound. You see, I can’t walk either. I’m not…
March 16, 2019
Flash Fiction Michael Fredrick

Secondhand Santa

The late model sedan sputtered, coughed and dutifully careened forward on a cold December evening. Fred hit the gas pedal & ruminated as he always did, wondering again why life had dealt him this hand? Christmas Eve, foraging for returnable bottles to make…
March 16, 2019
General Stories Darrell Case

Trig's Smokin' Wheels

There were a lot of things Trig Nelson could do, many he wanted to do, and more things he couldn’t do. Trig couldn’t run, he’d never climb stairs or hills or mountains. He couldn’t play football or basketball. Being stuck in a wheelchair that would always be…

 

 

I, Jim Roberts, got fired today. I didn’t realize Mr. Kerr, my boss, was standing behind me when I referred to him as Kerr-mitt. He failed to see the humor, and now I have no source of income. Looks like my journalistic aspirations are out the window. I swear, I can catch a cold faster than I can catch a break. Now I find myself sitting on one of the large chunks of cement at the local landfill.

It’s the only place I can go to clear my head when I have a lot on my mind. The stench alone works wonders.

The landfill is like a giant bowl, filled with defunct appliances, tires without tread, and papers of every kind and color, etc. The cement is on the bowl’s rim and gives me a view of the entire landfill. No one is supposed to be here after hours, so I park outside the gate and duck under. As far as I know, there are no Landfill Police, so I’m not worried. Besides, I’m not stealing junk or adding to the debris.

This place fascinates me. Rumors have flown for years that it’s a mini version of Area 51. All I know about aliens is that when Drew Barrymore let out that high-pitched squeal during Spielberg's E.T., I nearly peed in my Superman Underoos.Not a manly thing to do, but I was seven at the time.

Here’s my life in a nutshell: I'm no longer gainfully employed, I’ve got $22.19 in the bank, and on the drive over here, my car made a sound I didn't appreciate. I swear, nobody in the entire universe could have a life that sucks more than mi . . . what the hell? Is that a . . . oh my god, that's a spaceship! And I haven't done drugs since that time in Kindergarten when I accidentally got high on the fumes from rubber cement. Wait . . . am I getting Punk'd?

Maybe I’d better hide behind the cement, just in case this is for real. Think I’ll turn on my recorder, too; I want to have proof when I tell The National Enquirer!

Well, I guess it’s just me, the stench, and the spaceship. Speaking of which, it seems to be stopping. Yes, it’s hovering a few yards above the landfill. Wait a minute. It looks like a door's opening; yeah, and now some sort of a, I guess it's a plank is extending out of the mouth of the craft. Now I'm watching space guys walk the flippin' plank! They sure are weird looking. The one in front, the bluish guy with so many appendages an octopus would be envious, is waddling way out to the tip of the plank. Now he's turning around while the other two, both red in color with single appendages, are hanging back. Is that a weapon the bigger of the two red ones is pointing at Blue Boy? Yeah, yeah, that's what it's got to be. Big Red hands it to Little Red who resumes pointing it at Blue Boy. Now Big Red pulls a scroll out from God knows where.

Okay, I'll be the first to admit I'm no linguist. In fact sometimes I don't even enunciate as well as a washed up boxer, but I swear I understand every last word Big Red is yelling as he reads that scroll. The gist of it is that Blue Boy is hereby exiled to Earth for being, and I quote, "a multi-armed, blue Thingie" and he's never to show his "ugly mug" on their planet again or he risks on-sight extermination. Wow, and I thought we humans had a low tolerance for tolerating tolerance. Now Little Red's doing a shuffle march down the plank, demanding that Blue Boy, "Turn around and face space, Mister!"

Are you kidding me? He ju … Little Red just kicked Blue Boy in the seat of the pants – well, where the seat of the pants would be if he were wearing any. Oh no, Blue Boy's gone airborne! He's spiraling downward where he bounces off a box spring mattress, does a Triple Lindy, and floats to the ground. Big Red proceeds to fold a scroll, stamped Your Copy, into a miniaturized version of our F-16 fighter jet. It's a slow process since he's only got the one arm. Finally, he aims it over the side. Big Red watches intently as it glides in Blue Boy's general direction. It looks like it's going to miss Blue Boy by at least three mattress lengths, but the wind shifts. The scroll veers to the left, hesitates a moment then zooms downward where it not so gently pokes Blue Boy in the eyeball.

"Owww," Blue Boy yells. Several of his hands flap, flap, flap into each other, jockeying to cover the injured eye. The Reds then give off a piercing squeal and attempt what looks like a high five, but these guys couldn't hit a two hundred pound duck on a sunny day. They give up then flip Blue Boy what I can only assume is Earth's equivalent to the bird because it certainly doesn't look like any salute I've ever seen. Then it's shuffle march, march shuffle, and both Big and Little Red are back onboard where one of them reels in the plank and off they go into the wild dark yonder.

Two thoughts occur to me: as far as I know, Blue Boy is the one true resident alien in America; and, it’s apparent that the Reds consider banishment to Earth as some sort of torture.

Gee, and I thought my life reeked.

The End

Bio: April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if it’s only for a little while. Her other works can be read at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Linguistic Erosion, The Short Humour Site, The Story Shack, and here at Short-Story.Me.

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