April 21, 2019 at 9:13 pm (Short Story) ()

An excellent short story written by Priscilla.


I took the flowers from the windowsill, grabbed a cup of coffee and trudged to the sitting room. My little angels roamed around with their tiny feet’s, i could hardly focus on the movie i was watching. My phone rang – Mum,displayed as the callers ID.

A rash eagerness engulfed me and i picked up. In glee, i screamed “hello mum!” As though it was still 2005 when i had finished my secondary school and was waiting for my JAMB results to determine if i was to go to college or not. “ah!…its me, the Gen man” the person said and i froze as though my mum could actually call me just as she did each time i stayed for prep after school. “Hello Jennifer, my daughter how are you?…may God grant you wisdom, knowledge, understanding, high intelligence, smartness…” and she would go on and on…

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A Young Legionary In Bethlehem: The Christmas Story Never Told

December 25, 2018 at 11:56 pm (Short Story) (, , )

The young legionary had had a bad day.

After a night of rowdy drinking, he had forgotten the standard for his regiment.

And had left it overnight in the little town of Bethlehem.

The officer in charge of the regiment was thankfully merciful.

Instead of court martialing the young legionary for his most serious offense, he just sent the young legionary back to Bethlehem to retrieve it.

Although being sent back to Bethlehem was punishment enough the young legionary figured.

For Bethlehem had to be the most god forsaken place on this earth.

“Have fun in Bethlehem, Pompey,” his fellow legionaries had said to him.

Pompey was his nickname.

Pompey of course had been the name of the Roman general who had lost to Julius Caesar in the Roman civil war.

It was an inside joke that earned the young legionary his nickname.

As Pompey set out from Jerusalem towards Bethelehem, he did have to admit that the star he saw in the sky that seemed to be hovering directly over the little town was indeed most impressive.

Probably the only impressive thing about the place, Pompey thought to himself.

He sighed as he rode his horse.

Last week he had gotten a Dear Antony letter from his girlfriend Julia the woman he expected to marry when he returned to Rome.

She had met someone else- the “man of her dreams” as she had put it and was going to be marrying him.

“Argh!” Pompey hit his forehead with his metallic gloved hand as he recalled the letter.

What was it about women and the men of their dreams?

Usually the dream always turned out to be a nightmare, his father had once told him.

And may that be the case with Julia’s “man of her dreams” Pompey cursed the couple.

He looked towards his left and noticed a small group of shepherds tending their flocks by night.

“What an exciting job that must be,” Pompey remarked to himself sarcastically as he laughed.

He brought the horse to a halt for a minute.

He thought he had heard something.

He turned and looked in every direction.

And listened.

But now nothing.

What was it? he had heard.

For one brief shining moment, it sounded like music.

Heavenly music.

Surely it must have been the “music of the spheres” that the great philosopher Aristotle had written about.

And for one moment, he had been privileged to hear it.

Pompey looked up in the sky.

It seemed like a bunch of lesser lights were now surrounding that great star.

He rode on until he came to the inn where he and his fellow legionaries had stayed last night.

“I say, innkeeper,” he addressed the man pouring wine amongst the raucous crowd of guests, “could you tell me where I ahem! left my standard last night?”.

A rather beautiful and alluring young woman giggled at the way he had asked the question and looked at him appreciatively.

“And is your standard up to mine?” She winked at him.

Pompey looked at her.

That would certainly be a dish of revenge best served hot against Julia’s betrayal the young legionary thought to himself.

But no he best get the standard and return to Jerusalem.

He looked back to the innkeeper.

“Your comrade Drusillus took it with him this morning when he left,” the innkeeper answered.


Pompey was shocked.

Drusillus had taken the standard?

That bastard.

And Drusillus had never told him.

Pompey turned back to the beautiful and alluring young woman.

She might be the prize worth waiting for on this useless trip to Bethlehem.

But already her eyes and her attention were elsewhere.

“Do you love me?” She teasingly asked a man.

“What is love?” He answered back to laughs and back slaps from his male companions.

“Come on,” she pretended to pout, “do you love me?”.

“All right,” the man answered, “I do love you and that is the gods’ honest truth.”

“What is truth?” Asked one of the man’s companions to much laughter.

The woman raised her dress and beckoned him, “Then come on. Show me your truth, baby.”

Pompey winced and turned away.

As he did so, through the window, he caught sight of a stable in a cave just behind the inn.

Anyways it was time to get back to Jerusalem.

Pompey got on his horse and pointed it in the direction of Jerusalem.

The horse started to walk but with great difficulty.

“Blessed Mercury,” Pompey sighed, “he’s broken a horseshoe.”

Fortunately for Pompey, there was a blacksmith’s shop right next to the inn.

The blacksmith was rather angry at being wakened but when Pompey showed the man what he could pay him, the man set to work.

Pompey stood watching the man pound nails into the new horseshoe and then decided to buy himself some wine from the inn.

Seeing as how the night was starting to turn cold, Pompey asked for a cup of hot spiced wine.

The wine was nice and hot, Pompey thought to himself as he put hands around the cup to warm them.

“Blessed Juno, what a chilly night,” the young legionary thought to himself, “definitely not a night for men or beasts to be about. As the gods like Augustus in Rome and the Olympians on Mount Olympus keep warm in their palaces, we of a lesser breed freeze. The cold is definitely not a place for a true god to be found.”

Pompey, warmed by the wine, decided to take a walk around Bethlehem.

There was not much to see around the town the young legionary noticed.

But as he walked he noticed the bright star in the sky seemed to be directly over the stable in the cave behind the inn.

Pompey decided to walk there and take a look.

As he stood outside the cave manger, the young legionary took a sip from his cup.

“Great Bacchus,” Pompey sighed, “I really should have been drinking it as I walked around town. The wine has turned cold.”

As he stood there, the young legionary thought he could hear a baby gurgling from inside the cave.

Pompey was familiar with the sound of babies gurgling because he had been present at his older sister’s house when his nephew had been born.

Pompey entered the cave.

And the sight he saw shook him to the very core of his being.

For inside the cave was a young man standing protectively over a beautiful young woman (probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life) who lay on straw holding a recently born baby.

“What child is this?” Pompey thought when he looked at the babe.

No sooner had he thought that question than he thought he heard again (albeit momentarily) the beautiful heavenly music of the spheres he had heard earlier on the road into Bethlehem.

“What do you want?” Asked the young man who protectively clasped the shoulder of the beautiful young woman.

The young woman herself looked at the young legionary without fear.

Great unknown god, she was beautiful, Pompey thought to himself.

A different sort of beauty from the alluring beauty of the temptress he had encountered in the inn.

A pure beauty.

A most pure beauty.

A beauty capable of capturing a man’s soul and not just his body.

The baby gurgled again.

“I thought I heard a baby gurgling,” Pompey answered the young man’s question, “and wondered what a baby was doing inside a stable inside a cave.”

“There was no room in the inn,” the young man answered simply.

The baby seemed to beckon to the young legionary.

The legionary approached.

The child then grasped the young legionary’s cup and stuck his tiny hands inside the cup and washed them.

“I’m so sorry,” the young woman gasped.

“Quite all right,” Pompey smiled and bowed, “I wish you a wonderful evening.”

He quickly left the cave.

And as he did so, the same group of shepherds he had seen earlier this evening were now entering the cave.

Astonished, Pompey started sipping the wine again.

Good Lord, Pompey thought to himself, the wine is warm again.

The wine had turned cold from his walk around town.

Then this baby had stuck his hands in the cup and washed them.

And now the wine was warm again.

What child is this? Pompey once again thought to himself.

He was still pondering that question as he finished the wine (which also seemed to have improved in taste as a result of the child touching it), returned the cup to the inn and then walked next door to the blacksmith.

Thankfully the blacksmith had finished the horseshoe and had put it on the young legionary’s horse.

Well, the young legionary nicknamed Pompey thought to himself, at least the last days of Pompey wouldn’t be spent in Bethlehem.

He returned his thoughts again to the child inside the cave.

What child is this? The young legionary thought to himself a third time.

Oh well, probably greater things to ponder in the scheme of things, the young legionary thought to himself, after all it’s not likely I’ll ever encounter this child again.

And with that, the young legionary named Pontius Pilate got on his horse and rode out of Bethlehem.

-A short story written by Christopher
Christmas Day December 25th 2018.

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August 16, 2018 at 9:01 pm (Short stories, Short Story) (, , , )

An excellent short story written by an excellent short story writer.


Come over here right now!” Vuccinio retorted irately as he pushed forward and pulled a file from Noah’s sweaty palms. “Don’t you dare touch this!”he continued and then plodded to the comfort of his office chair. Noah gazed at the file next to vuccinio,his death wish urging him to grab it once more. Noah reached out for it.

Like a careless football,Noah’s head came rolling on the floor, and there came a knock on the door.

Is everything alright in there?” ..“what broke?”. People asked from behind the door and vuccinio replied

mataré a todos..sólo el diablo puede gobernar“.


Hey!…don’t hold it tight…it hurts!”Stefanie shouted at the hairstylist who frowned at her through the wide mirror. Stefanie turned on the Television. The breaking news was read out on TV.
Hombre encontrado muerto en una habitación de hotel…

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Herb Takes A Walk: A Short Short Story

June 27, 2018 at 9:20 pm (Short stories, Short Story) ()

Herb Takes A Walk: A Short Short Story

Herb decided to take a walk in the neighbourhood.

He decided to walk across a school field.

There was a sign warning him that the grass had recently been sprayed.

It didn’t bother Herb at all.

He walked across the field.

Halfway across the field, he keeled over and died.

Later the coroner explained the cause of death.

The sign had warned him Herbicide Application Applied Today.

Herb had ignored the sign at his peril.

-A short short story
Written by Christopher
Wednesday June 27th

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A Missile Fired, Sir Paul Reflects

August 30, 2017 at 3:30 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, News, Religion, Short Story, Vampire novel) ()

Sir Paul sat in his hotel room and watched the television showing the North Korean missile launch over Japan.

It seemed the world was getting to be a more and more dangerous place all the time.

All over the world it seemed to be a summer of violence, hatred and terror.

Sir Paul picked up his guitar and played a song he hadn’t played in a long time.

A song he had written so many years ago.

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be

For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow
Let it be

I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

His critics often wondered what that song meant.

He wondered often what that song meant.

He had dreamed about his own mother Mary (who died of cancer when he was 14) coming to him in dreams when he was going through a rough time recording a particular album.

Others thought that the Mother Mary referred to in the poem was the mother of Jesus.

But, Sir Paul reflected, it was possible for a song or any work of art for that matter to have more than one meaning, even a meaning that the original artist hadn’t foreseen when he/she created his/her work.

Sir Paul looked at the North Korean missile flying over Japan.

He saw the terrified faces of people in the streets looking up.

Then he looked at the painting over one of the chairs in his hotel room- a painting he had just noted for the first time.

This is what he saw.

Our Lady of Lavang

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me…

-A short story
written by Christopher
August 30th 2017.

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The Boy and The Skunk: A Short Story

May 18, 2016 at 6:40 pm (Life, Short stories, Short Story) (, , , )

The Boy and The Skunk: A Short Story

The boy walked along the banks of Rosebud Creek east of the town of Crossfield. His loyal English sheepdog Buster followed him.

Buster was named after the great comedic actor Buster Keaton- one of the boy’s favourite film stars whom he saw on those rare occasions when his mother took him to a movie show in the big city of Calgary.

Buster had an interesting background. He was the sole survivor of a brood of pups drowned on a Hutterite colony near the boy’s parents’ farm because the colony boss thought the colony couldn’t really afford to feed any more dogs.

The puppy had somehow managed to survive the mass drowning and was about to be “re-drowned” as it were when the boy called George and his father showed up on the colony to see if the Hutterites were willing to trade some potatoes for lettuce from George’s mother’s garden.

As George’s dad and the colony boss hammered out a deal, George approached the Hutterite man that the colony boss had assigned to be the pups’ executioner.

“Don’t drown the poor dog,” George addressed the man, “I’m willing to adopt him and take him home and look after him.”

The man looked at the colony boss and the colony boss looked at George’s father.

George’s father sighed.

It was amazing how his son loved animals.

And how animals seemed to love his son in return.

His son even seemed to have the gift of “horse whispering” – that unique ability by which a person was even able to calm and tame wild horses.

George’s father nodded.

The colony boss then nodded to the would-be executioner that it was all right.

The little sheepdog who would come to be called Buster had already run to the boy somehow sensing that George was his rescuer.

George picked him up in his arms and the little sheepdog licked his face.

Buster was a very intelligent dog.

George had trained him to gather firewood.

So every morning at the back door of the farm house, there was a huge supply of large sticks that Buster had gone out and gathered during the night.

One morning there was a knock at the front door of the farm house.

George’s mother answered the door.

It was an official from the local CPR (Canadian Pacific Railway) station in Crossfield mentioning that survey sticks that CPR surveyors had been putting up in the area had mysteriously disappeared overnight and might she have any idea who the thief was?

George’s mother shook her head.

George who was in the kitchen having breakfast overheard the conversation.

He waited until the CPR official had driven away in his car.

Then he went rushing to the back door to see what sort of firewood Buster had gathered during the night.

Buster was there with his tongue hanging out looking as pleased as punch with himself at the night’s cache.

Large sticks with the initials CPR on them.

George immediately put them in the wood pile.

Alerting his parents to what Buster had done might have resulted in their giving Buster away.

And on this fine day, George was walking along Rosebud Creek with Buster.

George was imagining that he was walking along the River Nile with his faithful dog Buster and that he was about to discover Cleopatra’s tomb or the tomb of some mighty Pharaoh.

George often dreamed of becoming an archaeologist when he grew up.

He was the most voracious young reader of all the books in the one room schoolhouse that he attended- having read every one including all the volumes of the encyclopedia and all the geography books and all the history texts and all the science books.

As George walked along the banks of the Rosebud, his eyes carefully scanned the ground- looking for signs of Indian arrowheads for which he seemed to have a natural gift of finding.

He also kept a watch for beaver traps as he knew trappers often set traps along the banks for the creek’s beavers.

Buster did the same.

Not so much to look out for arrowheads like his young human friend but to avoid stepping in a beavertrap.

Suddenly George heard a clanging.

The sound of a beaver trap closing.

George looked in the direction of the clanging.

What poor animal was it whose foot was now caught?

George and Buster walked in the direction of the noise.

And there it was… black with white stripes… a skunk.

The poor creature looked at George.

And George looked at the poor creature.

The skunk turned and tried to walk away- no doubt not sure if George was friend or foe.

It struggled as it walked along the banks of the creek, one of its legs in pain from the trap it was in.

George followed to see if he could help the poor skunk.

A dangerous thing to do.

For it was always possible that the skunk could turn around and spray him with its awful smelling scent.

Still George followed.

The skunk stopped.

It couldn’t go on with this painful thing on its foot.

It turned around.

There was the stranger still following him.

The skunk looked at George.

Then it looked down at its foot.

The skunk thought that maybe the stranger might know how to take the thing off its foot.

So it sat and let George approach.

George came and carefully removed the trap off the skunk’s foot.

Then George waited.

Would the skunk spray him with its scent?

But no.

Instead the skunk seemed to grin at him, George thought, and then turned and went on its way- slowly to be sure- from the pain of having its leg in a trap but still it was moving.

Several weeks later, George was playing along the creek with some friends from school.

“Look, a bunch of skunks,” a boy shouted.

“Eek! They’ll spray us with their scent!” A girl shouted.

“If you don’t bother skunks, they won’t bother you,” George always spoke with a wisdom that went well beyond his young years.

“Hey look, George,” another girl pointed, “that one skunk there seems to be looking at you and it almost looks as if he’s smiling at you.”

“It does,” the other children agreed, “He seems to be smiling at you. Why is that, George?”.

“I have no idea,” George shrugged.

At that point, Buster the sheepdog made a strange noise.

It wasn’t a bark.

It wasn’t a growl.

If sheepdogs could guffaw, maybe that was the sound Buster made.

And the skunks went on their way.

And George and his friends went on their way.

And Buster followed.

Still guffawing.

-A short story written
by Christopher
Wednesday May 18th

(The above short story is based on real life events. The boy George grew up to be my father George Bursell Milner. It was 6 years ago today that my dad suddenly collapsed to the floor while shaving in the bathroom and had to be rushed to hospital by ambulance. Within less than a month my dad would be dead from cancer. I wrote this story for I think it illustrates to my readers what sort of person my father was. The writer G.K. Chesterton once wrote that “The boy is the father of the man.” Meaning that what people are like in their childhoods is often indicative of what they become in their adult lives)

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What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2016 at 8:33 pm (Folklore, Horror, Short stories, Short Story, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

Connor McFinn stumbled out of his house on the way to the pub.

Usually most nights it was the reverse.

But his brainless Irish-American nephew from Boston was visiting.

And to mark Saint Paddy’s Day, his brainless nephew had bought some bottles of American beer and laced it with green food dye.

“Faith and begorrah,” his nephew brutally murdered the accent of his homeland with the same severity that MacBeth had stabbed Duncan, ” ’tis a fine Irish tradition to drink green beer on Saint Paddy’s Day.”

“No, it isn’t, you moron,” Connor said in an exasperated voice, “maybe in America but not here in Ireland. Here in Ireland, we toast Saint Paddy with Guinness or Murphy’s or some fine local stout. This beer is an abomination and blasphemy against the Holy Saint Patrick himself.”

“Abomination and blasphemy against Saint Paddy himself,” his nephew spewed green beer out of his mouth all over the brown sofa with the same velocity as an ex-DARPA employee would spew bourbon and coffee all over his computer screen after reading a humourous blog post, “surely you exaggerate, Uncle.”

After drinking several green beers, his nephew lay passed out on the floor.

Connor had been forced to drink several pints of the abominable blasphemous substance to please his sister’s brainless son.

Once the misfit lay on the floor snoring away, Connor got up and stumbled out the door to head down to the local pub to drink a pint of Guinness and toast the Apostle and Patron Saint of Ireland the proper Irish way.

As he stumbled his way through the meadows and forests to get to the village, he hit his head on a low-lying tree branch.

As Connor sat there dazed under the tree, he noticed a bunch of giant snakes approaching him.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Connor made the Sign of the Cross, “this is what comes from drinking a witch’s brew of green beer.”

The huge giant serpents with giant fangs approached him.

This couldn’t be happening, Connor thought to himself.

After all, the Holy Saint Patrick had personally driven all the snakes out of Ireland.

“Get away,” Connor shouted, “you’re not real. You’re a figment of a warped imagination brought on by drinking that Devil’s brew of green beer.”

Seeing as how the snakes actually proceeded to eat Connor McFinn in literal objective reality (although that concept would be disputed and denied by a great many modern and post-modern philosophers), his brainless Irish-American nephew’s green beer was a Devil’s brew from a witch’s cauldron indeed.

-A short story
and vampire novel
written by Christopher
Thursday March 17th

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All You Can Eat Buffet

November 6, 2015 at 8:28 pm (Horror, Mystery/horror, Short Story) (, , )

All You Can Eat Buffet

Ben noticed the huge line-up ahead on the sidewalk as he walked down the street.

“Is there a big concert or something?” Ben asked the last person in line as he walked by.

“No, this line-up is for a new all you can eat buffet,” the man answered.

“Really?” Ben was surprised, “They must have really really good food if there’s this long a line up for it.”

“There’s a special promotional offer for today,” the last man in line explained, “they’ll pay you $20 if you can handle the all you can eat buffet according to this promotional pamphlet flyer here.”

“What?” Ben was incredulous, “you can eat all you want and then they’ll pay you $20 at the end?”.

“That’s right,” the last man in line nodded.

“Well, I might as well join in,” Ben got behind the man.

The line seemed to be moving pretty quickly and before Ben knew it, he was the first person in line before the door that said All You Can Eat Buffet.

The door opened and Ben walked in.

The door immediately closed behind him.

“So,” Ben asked the maitre’d at the door, “how do you expect to make a profit if you give people an all you can eat buffet and then you pay them at the end?”.

“You only get the money if you can survive handling the buffet,” the maitre’d explained, “and besides the all you can eat buffet isn’t for you… it’s for… him.”

The maitre’d pushed Ben into a room which had a huge pit on the floor with a sign beside it that said Glemp the Giant Cannibal.

The giant’s hands emerged from the pit and grabbed Ben.

Before Ben knew it, he was in the giant’s mouth where he was crunched and munched to pieces by Glemp’s huge teeth.

Ben did not get his $20.

-A short story
written by Christopher
Friday November 6th

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The Hunter

August 16, 2014 at 5:47 pm (Short stories, Short Story, Vampire novel) (, , , , )

The Hunter

The stranger walked through town.

The town was empty and desolate.

As empty and desolate as the vast desert behind him.

The sound of giant hoof beats could be heard behind him as he went through town.

He looked to the left.

No one there.

He looked to the right.

No one there.

He looked straight ahead.

No one there.

He stopped in his tracks.

The sound of the giant hoof beats behind him likewise fell silent.

He turned and looked behind him.

No one there.

The stranger who was called the Hunter continued on.

To the edge of town.

And again through desert.

To the next town…

… clomp… …clomp… …clomp…

… the sound of horse’s hooves…

…. The Hunter continued on….

… in search of prey….

… Human prey…

…. he arrived at the next town…

….but this was not a town in the old days of the American Wild West…

… it was a town in today’s contemporary Middle East…

…. Syria or Iraq…

… who knows?…

Borders seem to be fluid in today’s war-torn Middle East.

The Hunter was in search of fighters from IS (the Islamic State) the Islamist terrorist militia formerly known as ISIS (the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham).

His mission: to kill as many IS fighters as possible.

Ahmed, the IS fighter who had been born and raised in Germany and who had left his family’s moderate mosque in his early 20s and joined the mosque of a radical imam and then heeded the call to join the new Caliphate of the emerging Islamic State, raised his head.

And then raised his gun.

He had heard the sound of horse’s hooves coming from outside the building he was in.

He looked out the window.

A giant shadow fell across the room he was in.

The ground seemed to rumble and the wall of the building around the window collapsed.

Ahmed the IS fighter from Germany tried to step back into the shadows.

Away from the gaze of the fierce looking horseman.

The horseman who was…

… well…

… just that…

…. a horseman…

The horse-man looking every inch the giant of a figure who had just walked off the pages of an illustrated book of Greek mythology raised his giant bow in the direction of Ahmed and drew back the string…

… and fired the arrow…

… the arrow that never missed its mark…

… for the Hunter never missed his mark…

… and Ahmed departed this world…

… and wondered where in Hell were the 72 dark-eyed virgins that were promised him?

. . .

U. S. President Barack Obama stood outside the cabinet meeting room in the White House where he was examining the shocking satellite photos of the Iraq-Syria border region being shown him by a deputy director of the CIA.

“Where the Hell did that centaur come from?” The President asked.

Inside the meeting room meanwhile, a heated debate was raging amongst the members of the President’s National Security Council.

“But,” a voice could be heard loudly protesting, “only a complete horse’s ass would want to go into Iraq and Syria these days.”

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday August 15th

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The Death Defying Jump

July 14, 2014 at 6:54 pm (Short stories, Short Story) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The Death Defying Jump

Mocker of Thanatos (not his real name) was a professional motorcycle jumping daredevil.

Mocker used a classic Harley-Davidson XR 750 for his jumps- the bike most used by his idol Evel Knievel during his death-defying stunts of the 1970s.

Today he would be attempting a ramp-to-ramp motorcycle jump over 50 Boeing 767s lined-up side by side.

His assistants told him that he was crazy and that they would quit if he went ahead with this jump.

Oh well, he could always hire new assistants.

His wife told him that he was crazy and that she would leave him if he went ahead with this jump.

Oh well, as long as she left the remote behind (unlike his ex-wife), he wouldn’t care.

His psychiatrist told him that he was crazy if he went ahead with this jump.

But then again psychiatrists were paid to tell people that they were crazy.

Mocker of Thanatos went up the ramp with lightning speed.

He had never raced so quickly in his life.

Off the ramp he went…

… and he went sailing through the air…

…five… ten… only 40 to go…

… 15…. 20…

… damn… he was good…

… 20… 25…

…25… 30…

… Yes… he was definitely hot stuff all right…

…30… 35…

… he was simply the best…

… 36… 37…

…38… 39…

… better than all the rest…

…40 …. 41…

… as Tina Turner would probably sing about him…

… 42… 43…

… he should really get a selfie while he was doing this…

He reached inside his vest pocket to grab his smart phone…

… 45… 46…

… this should only take a sec..

… the bike nose dived and struck the right wing of the 48th Boeing 767…

… the bike bounced off the wing and sent both bike and rider flying in opposite directions…

Mocker of Thanatos’ dead body (he would be mocking Thanatos no longer) landed beside a billboard advertising sign that read,

Please do not use your cell phone while driving.

Distracted driving can cause accidents.

-A short story written
by Christopher
Monday July 14th

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