A Decade Short: Stories

There were days when it would consume him.   Swallowing his blissful imagination that took head of his hopes in one whole gulp.   Timothy Argyle was having one of those days.   Sadness that would not end and pursued him, letting him awake with that never parting sorrow, knowing the day ahead of him would continually keep him in the grasp of despair.   Timothy did not want to feel this way, nor did he intend to feel pity for himself, knowing that if he were then it would surely eat him from the inside out.   Timothy journeyed looking for peace.   After losing his one and only treasure, his bride Abigail he felt like his life could never be new.   So he set on a voyage of discovery in search of something different, if not entirely unfamiliar, for change, for that is the one thing Timothy desperately needed.   Today he had traveled east of Spain to Barcelona.   He was discouraged often at the tourist destinations, fearing that so many traveling...

Spoken Statement from Andre Scout 22 nd February 1867 Transcribed to text by Sheriff Peter Frances. It wasn’t unusual for me to me found in a bar surrounded by girls.   True, they may have already been there, and true again, they may not be there for me, but regardless, it was never unusual.   Yeah there were some unusual events that occurred but you don't need to know about that. What you do need to know is that it was a cold night, and I needed to get warm.   Without an open fire and a sure lack of company I went to the warmest thought I knew: a bottle of bourbon and few shots of brandy.     I’m a drinking man, but you could say that night I was practicing on the hard stuff.   I wasn’t inexperienced but I certainly didn’t know the ropes, how was I to know that I was going to act that way? You should be arresting that bar tender that poured the poison, not the man who drank it.   Something Fixby was his name, dirty bastard, never washes. ...

The sky wanted to be every colour, confused it settled for a flamed red stretch upon the dying day.   The sun was tired, bored of the land it slowly walked across it moved to another, as it forever does, leaving darkness and moonlight in its wake.   The land turned begging again for its light but it was too late, the nocturnal creatures that lived on its back woke up to the starlit universe above them.   If it were to catch up with the sun they would surely go insane.   Regardless, the land wanted its light; it chased the sun trying to make the night go away.   Begging for another chance of a clear day, it shouted to the sun that there won’t be clouds to block its light this time, it asked if it would return.   But the sun kept moving, as did the land hoping that the sun would hear its words.   The land cried.   Water leaked from the clouds creating a downpour of rain, the crops suckled up the moisture allowing their roots to grow, the roots them...

Why does water want to drown us if we don’t fight it off?   Why do we need to keep capturing air in our lungs and let it escape all the time? Can’t we just keep it in there?   Why do we have to walk everywhere? Why are roller skates such a taboo in the work place?   Why has no one ever spliced our genes with a bird so we can have wings?   Why do we have to introduce ourselves before we kiss a girl? Why can’t we just tell if we like someone from the looks? Can’t we just kiss? What’s with all the formalities?   Life’s a mystery and I’ll never know what’s going on.   You know what’s a good thing? Not giving a shit.   Best thing I’ve ever done.   Depression man, it’s never been a solution, except it’s a good way to get rid of happiness.   Man, happiness can be a bit of a shitter sometimes right? Who wants to be happy all the time? How would you know you’re happy if you’ve not been depressed?   Why do we have to know both feelings to know on...

The gun left a trailing grey cloud after the first bullet left the cartridge, Harlem was laying in vomit and his own blood.   I was responsible for both.   I didn’t feel guilty about the bourbon and rum I sank into him but the bullet was a whole other story.   It was surprising no one heard it, who knew silencers worked so damn well.   Couldn’t stand looking at his face when he was alive, even in death he looked smug.   I emptied his pockets out, it didn’t seem right to pin the guilt on him after everything.   It was the plan to start with, ply him with booze till he couldn’t stand then put a .12 calibre bullet between his eyes.   As soon as it drilled through his skill I just felt guilty about fucking up his legacy.   His wife would kill herself if she thought Harlem had been selling coke.   I removed the ounce of cocaine and slipped it into a briefcase.   I had a dead body in front of me and enough drugs to put me behind bars long eno...