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Found 17 results

  1. So... way back when I wrote 'Barnaby' and then shelved it on a hard drive. What followed is the usual tale of computers blowing up and misplaced media. I suppose I'm lucky it wasn't on a floppy (snort). Simon's Lockdown will be along anon.
  2. My Mom is a Witch by Cole Parker Cole has written a wickedly funny Halloween treat that is a true paean to coming of age. 'Crack of dawn' - Snort!
  3. After reading the forum thread on Moonlit Cave by Jason Rimbaud https://awesomedude.com/jasonr/moonlit-cave/moonlit-cave.htm I was motivated to add my own short story which I wrote in response to the same writing prompt: the first line - You watched as the water rushed into the cave as you tugged helplessly at the shackle on your arm; realizing high tide was starting to fill the space, dooming you to drown. You Cannot Save Me by Talo Segura. He watched as the water rushed into the cave, tugging helplessly at the shackle securing his arm; realising the high tide was starting to fill the space, dooming him to drown. The first light of dawn illuminated the small entrance which gave out onto the sea. Crashing waves pummeled the rocks and shoreline somewhere in the distance. The roar from outside contrasted with an echoing calm within the darkness. Successive waves broke over his head as he struggled in vain to free himself. Today I will be in paradise he thought and wept, even as he cried in anguish. The boy was half-dead when he'd pulled him from the wreckage and dragged him out of the water onto the damp sandy beach. He could not have known, nor could he have rightly been held responsible, it was not just. Those events played out in his head as the salty water filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. He gulped in air between mouthfulls of choking water. It was another bright and sunny day, the sand damp, but warm, on his bare feet as he walked along the water's edge. The peace was broken only by the gentle sound of rolling waves and the screech of a seagull swooping overhead. He shielded his eyes as he looked towards the sound and then to the distant horizon. The deep blue of the sea sparkled in the sunlight and only the faintest of lines marked where the horizon touched the sky. A cloudless sky that reflected the colour of the water. His habit was to wander the shoreline alone, keeping company only with his thoughts, allowing the sounds of nature to fill his head and the warmth of the sun to caress his bare chest and warm his sadness. Nothing would take away the emptiness he felt, not the beauty of the savage shore, nor the kind words of those few friends who still bothered to try and talk to him. He was dead to their words and sentiments, consumed by the loss of the first and only person he had loved, would ever love. No one, nothing, could fill his life now. To that, he was resigned, and the desolation he felt inside himself left him inconsolable. Hardly ever did he encounter anyone on these lonely walks, even less a patrol of the castle guard. The army were usually content to walk the ramparts and guard the city, seldom concerned with anything outside, whatever it might be. They were perhaps confident that the fortifications alone were more than enough to hold back any attack. After all this was one of the remotest parts of the kingdom. That was reason enough for the King to have despatched his son and heir to the distant outpost. Certain he would be safe from the ravages of the impending war in the south. Rounding the headland that warm sunny morning he was immediately confronted with a scene of devastation. Wreckage was scattered against the rocks. He scrambled along, being careful with his footing on the slippery stone and avoiding the ragged strands of emerald green seaweed. It was as he made his way towards the beach on the other side of the outcrop that he saw him. Jet black hair with a strand of seaweed in it, torn clothes, and surely a broken leg judging by the unnatural position. The boy was half in, half out of the water. His body lifeless, an arm moving with the water, bobbing up and down. He quickly drew close and grabbing the boy's shoulders lifted him out of the water and dragged him a little way up the beach. Putting his ear to the tiny chest he tried to listen, but heard nothing. A finger against the boy's creamy white neck may have given a hint of a pulse. Without hesitating he pinched the nostrils and covered the cold lips with his own. He breathed into the lifeless body. He gulped in air and breathed into the boy's mouth again. Then again. A reaction! He turned him on his side as the once lifeless body coughed up water, two, three times. Spewing the salty liquid onto the sand. Laying him back, he looked into the dark eyes. For an instant he thought those eyes matched perfectly the strands of discarded seaweed, and somehow they echoed those eyes he had lost. Before he could do more there was shouting and noise. Galloping horses and harsh words. The sound of a drawn sword as it slid from its scabard. A glint of steel. Hands dragged him away as the voices shouted at him. He saw the expressions on their faces. They were accusing. Accusing him. Of what? The blackness enveloped him like a sudden eclipse. The stone floor was cold, he could not understand where he was. Reaching for his head he noticed blood on his arm. How long had he been unconscious? He had no idea. Stumbling to his feet he moved uncertainly in the gloom. The heavy wooden door wouldn't move. It was locked. He slumped back down. "You kissed the Prince Royal," the stern, gruff voice, announced. He was bent over on his knees, prostrate before the judge. A guard held each arm outstretched. "You are condemned to die by drowning." He heard the words, but didn't register their meaning. His head hurt, his whole body hurt. Why was this happening? Was it the next day? How many days had he lain there, on that stone floor? They dragged him out, kicked and beat him. Pulled him with them, wrapping his eyes with a band of dirty cloth. He stumbled, weak and blind. He heard the waves and smelt the salty air. Then the water was all around his body. His arm was shackled to a chain as voices echoed. The dirty cloth was ripped from his eyes and the darkness was replaced by a deep gloom. He shivered in the cold water. Then a glimmer of light gave a faint impression of his surroundings. He was alone, totally alone. He watched as the water rushed into the cave, tugging helplessly at the shackle securing his arm; realising the high tide was starting to fill the space, dooming him to drown. He was condemned. Condemned to walk this world alone or to drown in a sea of sorrow. The love of his life awaited him in paradise and his tears joined the salty waves as the water rose and covered his head.
  4. The House Party by Nigel Gordon 'The House Party' is wonderful. It's the sort of story you'd find in an old hardback anthology you'd lucked upon in a side street bookshop; a bookshop where the owner wears brogues and has leather patches on his rumpled tweed jacket. It reminds me of M. R. James, and Saki. It's a story I'll read again. Don't miss it!
  5. I loved this story, and the amazing twists and turns it took. Anyone who doesn't feel good after reading it needs to have their nerve endings reconnected. R
  6. The Perfect Pitch by William King. Dark clouds scuttled across a grey sky that morning, like an ominous premonition of what was to come. No one spoke as they clambered down the side of the ship and into the landing craft, the only sound was the churning of the engine, the rest he blotted out. The boat rolled and bounced as it turned towards the beach. Private Williams’ stomach churned, not because of the sea, but with fear and apprehension. Even a glance at his buddy Jake could not dispel the knot in the pit of his belly. He followed the others down the ramp and splashed into the cold water that was up to their waist. Jake was beside him as they struggled towards the beach, his rifle held high over his head. It was as if someone had turned down the volume, everything seemed quiet, but the bullets zipping all around were real enough. The bodies floating in the water and lying on the sand in front of him were a vision from Hell. Matt Williams was never a great believer when the family listened to the preacher on Sundays, but for the first time in his life he prayed to almighty God to save him. He stumbled, crouching over, up the beach towards the dunes. There was nowhere else to go. The roar of gun fire, shouting, and screams, were everywhere. The zizz of a bullet whizzed past his face. He moved as if in a trance, adrenalin coursed through his veins. Just one goal – the dunes. He collapsed on the ground, curled up against the meagre protection from the little ridge. He wanted to make a hole and crawl into it. His clothes were soaked, from the sea and from his own urine. There was a thud beside him, Jake was there in the sand. His buddy looked over at a ghost whose face was drained white. A tiny smile formed on his lips as he reached out a hand. Matt couldn't feel anything but fear, he silently implored his mom to come and get him. When he realised that would never happen, he prayed if he was hit that he would die instantly. Jake's grip tried to calm his friend’s trembling body. He noticed the blood on his cheek, Matt was not even aware he'd been hit. “You guys alright?” Sergeant Drewer with eight others from their platoon had joined them. They were all hugging that little ridge for protection. Jake nodded to the Sergeant. Looking back down the beach it was littered with obstacles and bodies. He saw one landing craft take a direct hit. “We've got to follow the rangers up the cliffs, GET IT TOGETHER!” The Sergeant barked out the command. Jake and Matt turned to look up ahead. “Come on mate, we can make it.” There was no choice, Matt shifted himself off the sand following the others up the gully, which at least offered some protection. About halfway up they stopped. Looking back over the beach Matt got the impression the invasion had been abandoned, there were no more troops coming ashore. Further along the beach was a lot of smoke. Whatever was burning it was at least giving those poor sods some cover. “MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASSES WE'RE NOT HERE FOR A PICNIC!” One after the other they made the cliff top, scrambling over on their bellies into the tall grass. To their right the ominous concrete walls of a German pillbox protruded from the cliff. “Arnold, Williams, Slater, Davis, Berman get around the back. The rest of you with me. We're taking this mother fucker. NOW MOVE IT!” Matt and Jake crawled towards the gun emplacement, one behind the other, following Slater, Davis and Berman. Davis had been pitcher on his high school team and for some unknown reason he decided to break cover. Matt went to stand up and pull him back down, but Jake grabbed him. Davis pulled the pin and threw the grenade, it must have been sixty feet. The crack, crack, crack, of machine gun fire spat out. Who knows what makes a hero? Davis fell backwards, Matt's eyes followed the grenade. It hit the outside edge of the angled opening and must have dropped down just inside. The explosion was muffled by the thick concrete. It was the perfect pitch. Davis stared unblinking at the rolling clouds, a tiny stream of blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Jake crawled over, but there wasn't anything to do. He was dead, shot three times, in the chest and neck. They moved forward quickly now. Standing up and bent over, running around to the back of the pillbox. They came in behind Drewer and the rest. There were several shots. As the smoke cleared Matt looked away. Coming back out he moved over to the wall, stretched out his arm to support himself, and vomited. “Who the hell told Davis to throw a grenade?” Matt, Jake, Slater and Berman didn't answer. Sergeant Drewer sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't want an answer, it was an insane thing to do, but probably saved their lives. “You look like shit.” Jake put an arm around Matt's shoulders. “Thanks.” He tried a tired sort of smile, but couldn't quite get his lips to move. “Least we made it.” “Yeah.” There were nine of them including Sergeant Drewer, which was less than half the platoon. “What now Sarg?” Arnie Slater was the little guy from New Jersey, the wise guy, he was always first with the questions. Berman was from Brooklyn, Ruben, he was Jewish. Matt and Jake were basically country bumpkins, least ways according to Arnie and Ruben. Poor old Brian Davis was a good kid from a small town, Milton, Delaware. He always told everyone it was the most beautiful town in America. Drewer gave Slater one of his crooked smiles and took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in rings. “One thing’s for sure. We ain’t nowhere near where we're supposed to be. It's a fucking mess.” “Where are we s'posed to be then Sarg?” “Fuck off Slater, and stop bugging me!” “Maybe we should find the lieutenant?” Briggs was a big guy, built like a tank, he was probably being serious with that suggestion, but it only served to wind up Drewer. “Look mountain man, you see these stripes?” He was poking at the three bands on his uniform. “Because they fucking mean I make the decisions here, GOT IT?” Everybody was quiet, we all knew how Drewer was, a lot of barking, but he looked after his squad. “The lieutenant copped it on the beach, I saw him get hit. Okay, let's get moving!” About four hundred yards across the dunes was a row of houses and probably a road. Looking around they seemed to be on their own here. “Over there.” Drewer indicated the houses. “Now be fucking careful. I don't want no more dead heroes.” The tall grass between them and those houses could hide anything. Four hundred yards suddenly seemed like a hell of a long way. But four hundred yards was no distance at all compared to the days, weeks, months, that lay ahead. The invasion hadn't been called off and they'd played their part, started that long road to freedom. Perhaps they were amongst the lucky ones? Over nine thousand Americans who landed with them never left. They lie in one hundred and seventy-two acres that over look those beaches. Endless white crosses or the Star of David. Neat rows forming lines on an impeccably manicured lawn, a powerful and humbling final resting place – lest we forget! ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The End.
  7. This one is a thought-provoker. As a rule I'm not a huge fan of fantasy tales but luckily that was only a moderate element here. The story was about the journeys of two souls, and kept us guessing until the end. And of course I'm sure I'm not the only reader left wondering "what's next" with the two characters, and for that matter with the unusual world they are in. R
  8. I see that an omnibus post was started about all the Valentine's Day themed stories recently posted, but I think for the work these authors put in there is warrant for some individual commentary. I liked this story a lot. If it was a movie, the audience would have been cheering at the end. And I really would have liked to discover more about "what happens next" after the story ended. Mission accomplished, I would day. R
  9. An interesting contemplation. I don't know if there is a formal name for this genre of story. R
  10. This was another story to have the audience cheering. I especially liked the surprising (although lightly foreshadowed) "small world" aspects. Still wondering what happened to Mr. DaSilva, though. R
  11. Another excellent Cole Porter tale. I thought of the lead character in "First Year" as we got to know Jason. Favorite quote: "How was I supposed to act normally when my heart was acting like someone was loading it down with adrenaline and testosterone and who knew what else?" Also: "I lay there, tired but ready to leap tall buildings in a single bound." And, yes, the audience was cheering at the end. R
  12. I highly recommend this short story by a new author http://www.storylover.us/?t=2R6PCUp1Xdh3fcqX A well written emotional story that won't fail to bring a tear to your eyes - I guarantee it. Take a look, it is a wonderful tale and evokes an image of the past rural America that will live in your imagination as will the history that unfolds.
  13. The Death, a new short story by Stephen king, is available read at The New Yorker. http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/03/09/a-death-stephen-king
  14. Awesome, Cole! Or should that be Awesome Cole has written another doozy. Whichever, 'A Modern Fantasy' is an awesome short story that had me grinning throughout. Peachy, and with expletives too. Read it!
  15. Hi everyone and welcome to the brand new Readers' Comments Forum If you are a reader of the great stories at AwesomeDude and would like to send comments and/or feedback to your favorite AD author but for one reason or another are not an AD Forums member, then this is the place for you! You can make your views known on a story posted at AD or address its author by just adding your comments and typing <ENTER> no membership needed. We only ask that when posting you observe common courtesy and the good manners you would use when meeting that story's writer in person. Even though by joining the AwesomeDude Community Forums will you can post in any of our open forums, this is the place to make your views known if you prefer not to join. Mike
  16. I found 'A Silly Love Story' and thought you might like.
  17. Chuck Palahnuik wrote Fight Club, a very successful novel that was made into a very successful film (Brad Pitt and Edward Norton). So, today I was wandering the net--as you do--and came across his site. As I haven't read any of his work I thought--a rarity--that I'd read one of his short stories. I've no idea why I picked the one I did, but I thought I'd share it with you all. I won't say anymore as that would ruin the surprise. Without further ado, here is Chuck Palahnuik's 'Guts.' Umm ... it's probably best not to read this just before lunch.
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