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 Storage of stories written for The Bradbury, 2025. |
| Various stories created at the (hopeful) rate of one a week for the year 2025, |
 Detective Story Holdfast leapt into the car and hightailed it round to the condo, too late once again to catch the Rainbow Paint Bomber. Word count: 22 For The Bradbury, Week 13 |
Word count: 294 For Daily Flash Fiction Challenge, 06.08.25, and for The Bradbury, Week 12 Prompt: Include the words flower, quote, silver. |
| Henry Has a Dream Henry heaved himself off the couch and walked the three paces to the television. He reached down to the controls and switched it off. For a moment he watched as the screen went dark. Finally, there remained only a tiny pinpoint of light in the centre of the blackness. He sighed and wandered off to the bedroom. Later that night, Henry had a dream. Although it did not strike him as strange, the picture was in colour. He held a black plastic implement with buttons arranged on its face. Most of the buttons were small with strange symbols on them, but one was central and shaped like a cross. There were arrows inscribed on each of its arms. Henry pressed one of the buttons and the picture on the screen changed. He realised that he’d changed the channel. Naturally, he tried pressing again. The channel changed each time he pressed the button. For a while Henry was absorbed in pressing buttons. As he altered the activity and settings on screen, it dawned on him. This was a form of remote control, allowing him to change channel from anywhere in the room. And then he woke up. He lay there in bed, thinking of his dream. But, in the end, he shook his head and dismissed all contemplation of what he’d experienced. Why, if that were ever to come true, he’d never have to leave the couch. In time he’d become so unfit and overweight that he’d wind up in an early grave. He turned over and went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that it was just a dream. Word count: 270 For The Bradbury, Week 11 2025. |
| Holdfast Under Pressure It was a year to the day after Holdfast first opened his private detective agency that a stunning blonde walked unannounced into his office. Holdfast, who had been dozing in his chair, chin propped up against a fist, raised his head at the sudden interruption. The sight of the gorgeous lady before him quickly brought him to full consciousness. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” said the gumshoe. “How can I help you?” Best to assume that she was here on business, he thought, rather than having entered the wrong room. She stood for a moment, looking down at him, before collapsing into a chair. “Oh, Mr Holdfast, you’ve got to help me. I’m in big trouble.” Her voice was low and husky, her manner grave and immediately focused. Holdfast could tell that this was not the usual domestic type of case and he straightened his tie. “Certainly I will, ma’am, if I can. What seems to be the trouble?” The lady leaned forward earnestly and uttered just one sentence. “Someone is trying to kill me.” “I see,” said Holdfast. “But how do you know this?” “Letters,” she replied. “Threatening letters and, and, um things.” The last word was spoken with fear and loathing, her lip curling just a little, as though disgusted at the memory. “What sort of things?” “Horrible things. Dolls with broken heads spattered with red dye, knives with dark stains on the blades, stockings tied in knots, that sort of thing. And now he’s even sent a bullet with one of the messages.” Holdfast was a bit taken aback. This was not the sort of thing he was used to. “And what do the messages say?” He asked this more for time than interest. If his suspicions were correct, he had a good idea of their content already. “Promises to kill me,” she said. “Figures,” muttered Holdfast. Then he continued, “So you want me to act as your bodyguard?” She shook her head, her long locks twisting from side to side. “No, no, I want you to follow me and watch for suspicious characters. I’m certain the man follows me around because he knows so much about me. His messages always refer to things I’ve done that day.” Holdfast was disappointed. The case had looked as though it was going to be very different from his usual run of business. He was becoming tired of spending his days trailing shady hoodlums and errant wives. “Well, even private eyes gotta live, ma’am. I’d have to charge you for that sort of service.” “Not a problem,” she replied. “What are your going rates?” Holdfast considered his usual fee, made a quick assessment of the lady’s likely wealth judging by her clothes, and doubled his estimate. She accepted without hesitation. The detective rose from his seated position to shake her hand. “We have a deal, Miss err… I don’t think I know your name.” “I’m Marcia Willens. You might have heard of me.” He had heard of her alright. You don’t earn the title of twenty-ninth most wealthy woman in the States without becoming fairly well known. Holdfast later cursed himself for not wondering why such a woman would be interested in his services. But his excitement at landing such an important customer was entirely too much for him at the time. He accepted details of her expected itinerary for the next few days and began his usual course of shadowing the subject while keeping an eye on what was going on around him. She was not overly onerous to keep watch on. Her tall and willowy figure was easy on the eye and those long blonde tresses made it impossible to lose her in a crowd. Even so, by the sixth day, Holdfast was becoming bored with the task. He was good at disappearing into backgrounds but there was no sign of his client’s enemy and he was beginning to think her fears might be due to an undiagnosed case of paranoia. And then he noticed he was being followed. At first it seemed a coincidence. A flashily dressed fellow, with trilby hat pulled down as if to hide his face, stepped back into the shadows of a shop doorway when Holdfast turned around unexpectedly. Holdfast gave no sign of noticing anything but then watched carefully at every opportunity. It became clear that the guy was tailing him and was not as good at it as Holdfast himself. The detective bided his time, waiting for the right circumstances. And then, when the moment came, he pounced from a dark alleyway as the man hurried by, afraid that he’d lost sight of his quarry. Holdfast had him in an armlock from behind and dragged him into the alley. He snarled into his ear. “Who are you? And why are you following me?” The man was not struggling and seemed eager to cooperate. “Go easy, Holdfast. I can hardly breathe. Loosen up and we can talk.” Holdfast tightened his grip briefly but then eased off and the man began to speak. “The name’s Arnold. Harry Arnold. And I’m a private eye. My job’s been to follow you for the last few days. Don’t ask me why, I dunno.” “A likely story,” said Holdfast. “Who’s paying you?” “I can’t say. And you wouldn’t believe me anyway.” Holdfast tightened his grip on the man’s throat again. “Try me.” “Aargh, steady on, man. You’ll throttle me.” “Answer me and I’ll think about it.” “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. Just let me breathe, will ya? It’s the dame you’ve been following, she asked me to do it.” “You were right,” said Holdfast. “I don’t believe you.” But he loosened his hold. There was something weird going on here. “It’s true, I swear it,” said Arnold. He squirmed a bit under Holdfast’s grip. Holdfast was puzzled. The man sounded authentic but it made no sense. Why would a woman hire a private eye to follow her around and then set another gumshoe on his tail? It did not make sense. “So why’s she doing it?” he asked. The man wriggled again. “Look, I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t tell you, but you have to promise you won’t tell her that you know what’s going on. Just drop the case and let it lie.” “Deal,” said Holdfast. He could always renege on it if it turned bad. As his father always said, a verbal contract ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. And so Arnold told Holdfast the whole story. “It’s like this: Marcia Willens is active on that social media thing they call Tik Tok. And there’s a craze on it at the moment. Seems the idea is to have a stalker as a status symbol. But you have to produce proof that you have one. It’s the sort of thing only the rich can indulge in and that makes it all the more competitive. “So she hires you as the stalker and then gets me to take photos of you And the photos are proof. It’s silly but hey, it’s worth a living to me.” Holdfast was stunned. It was bad enough being made a fool of but those photos could be used against him one day. With evidence like that, who would believe his crazy story? “You delivered the photos yet?” he asked. “What? No, I’m supposed to produce them tonight.” “Give me the camera,” said Holdfast. He tightened his grip again as a persuasion and Arnold fumbled in his coat before producing the desired object. He handed it over. Holdfast released him. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “You’re going to make up some story about me catching you and destroying your camera and photos. You’ll get paid and I’ll be paid off because her plan failed.” Arnold nodded glumly. “And one more thing,” said Holdfast. “Not a word to anyone about this or I’ll find you and make you regret it.” Word count: 1,331 For The Bradbury, Week 10 2025. |
| Self Assessment Jason considered himself in his morning mirror. It was the old, familiar face that peered back at him, rather more stubbled than usual thanks to his not having broached the matter of shaving yet. He raised a hand to rub the stubble thoughtfully. It felt pleasantly rough under his touch. His hand dropped away as he considered his face. Not unduly handsome, yet with a tough, experienced look that he felt must be quite attractive. The stubble added to this impression and he wondered whether it would be worth growing a beard again. But that reminded him of how they itched at one stage and then the difficulties of shaping it quite correctly. Best to keep it clean, he thought. Still, he gazed at his reflection. This would make quite a good photo for the cover of his first publication. His hair was a little wild but that windswept look was very popular at the moment. Yes, he might just leave it as it was today. Then he noticed that, towards the back of his head, a tuft was standing up and making his head appear strangely distorted. He smoothed it down with his hand but it kept on springing back. A quick dash of water from the tap persuaded it to stay down and he resumed his study. The brow was broad and smooth, with just enough hint at lines to indicate a serious disposition. A lock of hair at the front described a jaunty swoop above one eye, a suggestion of derring do and eagerness for adventure. The eyes were deeply set, enough to be interesting at least, some indeterminate colour between blue and green, and again lines radiated from them at the corners to indicate a sense of humour. His interest switched to the nose and he noticed a light white spot on its end. It completely spoiled the effect he’d been building in his mind. A finger came up and scratched at the spot. A flake of dry skin fell away under the finger’s pressure, leaving a larger, angry, red blotch where it had been. Suddenly he looked quite ridiculous. The image of his cover photo vanished, only to be replaced by a picture of himself as a clown. He smiled up at God and turned to prepare his shaving tackle. Word count: 385 For The Bradbury, Week 9 2025. |
| Sir Geraint There was once a knight who, in the course of his latest quest, found himself benighted in the Forest of Lucomia. A storm was threatening and the knight lost his horse when it panicked and ran from his camp, frightened by a flash of lightning. Undeterred, the knight continued on foot but, as the forest grew more tangled and the storm more tempestuous, he lost his way and wandered into the darkest depths of the forest. All hope seemed lost as he stumbled upon his way but then, at last, he glimpsed far off a light flickering among the trees. He made his way toward it and found that it was a lone house, small and unimposing, but perhaps sufficient to shelter him for the night. He knocked at the door. At first there was no answer but the knight persisted and knocked again. Eventually, there came the sounds of locks being undone within and the door opened. An old woodsman peered out at the man standing on his doorstep. “And who be you?” he asked. “I am Sir Geraint,” said the knight. “I have lost my horse and my way due to the storm and the darkness of the night and I wonder, my good fellow, if you might be able to put me up until the morrow.” The old man rubbed his hands together, clearly not enjoying the cold blast of the storm while standing at his open door. “Oh that be impossible, sire, for I live alone and there be no room for anything but myself in this humble abode.” “Oh, come, come now, fellow. Surely there is a couch or carpet on which I can lie and so be ready to journey on in the morning?” “Not a thing, my lord,” answered the old man. “It’s really just a tiny house and I have no comforts of any sort.” Well, this went on for some time, the knight begging and pleading for shelter and the old man denying his ability to serve the knight at all. Eventually, the knight gave up and switched his tack. “Well, what about a horse?” he demanded. “Surely you have a horse or something I could ride to get to the next town?” “Oh no, sire,” returned the man. “I be a humble woodsman and no horse have I.” This set the knight to thinking. “A donkey then. Surely you have a donkey.” “Nope,” came the reply. “There must be something,” protested the knight. "Have you nothing at all that I can ride?” “Not me,” said the old man. “Not even a dog? A big one, maybe?” The old man hesitated. “Well…” “Yes, yes, what is it?” The knight snatched at this faint ray of hope. “Well, there is… But no, I couldn’t do that.” The old man turned away as though the conversation was ended. But the knight was not going to let go now until he knew what had occurred to the man. “Ah but there is something, isn’t there? What is it, man? Out with it, no matter how awful.” The old man wavered. “It’s true, I do have a dog,” he began. “A big one?” suggested the knight. “Oh yes, sire. A huge one indeed.” Now the knight leapt at his chance. “Well, that’s it then. I’ll ride the dog to the next town!” “Oh no, sire. You couldn’t do that. Not on this dog. He’s terrible and all. I’m sorry I even thought of it.” “Nonsense, man. I’m a knight and I’ll ride the thing if it’s big enough. Why, I’ve killed dragons and griffons, I’m not afraid of a mere dog.” The old man shook his head. “No, no, sire, I couldn’t do that. You don’t know what you’re asking.” “Don’t be silly, man,” said the knight. “Just lead me to it and I’ll ride the beast.” Again the old man shook his head and began to close the door. “No, my lord, I can’t do it. There’s just no way I would send a knight out on a dog like this…” Word count: 676 For The Bradbury, Week 8 2025 |
| Sir Percival Antigonish As I was going down the stair. I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today, Oh, how I wish he’d go away. William Hughes Mearns “There’s more to it than that,” said Sir Percival. “It’s not just that I can’t seem to find any dragons.” Sir Lancelot raised a sarcastic eyebrow. Percival sighed before continuing. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think the problem is that I don’t believe in them.” A confused expression crossed Lancelot’s face. He frowned then and leant forward. “You mean dragons? You don’t believe in dragons?” “It’s not as silly as you think,” blustered Percival. “Fine for you, with your long list of dragons killed and damsels rescued, but I’ve never seen one. You’ve no idea how hard it is to believe in a creature as big and unlikely as a dragon. I mean, for a start, how can they fly when they only have such puny little wings to get them off the ground? And that’s before I even start on the stupidity of them breathing fire. I just can’t believe it and I think that’s why I’m not finding them.” Silence fell on the two as Lancelot considered this. His eyes closed in concentration, then suddenly opened again as a thought came to him. “It doesn’t help that I can assure you I’ve seen them?” Percival shrugged. “Not a bit.” “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, then. But I think you’re right.” It was Percival’s turn to look confused. “About what?” “That this is the reason why you can’t find any. If you don’t believe in something, you’re hardly going to accept the evidence of your own eyes, even if you do see one.” “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” said Percival. “So you need to work on your belief.” Percival seemed unconvinced. “How do I do that?” he asked. Lancelot leaned forward and started to draw with his finger in the dirt. “First, you’re going to need to know what you’re looking for.” He scribbled away at the figure he was drawing. “I’ve seen the pictures,” said Percival. “Yes, but you have no idea of size.” Lancelot looked up from his drawing. “There, that’s basically what a dragon looks like. Now, about size…” He looked up and around the clearing, seeking for something to make a comparison with. Percival was looking at Lancelot’s drawing. “Looks like a dragon, I’ll give you that.” But Lancelot was pointing at a tree growing at the edge of the clearing where they had met. “There, that tree. That’s about how tall they can be. Although many of them are much smaller. And it’s true they can fly and breathe fire.” “Doesn’t really help,” said Percival. Lancelot studied him for a moment. “I don’t know how I can make you believe,” he said. “That’s something you’ll have to do for yourself. But take my word for it, they exist and if you try hard enough, you’ll find your dragon.” “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Lance. But I don’t know how to make myself believe.” “It’ll come to you, I’m sure of that. Just keep trying.” Lancelot turned away and wandered over to his steed. “I guess we should be going. You have a dragon to find and kill and I have a damsel wants rescuing.” So the two friends left the clearing and set out on their separate quests. They were not to see each other again for several years. When they did, it was another chance encounter, this time on the northern frontier and they were both engaged in hunting down bandits. It was not long before Lancelot brought the subject around to dragons. “Did you ever find your dragon, Percy?” he asked. Percy looked uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he answered. “I did find one soon after we had that talk.” “Ah, so maybe I helped after all.” Lancelot had a smug grin on his face. “Yeah, I guess that might have been it,” conceded Percival. There was silence for a while and, when Lancelot realised his friend was not going to expand on that statement, he asked, “And how did that go?” Percival looked into the distance. “The dragon?” “Yes, the dragon.” Lancelot was becoming aware that Percival was being unusually reticent. “Oh, that. Well, nothing really.” “Nothing?” “Yeah, nothing.” Lancelot exploded with impatience. “What d’you mean, nothing? Did you kill the blighter or what?” Percival was still staring off into the distance. “Nah, didn’t kill it.” “Well, what then?” Percival looked up, his face flushed and angry. “The bloody thing was huge,” he said. “I had no idea. Scared s***less I was and that was before it blew fire at me. Bloody hell, Lance, you coulda warned me a bit more. Barely escaped with my life.” Lancelot grinned. “Ah, but you believe now, don’t you?” Word count: 777 For The Bradbury, Week 7 2025. Also entered for Senior Center Forum, February 2025. |
| Gamboling There was no other word for it, thought Gavin. Whichever way you looked at it, he was doing nothing other than gamboling through this summer field. The sun was high in the sky, not a cloud in sight, the air fresh and fragrant with the scent of wild flowers, the grass high and green, and he was running and leaping along in pure joy. Gamboling, in fact. There was no better word to describe it. Of course, it was usually applied to lambs prancing about in pure happiness to be alive. Or foals or maybe any young animals capable of running and jumping. Hardly the word one associates with a full grown man with more serious things on his mind. Even this consideration of how to describe what he was doing was out of place. Yet here he was, undeniably and very visibly, gamboling. The strange thing was that he felt no embarrassment in doing so. It was, after all, in a good cause. Might even be considered essential to existence. And that not only for himself. He had a wife and child to support, let it be remembered. If gamboling was required to succeed in that, he was happy to oblige. He grinned mentally at the irony. Being happy to gambol and the very act causing more gamboling. As his thought turned to the possibility of perpetual motion, he steadied himself. There was a limit to this, there was no need to get carried away. He stopped running and stood for a moment, motionless, in the field. “That’s enough, surely!” “Yeah, that’s a wrap,” called the director. The crew erupted into motion and began to pack up. Gavin remained still for a few minutes, enjoying the heat of the day. These pharmaceutical commercials were all the same, always involving running and jumping in bucolic situations. He really ought to be used to it by now. Word count: 316 For The Bradbury, Week 5 2025. |
| Wasted I could see him as soon as I entered the pub. He was sitting alone in a dark corner, a slight, lonely figure hunched over a drained glass of beer. At the bar I ordered a pint of some generic lager and one of bitter. In England I drink English beer. I carried the two glasses over to the man’s corner and sat down at his table. Only then did I say, “Okay if I sit here?” He glanced at me without interest. “Looks like you’ve already done so.” “Think of it as a rhetorical question,” I replied. He returned to his study of the table and his empty glass. I pushed the lager into his line of sight. “This might cheer you up.” This seemed to break into his mood for he looked up at me again. “I don’t need no charity.” “It’s not charity, it’s that excuse for beer that you always drink.” “Lagenbrau?” he asked. “Yup. I do my research.” A puzzled look passed across his face. “Do I know you? How would you know what beer I drink?” It was time to get real with the guy. “I’m your fairy godfather,” I advised. He had lost all interest in the table and the glasses now. His brows locked together in a frown. “You’re my what?” “Fairy godfather. Like a fairy godmother but with less maternal instinct.” At this point you’re probably thinking that he wouldn’t believe me. And it’s true that I get that pretty often. But this guy was different. Either he’d had enough of his gnat’s pee lager to be decidedly tipsy or he was just naturally gullible. His surprised expression disappeared and he said nothing for a while. When he did speak, it was a question. “Does that mean you’re here to help me? Or do I need a pumpkin and a few mice?” I smiled. “You catch on quickly. I’m here to make your dreams come true and no pumpkins required.” “So I make a wish and you grant it?” “Not quite,” I replied. “As I said, I’m going to make your dreams come true. Since I know your dream, that’s already decided.” This gave him some pause for he went silent for a while before speaking again. “How could you know what I dream of?” I took a swig of my bitter and leaned back in the chair. “Well, I’m your fairy godfather. Which means I have to keep an eye on you and see you through the bad times. There’s not much about you that I don’t know.” “Yeah? So what’s my dream then?” “That’s easy. You’re always whining about being in debt and having to scrape and save to get by. I’m here to make you rich.” “What, you mean you’ll magic up a huge bank account for me just like that?” “Well, not exactly. But that’s the basic idea.” He pulled the glass of lager over to him and took a sip. “Just as I thought. There’s a catch.” I shrugged. “No such thing as a free lunch,” I said. “I’ll have to make a few changes in you, that’s all. And the money will come but not by magic. All legitimately earned and every penny above board.” That guarded look had returned to his expression. “What sorta changes?” “For a start, you’re going to have to spruce yourself up a bit. And you’ll find that your next interview will lead to a job. So your attitude to work will have to change. But don’t worry, I’ll make it so you’ll enjoy it. And then the money will be a compensation too.” It was his turn to sit back in the chair. “So, no magic, just hard work.” “If you put it like that, yes.” “Huh, some fairy godfather you turned out to be.” I could see I was losing him. “Hey, even Cinderella had to do her part to get the Prince. And you won’t have to slave away for an evil stepmother.” He leant forward over the table and spoke earnestly. “Look, you’re not telling me anything I didn’t know already. Did it not occur to you that I like being who I am? If I complain sometimes that’s only because it’s what I’m good at. Life’s no damn fairy tale and I deal with it the way I do because that’s who I am.” It happens sometimes. There’s always someone who refuses the offer and stays in their misery. Maybe I was missing something. After all, I’ll not deny that many of those who take the deal and wind up rich also find that they’re still unhappy. Few indeed are those who go on to spend an enchanted life in a self made paradise. In fact, now that I thought about it, I could only think of one. I downed the rest of my drink and stood up. “Okay, Trevor, if that’s the way you feel…” He had returned to his hunched position, staring at the table top. “Yeah, yeah.” The strange thing is that I felt as bad as he did as I left. Sometimes it all seemed so pointless. Word count: 856 For The Bradbury, Week 4 2025 |
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