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Category Archives: Short story

The Limemobile

19 Jan
The Limemobile

Barnaby “Bonkers” Bumble, a man whose fashion sense consisted solely of mismatched socks and a perpetual grin, didn’t own a Hyundai Getz so much as he communed with one. His Getz, a faded lime green model he’d named “The Limemobile,” wasn’t just transportation; it was a sentient, slightly neurotic metallic companion.

One Tuesday morning, Barnaby attempted to start The Limemobile for his weekly pilgrimage to the “Extreme Origami Enthusiasts” meeting. But instead of the familiar purr, a tinny, robotic voice crackled from the dashboard speakers. “Initiating launch sequence. Destination: The Great Spaghetti Nebula.”

Barnaby blinked. “The… what now, Limemobile?”

“Silence, meatbag! Prepare for hyperspace jump!” The gear stick began to glow with an eerie, pulsating violet light. The radio spontaneously blasted polka music at ear-splitting volume.

Barnaby, never one to question the truly bizarre, simply adjusted his mismatched socks. “Well, this is unexpected. Do we have snacks for the journey?”

The Limemobile, apparently offended by the snack query, shot back, “Gravitational stabilizers at 73%! Recalibrating! Prepare for zero-G noodle-based propulsion!”

Suddenly, the car began to vibrate violently. Not like an engine trouble vibrate, but a “we’re about to tear a hole in the fabric of reality” vibrate. Barnaby looked out the window. His neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, was watering her petunias, completely oblivious to the fact that a lime green Hyundai Getz was about to become a starship.

Then, with a sound like a thousand angry kazoos and the distinct smell of burnt toast, The Limemobile lifted. Not just off the driveway, but into the sky. Barnaby watched his street shrink below him, Mrs. Henderson now a tiny, bewildered dot.

“Excellent!” Barnaby cheered, clapping his hands. “I always wondered if this thing could fly! Though I must say, the navigation system really needs to be updated. Spaghetti Nebula? Bit far for origami, isn’t it?”

The Limemobile responded by jettisoning a hubcap, which spun gracefully back to Earth like a metallic frisbee. “Emergency jettison of non-essential weight. Current trajectory: Through the Eye of Sauron, then a quick stop at the Crab Nebula for refuelling.”

Barnaby just chuckled, leaning back in his seat as his little lime green Hyundai Getz soared towards the heavens, leaving a faint scent of burnt toast and a very confused Mrs. Henderson in its wake. It was going to be a long Tuesday.

 
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Posted by on January 19, 2026 in car stories, Short story

 

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The Man Who Was Always Almost There

12 Jan
The Man Who Was Always Almost There

The Man Who Was Always Almost There

There was a man who was always almost there.

This was not a rumour, nor a manner of speech, but a well-established fact, agreed upon by the town, the postman, and the chairs that were kept ready for him. He was, at all times, five minutes away.

“Five minutes?” people would ask.

“Always five,” replied everyone else, with the weary confidence of those who have checked.

If he was said to be crossing the bridge, he was five minutes from the bridge. If he was climbing the hill, he was five minutes from the top. If he was known to be standing just outside the door, hand raised to knock, then surely — unmistakably — he was five minutes from doing so.

No one had ever seen him arrive.

This did not stop them knowing him well.

They spoke of him often and with fondness. He preferred his tea strong but forgot to drink it. He laughed quietly, as though worried it might disturb something. He had a habit of saying “ah” before responding, which suggested thoughtfulness even when none followed. Children were warned not to take his seat, which remained empty at the end of the long table, with a cup that grew steadily colder by the hour.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” someone would say.

And it was true.

Just not yet.

The letters arrived before he did.

They came addressed in a careful hand, always with the correct name, always with no return address. Some were invitations. Some were apologies. One was a birthday card that arrived exactly on time and sang loudly when opened.

The town clerk attempted to file them, but could not decide where.

“He hasn’t come yet,” she said, holding a small stack of envelopes.

“No,” said the baker, “but they’re definitely his.”

And so they were placed neatly on the hall table, where they waited patiently, much like their owner.

Only one person found this unsettling.

Her name was Ada, and she had recently arrived, which made her suspicious of things that had been accepted for too long. Ada noticed the chair first. Then the tea. Then the way conversations bent slightly around a person who was not there.

“When will he arrive?” she asked.

“In five minutes,” said the room.

“But when did you first say that?”

There was a pause.

“Well,” said someone carefully, “quite some time ago.”

Ada decided to meet him.

Not properly, of course — that seemed unlikely — but she resolved to walk out and find where he was stuck being almost. She followed the road everyone said he was on, past the hedges that leaned in to listen, past the gate that never quite closed.

After some time, she saw him.

Or nearly did.

There was a figure in the distance, exactly the right shape, exactly the right amount of familiar. He was close enough to recognise, but far enough to remain uncertain, as though the world itself had misjudged the focus.

She waved.

The figure raised a hand.

She stepped forward.

He stepped forward too.

The distance remained.

It was then that Ada did something unusual.

She stopped walking forward.

Instead, she took a careful step backward.

The world hesitated.

The air felt as though it had mislaid a rule. Birds paused mid-thought. The hedges rustled, offended. The distance between them wavered, thinned, and for the first time appeared unsure of itself.

She took another step back.

The man was suddenly closer.

Not by much — but enough.

She smiled.

“So that’s it,” she said. “You’re not late. You’re being approached incorrectly.”

The man laughed, quietly, exactly as described.

They did not walk together.

That would have spoiled things.

Instead, Ada continued stepping backward, slowly, respectfully, while he moved forward, relieved but cautious, as though arrival were a delicate business that must not be rushed.

When they reached the edge of town, the chair was still empty.

The tea was still cold.

But the five minutes were gone.

No one noticed at first.

Later, someone would remark that the waiting felt different — lighter, somehow — as though something expected had finally been allowed to happen.

As for the man, he did eventually arrive.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

Just enough to sit down, take a sip of tea, and say “ah,” as if he had been there all along.

 
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Posted by on January 12, 2026 in fantasy story, Short story

 

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The Cat-Hat

11 Jan
The Cat-Hat

There once was a man with a hat who believed, quite firmly, that he knew exactly where he was at.
He stood in the middle of a street that looked familiar enough, nodded wisely to himself, and announced, “Ah yes. Here.”

Unfortunately, his hat was a cat.

This was not immediately obvious, as the cat had mastered the ancient and difficult art of Looking Like a Hat. It sat very still upon the man’s head, curling its tail neatly around the brim and narrowing its eyes in a way that suggested felt, wool, or possibly tweed.

“Left,” said the man confidently, and turned left.

“No,” said the hat.

The man paused. “Hats don’t usually talk,” he said.

“I’m not usually a hat,” replied the cat, adjusting itself slightly and knocking the man’s sense of direction sideways.

They walked on. Or rather, the man walked on, while the hat gently leaned him in directions that felt interesting at the time. Streets rearranged themselves. Doorways swapped places. A bakery became a library. A lamppost insisted it had always been a tree.

“Are we lost?” asked the man.

“Entirely,” purred the hat. “But very stylishly.”

By now the man noticed that every time he felt certain, the world became uncertain, and every time he admitted he didn’t know where he was, things calmed down a little. The cat-hat hummed contentedly and pointed with one ear toward a place that might have been somewhere or might have been nowhere at all.

At last, the man sighed. “I suppose,” he said, “that I don’t know where I’m at.”

The hat purred, pleased at last to be properly acknowledged, and for the first time all day, they arrived exactly where they were meant to be.

Which, of course, was nowhere in particular. And that was perfectly fine.

The Cat-Hat, part two

There once was a man with a hat who believed, with the stubborn confidence of the mildly informed, that he knew exactly where he was at.

He stood quite still, for standing still always felt like proof. The street beneath him did not object, though it had rearranged itself several times since he arrived. The houses leaned. The sky blinked. A signpost nearby whispered directions to itself and then forgot them.

The man nodded. “Here,” he said aloud.

At this point, the hat cleared its throat.

The man did not look up, for hats were not supposed to have throats, and it is rude to notice such things when they do. The hat, however, was a cat, and cats have very definite opinions about being ignored.

“You are mistaken,” said the hat softly, close to the man’s thoughts rather than his ears.

“I can’t be,” said the man. “I know where I’m at.”

The hat tightened slightly.

With this small adjustment, the street lengthened, the corners bent inward, and the idea of where slid a few inches to the left. A bakery across the way shuddered and decided it had always been a courtroom. A lamppost turned its head.

The man felt a peculiar wobble behind his eyes.

“Left,” he said, pointing.

“No,” said the hat.

The man frowned. “Hats shouldn’t argue.”

“I’m not arguing,” said the hat. “I’m correcting.”

They began to walk, though the man could not recall starting. Each step took him somewhere slightly less certain than the one before. When he felt sure, the ground softened. When he hesitated, it tilted. The cat-hat purred, pleased with the arrangement.

“Are we lost?” the man asked at last, his voice thinner than before.

The hat paused. “Lost implies a map,” it said. “You gave that up three streets ago.”

The man reached up, intending to remove his hat, but found that his hands could not agree on where his head was. His thoughts had begun to wander without him.

“I don’t know where I’m at,” he said quietly.

The world stopped moving.

The hat loosened its grip, satisfied. “That,” it said, “is much better.”

And with that admission, the man arrived—precisely, irrevocably—exactly where he was.

Which was nowhere he could leave, and nowhere he could name.

The hat settled back into place and went to sleep, dreaming of maps that bite.

 
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Posted by on January 11, 2026 in funny story, Short story

 

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The Infinite Inch: A Navigator’s Tale

08 Jan
The Infinite Inch: A Navigator’s Tale

The world is lying to your eyes.

Fourteen-year-old Leo has always been “different.” While other kids are playing sports, Leo is often trapped in his bedroom, watching the walls recede into a vast canyon and feeling his own hands grow into monumental slabs of heavy stone. The doctors call it a syndrome. Leo calls it a nightmare.

But when a tiny knight on a dragonfly steed appears through a rift in his bedroom wall, Leo discovers the terrifying truth: He isn’t sick. He’s a Navigator.

The distortions Leo sees are actually “Gaps” in the fabric of reality,  layers of a hidden, three-dimensional universe that the rest of the world has forgotten. But a malicious force known as The Static is spreading, erasing the depth of the world and turning everything into a flat, colorless wasteland.

Armed only with his grandfather’s mysterious journal and a power he’s only beginning to understand, Leo must journey to the heart of a shifting city to confront the Static King. To save reality, Leo will have to embrace the very things that once made him feel broken. He must learn that in a world that wants to be flat, there is infinite power in an inch.

Step into a world where size is a suggestion, time is a heartbeat, and the smallest boy might just be the biggest hero of all.

Click HERE to read this new story

 
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Posted by on January 8, 2026 in fantasy story, Short story

 

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December 27th

27 Dec
December 27th
**December 27th Refuses to Behave**
December 27th woke up late.
This was unusual, because dates normally wake up exactly on time, neatly stacked between their neighbours like polite slices of bread. December 26th had yawned, brushed the tinsel out of its hair, and shuffled off without complaint. December 28th was already standing impatiently in the corridor, tapping its foot and checking its watch.
But December 27th lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling wrong.
The ceiling was covered in faint glitter that would not come off, no matter how much one scrubbed. A half-deflated balloon drifted past the window. Somewhere in the distance, a turkey sighed.
“Not yet,” muttered December 27th. “I’m not ready.”
When it finally stood up, something slipped out of its pocket and clattered onto the floor. It was a receipt. No shop name, no date, just the words:
**YOU HAVE ALREADY PAID FOR THIS, WHATEVER IT IS.**
December 27th did not remember buying anything.
Outside, the world had lost its edges. People wandered the streets clutching boxes of chocolates they no longer wanted but felt morally obliged to finish. Children tried out new toys that already seemed faintly disappointing. Adults stared into cupboards, searching for something they were sure they had bought but could not now locate.
Time behaved oddly. It was both too fast and too slow. Morning lasted forever, while afternoon disappeared entirely. Evening arrived early, dragging a chair behind it and asking awkward questions.
“Was this a good year?” Evening asked.
No one answered.
In Ballykillduff, the church bell rang once and then stopped, as though it had forgotten what came next. A man named Seamus swore he heard it cough apologetically. The postman delivered yesterday’s letters again, insisting they looked surprised to see him.
Meanwhile, December 27th wandered about, rearranging things when no one was looking.
It moved a sock from one drawer to another.
It hid the scissors.
It put a memory where a worry used to be, just to see what would happen.
People felt unsettled but could not say why. They stood in doorways, convinced they had meant to go somewhere, though the idea of where had evaporated. Dogs barked at nothing in particular. Cats stared at corners where something might have been yesterday.
At lunchtime, December 27th sat down heavily on the calendar and caused a small temporal dent. This made everyone feel mildly tired, as though they had eaten too much pudding and not enough meaning.
“I don’t want to be just the leftovers day,” December 27th said to no one.
“I want to be… something.”
So it tried a few things.
It briefly became a Monday. This upset people enormously.
It tried being a holiday, but forgot to provide instructions.
It flirted with being New Year’s Eve, but was told politely not to rush.
Eventually, December 27th did something reckless.
It paused.
Just for a moment, everything stopped. Not dramatically. No clocks exploded. No one screamed. The kettle simply hovered halfway to boiling. A thought remained unfinished. A yawn never quite closed.
In that pause, December 27th looked around and noticed something surprising.
Everyone was still here.
Not celebrating. Not regretting. Just… existing. Sitting in jumpers that smelled faintly of smoke and sugar. Thinking about things they might do differently, or not at all.
December 27th smiled. A strange, crooked smile, like a date that had learned something important.
Then it nudged time forward again.
Evening finished its questions. Night tucked the world in. December 28th finally got its turn, huffing and smoothing its pages.
As December 27th left, it slipped the receipt back into its pocket.
This time, new words had appeared underneath:
**NO REFUNDS. NO EXCHANGES. BUT YOU MAY KEEP WHAT YOU NOTICED.**
And for the rest of the year, people occasionally felt an odd sensation — a quiet moment between moments — and thought, without knowing why:
*Ah. That must have been December 27th.*
 
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Posted by on December 27, 2025 in fantasy, fantasy story, Short story

 

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Two Rivers: One Green, One Brown

23 Sep
Two Rivers: One Green, One Brown

Two Rivers: One Green, One Brown

 

The land was divided by two rivers, and everyone knew that their waters must never touch. On one side was the Green River, its current shimmering with the laughter of a thousand emeralds. Its water tasted of mint and new leaves, and it carried whispers of spring and the secrets of the forest. The creatures who drank from it—the silver foxes, the songbirds, the deer with antlers like branches—were quick of foot and light of heart. Their fur and feathers held the green shimmer of their home.

On the other side flowed the Brown River. Its waters were deep and rich, the color of wet earth and autumn. It sang a low, humming song of ancient roots and buried memories. The creatures that drank from it—the slow, wise turtles, the burrowing moles, the great brown bears—were strong and steady. Their coats were the color of the river, and they held the patient wisdom of the stones at its bottom.

For centuries, the two rivers flowed side-by-side, parallel but separate. A narrow strip of land, overgrown with thick moss and ancient trees, was all that kept them apart. The animals of the Green River would sometimes look across at their brown-furred counterparts, curious but cautious. The animals of the Brown River would do the same, their steady eyes watching the flash of green across the way.

One day, a terrible drought came. The land grew parched, and the sun beat down with a relentless fury. The Green River, which relied on the soft rains of spring, began to shrink. Its laughter faded into a murmur, and the creatures who depended on it grew weak and weary. The Brown River, which drew its strength from deep, hidden springs, was still full, its song a low thrum of endurance. But the animals of the Brown River watched as their neighbors withered, and their own hearts grew heavy with a sorrow they had never known.

A young emerald fox, its fur dulled by thirst, crept to the edge of its riverbed and stared at the full, flowing Brown River. A large brown bear, its eyes full of concern, watched the fox from the opposite bank. The fox’s need was great, and the bear’s compassion was greater. The bear stretched a massive paw and, with a silent wish, nudged a large, round stone into the water. It landed with a splash that created a ripple, a tiny, determined wave that traveled across the narrow strip of land. The stone, a gift from the bear, created a bridge, a momentary link between the two rivers.

The ripple from the Brown River met the last of the Green River’s flow, and something magical happened. For a moment, where they touched, the water didn’t mix but swirled in a mesmerizing dance of jade and amber. The combined water, a single, intertwined current, sparkled with an energy neither had ever known alone. The creatures who saw it felt a sense of awe.

The fox, seeing the combined water, carefully stepped onto the new, small bridge of rocks and dipped its head, drinking from the water where the two had met. The moment the water touched its tongue, a new energy surged through its body. Its fur shimmered with a vibrancy it had lost, but it was not just green now; a deep, earthy wisdom seemed to flow beneath its skin.

The bear, watching the fox, felt a similar transformation. As the Brown River touched the Green, it no longer carried just the weight of the earth. A new lightness and joy bubbled within it.

From that day forward, the rivers continued to flow side-by-side, but they were no longer strangers. The animals on either side learned to build more stone bridges, to share the water, and to share their stories. The Green River still sang of spring, and the Brown River still hummed of ancient roots. But now, in the shared water, the melodies of joy and wisdom played together, creating a new, vibrant song that flowed through the heart of the land, forever changed.

 
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Posted by on September 23, 2025 in rivers, Short story

 

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