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I'm very pleased to announce the publication of In Dulci Jubilo, an omnibus of my first three titles, Bound in Morocco: A Short Story of Intrigue, To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories, and To Cut a Short Story Short, vol. II: 88 Little Stories. I have re-read (many for the first time in years) and edited all two hundred stories, and am delighted to say that I enjoyed them all! So, the omnibus contains the very latest up-to-date versions of every story. They range from one hundred words to seven and a half thousand. The three individual volumes that make up In Dulci Jubilo have been republished with the revised texts, in hardback (not Bound in Morocco), paperback, and Kindle. The description of In Dulci Jubilo reads as follows:
I have also updated the Kindle Version with this very latest revised edition of To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories and am offering it FREE for 48 hours from 14th July 2023 at 08.00 GMT.
(500 words) Control in moving between worlds was something his grandfather had taught him, a closely guarded secret. He came from a place, just a whisper away but invisible and unreachable. At midnight, whilst the moon threw shadows like huge gravestones across the street, he would walk, seeking the aroma he desired. His face was gaunt and sallow, his lips thin and red, and his eyes as black as infinity.
(800 words) “Not wishing to doubt you Sue, but cars can’t coast uphill, get real!” So said Spencer Schneider, generally regarded as the class ‘nerd.’ “Come on Spence, she says it happened. You calling her a liar?” Johnny Serpa’s tone was hostile. “No.” There was a hesitation in Spencer's voice. “I’m just saying there has to be a scientific explanation.” “Scientific explanation my arse!” retorted Johnny. “Come on boys, cool it. There’s a simple way to find out. We’ll just drive out there tonight,” said my sister, Sue.
(900 words) “Head for the hills, ‘cos I’m looking for thrills …,” sang Hamish, his Scottish burr prolonging ‘thrills.’ “I could use some of those,” laughed Julia, a short, stocky woman in her sixties. I hoped she didn’t have me in mind. The sun was sinking, lengthening the shadows of saguaro cacti, towering here and there along our way. Ahead, in the distance, across miles of flat, arid, semi-desert scrubland, lay a low range of hills, our destination.
(1300 words) “Come on Pete, wakey wakey!” Julie shook her boyfriend’s shoulder, looking with affection at his unshaven face. She wore just a shirt, lemon yellow with white stripes, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was tipped over her face. Peter’s closed eyes blinked half-open. “Huh, wha’ the time?” “It’s gone ten thirty. Come on, it's Sunday. You said we could go to the park. We can get coffee at the kiosk.” “I was dreaming of walking Lexie.” “I’ve got her lead ready. Come on sweetheart, get up!” Just then, three things happened. Someone started shouting down in the street below, a siren sounded somewhere and the phone rang.
(850 words) With a heavy heart, I’ve decided to set down here an event from my distant youth, one that’s been troubling me for many a year. I’m now five years short of my century, not long for this Earthly plane and I need to get it off my chest. Well, it would have been back in about 1933, those inter-war years I so fondly remember, when hope burned in all our breasts, and optimism exuded from every pore. We’d gone on a school trip to South Wales and were staying in a youth hostel, a converted lifeboat house.
(1000 words) One summer night, a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of field and forest. By the orange crescent moon hanging low in the west, he knew it was near the hour of dawn. A light mist lay along the earth, but above it, tall trees showed against a clear sky, and far off, the small dark rectangle of a farmhouse lay visible through the haze. She’ll be asleep in her bed, he thought, feeling his body stir at the thought of naked flesh enmeshed in an eiderdown and the smell of a sleeping woman. He turned the freshly sharpened axe to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and began to walk the path down the hill, the path to the farmhouse, nestling there in the grey distance, perhaps half a mile away. As he trod the track in the silent early morning, the first birds began to stir. Soon, the deafening dawn chorus would be ringing out over the countryside. But before then, it would all be over.
For the next 48 hours, Flash Friction, To Cut a Short Story Short, vol. III, is FREE on Amazon Kindle. Simply head over to your local Amazon, download and ENJOY!
(800 Words) Arthur Cunningham Codd lay, conscious of his own consciousness, aware of the sensation of his fingertips feeling their way around the cramped space he found himself to be in. A sensation of smooth wood. His eyes stared into infinite blackness, whilst his nose detected the faint odour of soil and dampness.
(1000 word story) His head felt sluggish as he brewed a cafetière of coffee. Too many whiskies whilst pondering plot complexities and fighting with dialogue, he supposed. On his way to the downstairs toilet, he spotted a card pushed under the front door. That was odd. He bent down to pick it up, feeling the familiar stab of pain in his back, arms and knees. ‘The Coffin Club invites Ronald Knaggs Esq. to The Haunted Windmill for an evening of intrigue,’ it read. Knaggs rubbed his unshaven cheeks. The Coffin Club? He’d never heard of it, and as for the Haunted Windmill, well, there was only one windmill he could think of locally and that was rammed with a family of layabouts and barking dogs. As the coffee nudged his brain fog aside, he examined the card and saw that the meeting was the following evening and that the windmill was out on the coast, on an old saltmarsh, about half an hour’s drive away. Hmm. Thinking about it, maybe it might give him some ideas for Silver Flower? Almost breaking a tooth on a slice of burnt toast, he determined to go.