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December 04, 2025
Horror Stories Alizah Zaidi

The Apartment That Remembers

Elias Trent signed the lease for Apartment 4B on a damp Sunday morning in October—one of those mornings when the sky felt heavy with secrets. He had moved to Hawthorne City for a fresh start, a quieter life, and an escape from the noise of the world. The…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Ben Macnair

The Silent City

John awoke not with a jump, but with a profound, unsettling lack of noise. Usually, Tuesdays in his high-rise apartment were an orchestral assault: the insistent moan of the sanitation truck, the 7:05 a.m. argument between Mrs. Petrovich and her potted fig…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Shoplifter

The city was a bruise, the sky a bruised purple at dawn, bleeding into a sickly yellow by noon. Sarah knew its various shades intimately, mostly from beneath the hoods of stolen jackets or the weak, flickering bulbs of forgotten alleyways. She was a ghost in…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Tom Kropp

Shannon's Date

Recently I testified at a murder trial. My big brown Quarter Horse named Buster snorted and stomped his hoof with clear protest at the prospect of moving farther into the forest patch. It was a cool September evening with the sun slipping over the horizon in…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Tom Kropp

Astral Homicide Hunter

Scot put his back to the hall wall and shifted to see all three members of the football team as they approached. All three football heroes stood over six foot tall and weighed over 200 pounds. In contrast, Scot was short and only weighed 165 pounds. His small…
December 04, 2025
Flash Fiction Ben Macnair

The Mirror

Laura stepped into the pulsating nightclub, the bass thudding through her chest like a primal heartbeat. At 29, she had seen her share of wild nights, but tonight something felt different. The air was thick with smoke and neon haze, and the crowd swirled…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Shoelace

The field was a tapestry of amber and gold, the dying grass whispering secrets to the wind. It was a beautiful place, usually. But not today. Today, it was a crime scene. And among the scattered debris of a struggle, a single, mundane object held a chilling…
December 04, 2025
Poetry Markus J

When Santa Comes Downunder

when santa comes down under- he would leave behind snow and thunder. he would cross scenic beaches of golden sand- instead of crossing an ice and snow covered land. he`ll would fly over dirt river beds dry- while constantly swatting away a fly. would he swap…
December 04, 2025
Romance Stories Anthony L

Mr Big

Scotty Biggs lived his life like most people. He lived in New York, in a small apartment above a little bodega that one of his friends still owns. His routine was familiar: wake up too early, make breakfast, hit the gym, work, go home, repeat. His friends…
December 04, 2025
General Stories Ben Macnair

Subjects

The air crackled with a synthetic euphoria, a blinding kaleidoscope of LED lights and projected confetti. Rex Sterling, a man carved from polished charisma and a thousand-watt smile, strutted across the stage of "The Gauntlet of Fortune." His voice, a booming…
December 04, 2025
Romance Stories Alizah Zaidi

Love In The Letters

There was something about the writing cabin at the edge of Windmere Lake that felt suspended in time. The locals said that the cabin had heard more confessions than the village chapel and held more secrets than the town library. It sat halfway into the woods,…
December 04, 2025
Crime Stories Ben Macnair

The Photograph

The air in the abandoned Jones house tasted of fine dust and forgotten dreams. Detective Miles Corbin pushed open a warped door, the groan of protesting wood echoing through the desolate silence. Sunlight, fractured by grimy windows, painted stripes across a…

Wimbledon has begun and our house is full of excitement. The tennis season always evokes tremendous enthusiasm from the LOH(Lady of the House). She even sacrifices her "Bold and Beautiful" TV time to "Prime Sports" and literally leaves Brooke holding her baby. Not that she is a great tennis lover, but she is an ardent fan of Ms Maria Sharapova. She watches every match that Ms Sharapova plays and her prayers for Ms Sharapova's victory become loud and clear.

I have only to applaud or comment "Well played" on a point scored by Ms Sharapova's opponent and she threatens me with a boycott which I can ill afford. Her comments while watching Ms Sharapova at play are so knowledgeable.

"Just watch! She is going to win today. She is wearing black bangles on her wrist," she exclaims in glee. Ms Sharapova's defeats are attributed to not wearing black bangles or some other trinket that the great tennis star is fond of wearing.

The other day she was absolutely ecstatic with Maria's performance.

"You know I am going to name my granddaughter Maria," she enthused.

"Don't you think that is going a bit too far?" I queried.

"Why what is wrong with it?" she countered. "We have to name her something and Maria is my favourite person."

"But what happens if she doesn't play tennis when she grows up?" I asked.

"She will play tennis," she said with finality typical of her. "And she will become a world champion too."

"And how are you going to ensure that?" I egged her on. Now she was in full flight. Her runaway fancy got the better of her.

"Catch them young! That's what I will do," she went on. "I shall give her a silver tennis racket in place of a rattle when she is born. She will develop a good firm grip right from day one," she added.

"And what about the black bangles?" I said tongue in cheek.

"Yes," she said, "She will get those too. I shall arrange to have her coached from childhood. I shall show her all the video cassettes of all Maria's matches that I am recording. I will make her a world champion. And when she does win the Wimbeldon..."

"She will tell the world 'I owe my success to my grandma. There are people who are born with a silver spoon in their mouths, but I was born with a silver racket in my hand.'" I interrupted her.

"Yes." The faraway look in her eyes and the smile of intense satisfaction on her face told me she was already dreaming of the moment.

"Come on, Darling. She has got to be the first Indian woman to sail round the world single handed," I said. The sailor in me got the better of me even though discretion dictated otherwise.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snubbed me. "When was the last time you won a race. You and your sailing! It's always some protest or the other, or a gear failure or whatever."

She did have a point there.

"But what can I do? You only pray for Ms Sharapova's win and not mine," I countered.

"I only pray for winners," she said.

"But they don't need your prayers."

Just then our son walked in. We were just warming up and the domestic battle was enjoined. He had gathered soon enough what it was all about.

"Mom and Dad, what makes you think that your granddaughter will become a sports person at all? Don't I have a say in the matter?" he asked.

"And pray what has this got to do with you?" said the LOH.

"She'll be my daughter."

"No she will be my granddaughter and she will play tennis. And that’s that," the LOH responded.

"But Mom..."

"I'll have no buts from you young man. And another squeak from you and ...."

"So Mom, you agree to my marrying ...."

"Over my dead body," she said.

"But..."

"Don't you think this is all a trifle premature?" I put in a word edgewise. That is all that I can manage on such mother-son confrontations. He is only eighteen and our dream granddaughter has many years yet before she arrives. But while we wait here is more strength to Ms Sharapova and I hope our granddaughter is not beaten to being the first Indian Woman to sail solo round the world.

 

End

 

Bio:   I have served for over 33 years in the Indian Army Corps of Engineers and am retired now. Love writing humour and short stories. I have also written books on Military History and Management. Some of my short stories were published when I was much younger. Professional commitments pushed my fiction writing to a stand still. I have the time and the inclination now and wish to share my wit with others.

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