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200 Shorter Stories

200 Shorter Stories

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200 Shorter Stories

209 página
31 minutos
Lançado em:
Oct 24, 2014


Two hundred tales of two hundred letters and spaces.
Plots, worlds and character refined to their essence.
Sci-fi, whimsy, fantasy, horror, thriller and more.
Short stories unlike any you’ve read before!

Lançado em:
Oct 24, 2014

Sobre o autor

C. H. Aalberry lives by the ocean and spends his life in a state of creative misadventure. You can contact him at c.h.aalberry (at) gmail.com

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200 Shorter Stories - C. H. Aalberry




Atlantis sits silent beneath the ice and sea. This city is not dead nor forsaken, but sleeping. It waits for the moment to rise again and claim back what belongs to it. Soon, its dreams whisper, soon.


I was born to watch the skies, to spin above this world. My creators fall silent. I turn my sensors down: no city lights, no radio. Fires burn across continents. I can do nothing; I was born to watch.


There was a man (not me, but I knew him) who was quite, quite brilliant. He stole the sun in the ultimate graduation prank. Hilarious, of course, but the days are growing cold and now we want it back.


Why did we do it? I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. These things always do right up until the point when, suddenly, they don't. But bad decisions make for great stories, right?


The bullets and missiles fall in waves, breaking against my stone skin. Airplanes, tanks and armies are less than a light breeze to me. Earth throws everything it has at me; I stride through uncaring.


Shades whisper to me

Of lost souls

Of the dying and dead

Of whispered secrets

Dark words better left unsaid.

The whispers find me wherever I may be,

Because I am the collector.

Do you want to see my gallery?


We were one hundred of the best, valiant and young, in armour shining brightly. We carried silver swords and red banners with pride, thinking the dragon had no chance. Its stomach rumbled; it laughed.


We count six, seven, seven-plus-one, nine. Our tutors insist most persistently. We joke about it, but the last person to say the number after seven died in a purple fireball which left no ash. Ouch.


They left him to die, out in the thirsty red dunes where nothing lived.

He emerged from the dust a year later with dark, blistered skin and calloused feet. His cruel smile remembered every one of them.


I was the first person to see the body. I called the cops; they let me go soon after the interview. Be careful out there, they warned me. They didn't need to; I really was the first to see the body.


I was young, then. He was the wisest person I knew. I sought answers. The secret to life? he replied with a smile, People are important. Act accordingly. I waited for more, but none was necessary.


This place was once proud forests, then it was green fields. The wide fields

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