Hello and thank you for listening to One More
Short Story with me, Chris Falwell. I'm excited
to launch this podcast. It's going to showcase
a whole bunch of stories from the world of writing
battle. Now, I imagine if you're listening to
this. You probably already know what Writing
Battle is, but just in case you don't, if you've
shared it with your significant other or your
unwilling friends and relatives or your very,
very willing friends and relatives, anyone who's
listening to this, Writing Battle, which is my
favourite of all the writing competitions that
I do, we get assigned some random prompts and
have to knock up a story anywhere, well, 2026
now, so anywhere between 100 words and 2 ,500
words under some time pressure. And then we compete.
Not in a literal battle. No one's been stabbed
yet, I don't think. Max will tell me if I'm wrong
on that one. But there have been some awesome,
awesome stories to come out of Writing Battle.
Way too many to read every single one. Although
I know some people out there have tried. The
aim of this podcast is to showcase a variety
of stories. So not just the winners, the winners
are awesome. I always enjoy reading the winning
stories at the end of the battles. But there
are some great stories that get knocked out at
some point during the knockout stages in the
final showdown. I'm not just saying this because
some of my stories haven't made it out of the
house stage. There are some excellent stories
that don't make it past the threshold for getting
out of the house stage. And that's okay. It's
a competition. At the end of the day, each genre
can only have one winner, right? But I think
we should be celebrating and enjoying as many
stories as we can. And part of that, I hope,
can be achieved through sharing this podcast
with you good people. My name's Chris Fullwell.
If you're on Writing Battle, you'll recognise
me as C .A. Fullwell, the one with a face for
the radio. Yeah, I live in the south of England
with my wife and my two wonderful kids but this
is not a job interview or a bio for one of my
submissions so we will crack straight on. Some
of the stories are going to be narrated by me
but absolutely not all of them. We've got some
fantastic narrators out there in the community.
We've got two pieces of flash fiction that are
a thousand words long and the reason I've put
these two together in this episode... is they
both deal with the future. Now, I'm not going
to say too much more now. They're very, very
different. They're both excellent stories, and
I'm looking forward to getting into them with
you. Now, the first story we're going to go with
is Victor Kubinta's Between Two Moons. Now, this
was in the 2025. This was back in the spring,
the winter 2025 battle, and it was in the time
travel romance genre. which produced an amazing
array of stories, as you can probably guess.
If you were around for that battle, it was a
good one, that genre. And Victor had Time Travel
Romance, Dancer, and Dice as his prompts. Now,
if you know Victor, he is something of a dancer
himself. Check out his Instagram, you'll see
what I mean. Great writer, great dancer. amusing
human being and also a feedback panda because
the man produces thousands and thousands of words
of feedback on people's stories. Now Victor's
prose in this one is really really lovely and
if you haven't read it before well I hope you
enjoy it. I certainly have. This is Between Two
Moons by Victor Kubinta. I didn't believe in
fate. To me. destiny was just a word people used
to explain what they couldn't control surrendering
instead of forging their own path but then the
dice turned my world inside out they never gave
me a choice i found them atop a crate of antique
relics from the underground market small smooth
from centuries of touch their symbols indecipherable
a fine relic ancient and rare few know its worth
the merchant said i was sold the first time i
rolled them i was alone in my studio in new athens
twenty one thirty five drenched in sweat after
a three -hour vr dance arena session my body
ached movement was a luxury in a world of holographic
stages and physics defying choreography I rolled
them once, and they glowed. The floor disappeared
beneath me. I awoke to burning oil and sandalwood.
The neon skyline of New Athens was gone. Instead,
I laid on sun -baked stone, staring up at an
ancient temple, its white columns stretched toward
an unfamiliar sky. a voice spoke in a language
i shouldn't have understood are you an offering
to apollo i turned my head and saw him eryx he
stood like a statue carved from war itself bronze
skin streaked with dust a gladius strapped to
his hip eyes sharp as the blade at his side His
tunic clung to his body, muscles shifting with
every movement. He stared at me, weary but intrigued,
as if he had seen omens take human form before.
You have a name, strange man. Raphael. The oracle
called me an ill -omened wonder. Eryx was different.
He didn't ask who I was. where I came from, or
why I appeared in Delphi 300 BCE. He didn't look
at me like an anomaly. He looked like he'd been
waiting. My death was foretold, he told me one
night, firelight casting shadows over his jaw.
But the oracle spoke of a dance beneath the full
moon, one between two, that might save me. I
scoffed. And you think that's with me? Eryx smirked.
You fell from the sky, did you not? I did what
I knew best. I danced. No VR, no floating arenas,
just raw movement, bound by the human body's
limitations. Eryx watched the first night. The
second night. He joined me. He was not graceful.
He didn't understand rhythm or balance, but he
followed. His hands on my waist, his breath against
my ear. He did not fear prophecy, but I felt
his fear in the way he held me, like letting
go would end the world. Maybe it would. the second
time the dice rolled it was a mistake they shifted
in my pocket as i turned in my sleep when i woke
i was back in twenty one thirty five lying on
the cold floor as if no time had passed the dice
beside me new athens hummed its metallic skyline
drowning delphi's whispers i was convinced it
was a vivid dream But weeks passed, and I couldn't
shake him. I missed him. Deep down, I always
knew my way back. I felt foolish, terrified and
exhilarated as I flung the dice across the room.
They glowed the moment they rolled, and the world
collapsed beneath me. The dice had their own
rules. I spent months tracking patterns, symbols,
and how they glowed. But they remained unpredictable,
always pulling me where they wanted, never where
I intended. I rolled the dice at every full moon.
They took me back, but never to the same moment.
sometimes i found eryx after battle his blade
dripping with the blood of men who did not heed
prophecies other times i found him in the temple
kneeling before the oracle speaking of fate like
it was something he could outmaneuver one night
he found me first i thought you were a dream
he admitted forehead pressed to mine I feared
I had gone mad. I laughed, humourless. Maybe
we both had. Then, for the first time, the dice
took me away without a roll, stealing my chance
at a confession. My time with him was always
limited. That was the cost. I felt it in my core.
The dice had set their own terms. The next full
moon would be the last. The prophecy would be
fulfilled. Now, in the temple courtyard, I face
Eryx beneath the full moon, our silent witness.
Will you honour me another dance? he asks, hand
outstretched. I nod. we move our bodies following
an ancient rhythm neither of us should know yet
somehow we do the air thrums with something unnatural
the fabric of time unravelling between us the
dice burn hot in my palm one last roll one final
chance Time won't steal him from me. This time,
I'll bring him home. The dice tumble across the
temple stones, their edges clicking against the
worn marble. A gust of wind whips through the
courtyard, stirring torches and sending flickering
shadows dancing along the columns. The shift
comes too fast. The magic grips the wrong soul.
Eryx reaches for me. Raphael! And vanishes. So
do the dice. Eryx, 2135 Only the gods know how
long I have wandered this strange land, Raphael's
home. Observing, enduring. The agora roars like
a battle cry, louder than Delphi's streets ever
were. Light burns overhead, not from the sun
or torches, but from flameless lanterns. People
move through this world unbothered, their faces
aglow with shifting symbols. like living prophecies
i walk unseen hermes among mortals hand instinctively
resting where my blade once lay but i remain
weary these strange chariots without steeds these
voices that speak yet possess no lips no warrior
should trust such things and then among the relics
of this strange world i see something i understand
a pair of dice worn smooth by time at last i
have found them these were raphael's a merchant
grins a fine relic ancient and rare few know
its worth i stare For the first time since waking
in this impossible world, I feel something other
than loss. Hope. I reach for the dice. And roll.
So. There we go. What a story. What a story.
Victor got himself to the final four in that
battle. Came very, very close to taking the whole
thing in a hugely competitive genre. So well
done, Victor. And thank you for letting me read
that one. I hope I did it justice. In keeping
with our futuristic theme, we've got... I want
to get this title right because I love it so
much. How to find love after your boyfriend is
taken by the rapture. And this is by R .L. Lin.
Now, Rebecca has done a great job here. It's
very funny. It is exactly what you think it's
going to be. And then times a thousand. It's
just great. It's read by Melanie York. Thank
you, Melanie, for reading this for us. I think
you've done a superb job here. And the prompts
for this one were dystopia, weather forecaster.
and magnifying glass. Now somehow Rebecca's mind
has leapt from those three seemingly not connected
prompts to this story about post -rapture dating,
and it's a lot of fun. It's very, very well written,
and I'm sure you're going to enjoy it. This is
How to Find Love After Your Boyfriend is taken
by The Rapture by R. L. Lin, and that's read
by Melanie York. March 1st, 2165. Hello, faithful
reader. It is I, Annie, your friendly weather
gal, waving at you from sizzling Portland. Temperatures
today will reach a balmy 112 with intermittent
lightning storms. Slather on that SPF 200 and
enjoy your weekend. Apologies for neglecting
you guys these past two weeks. As some of you
may know, my boyfriend, Nick, was raptured on
Valentine's Day. He was just sitting there, shoveling
eggs into his mouth, raving about the collective
sin of mankind, when, bam, sucked right through
the floor, still gripping his fork and screaming
bloody murder. Good people of Portland, I give
you the rapture, neither peaceful nor ascending,
as it turns out. As I'm sure you can imagine,
the incident left me quite rattled. However,
I've had time to grieve and make my peace with
it. Real talk, it's been nice having the house
to myself. Nick could be a real damper Dan, and
now I can watch my trashy TV in all its grotesque
glory. Speaking of, how about that new Love Will
Blind show? Apparently, anybody who doesn't say
I do will actually be blinded. Gritty. Truth
is, the nights can feel long when having to take
potshots at looters all by one's lonesome. So,
I have therefore decided to venture forth into
the dating pool again. Gotta make hay while the
sun shines. Or, you know, blisters with a fiery
intensity. Updates forthcoming. March 8th, 2165.
Dear devoted reader, today is cloudy with a chance
of cicadas. Seriously, we're getting a cicada
storm this afternoon. No, they aren't native
to Portland. And yes, cicada is just a fancy
term for roach. Fuck you, climate change. Better
take a canopy outside today, folks. I have news.
I just got home from my first post -rapture date.
I give you bachelor number one. Name. Sean DeLorna.
Occupation. State representative. No, wait. Impress
that. Wannabe vigilante. Sign. Aries. Go figure.
I was practically giddy about Sean at first.
On paper, he seemed ideal. Cute, ambitious, and
a big Dancing Through the Scars fan. However,
I knew something was off as soon as he stomped
into the restaurant. Knives strapped to both
hips and machetes slung over his shoulder. Just
another stereotypical politician eager to cut
through some red tape. I suppose I could appreciate
this more if he hadn't brooded all through dinner
before flipping our table in a panic when the
waiters burst into happy birthday. During our
romantic post -dinner walk, he kept trying to
throw me over his shoulder. Hey, Tarzan, I'm
a big girl. I know my way around a flooded road,
thank you very much. March 15th, 2165 Dear loyal
reader, As if Roach Geddon wasn't bad enough,
now there's rumblings from Mount Shasta. Ashfall
with the occasional volcanic blast. If you need
to go out, bob and weave. I have a doozy for
you all today. Meet bachelor number two. Name.
Jordan Morty. Occupation. Research participant.
Cross that out. Who am I kidding? He's a zombie.
Don't judge me. Sign. Used to be a Virgo. Okay,
okay, I know. It's a little unorthodox. Just
hear me out. First of all, the whole zombie thing?
Not Jordan's fault. How could he possibly know
the government was attempting to create super
soldiers? Poor guy was just trying to find a
cure for his bunions. Should one unfortunate
lapse in judgment forever preclude him from true
love? Plus, his purple picture was hot. I mean,
his skin was a little mottled, but still, dude
was ripped. Sadly, he lied about his age. He'd
been undead way longer than three weeks. Those
bulging muscles from his photo? Yeah, less sexy
when they're actually protruding through the
skin. Conversation was a bit lopsided. And I
did not appreciate it when he got fresh with
me at the end of the night. Well, typically I
was the fresh one, but you get my drift. That
was the nail in his coffin. I don't mind the
occasional neck nibble. But I can't stand bad
breath. March 25th, 2165 Dear attentive reader,
Just a light drizzle today. Acid level, mild
stain. Time to bear those shoulders, ladies.
Boy, I tell ya, I thought pickings were slim
before the collapse of civilized society. Here's
bachelor number three. Name. Mickey Wiseman.
Occupation. Scientist. Wait, scratch that. Paranoid
putz. Sign. Wouldn't tell me his birthday. I
should have known better than to go searching
on a website called Find a Guy, The End is Nigh.
But my self -esteem was shaken after the Jordan
fiasco. Welcome to my rebound hell. Mickey spent
the entirety of the date scouring our table for
pathogens, a giant magnifying glass glued to
his sweaty face. Apparently, I'd agreed to go
out with the eye of Sauron. A stray cicada crawled
out of my jacket pocket, and he lit out of there
faster than a mutating virus. Good riddance.
May 17th, 2165 Dear Obsessed Reader, Seriously,
if you're still reading this, what the fuck?
Log off already and find a bunker. Weather forecast
rendered obsolete due to missiles raining down
from Idaho. This will probably be my last entry
for a while. But I couldn't sign off without
dishing on Bachelor number four. Name, Jack.
Occupation, Philosopher. Wait, scratch that.
Writer? Wait, scratch that. Jack of all trades.
Sign. Taurus. Established April 26th. Finally
caved and went to build a boyfriend. All I'll
say is this. Don't knock it till you build it.
Jack is perfect. Worldly? A superb listener?
and possesses a love of em dashes bordering on
the pathological. His personality does run in
touch bland, but he's attentive to my every need.
Every need. New Squeeze and I are currently on
the run from rabid Idahoans rebelling against
the keto diet. Oh, and you guys remember Jordan?
Well, turns out the bastard infected me with
his contagion. So that's been an adjustment these
past few weeks. Nothing major yet, but I'm pretty
sure I swallowed a tooth yesterday. Not to worry.
Jack insists he'll still love me even when I'm
drooling and my skin fluffs off. You guys, he's
a keeper. And the best part? He's rapture -proof.
XOXO, Annie. I really enjoyed that story. Very,
very funny. So many great lines. I love the throwaway
references to things like Dancing with the Scars
or the, oh yeah, Love Will Blind, an excellent
skewering satire of that god awful reality TV
stuff we get these days. I know, I know, I sound
like I'm 95. But I'm only 91. But yes, excellent
story from R .L. Lin and really, really well
read by Melanie. I think she nails that relentlessly
upbeat, desperate -to -sound -like -she's -on
-top -of -things style. Yeah, very, very well
done. I really enjoyed it. That story was from
the Fear Battle earlier this year and it picked
up an honourable mention in the House stage.
Loads and loads of judges really, really enjoying
it. One of the many things I like about Writing
Battle is that we get a variety of stories. We
don't just get stories that are funny. We don't
just get stories that are serious or have a twist
in them or whatever. You do get a really, really
good variety. And the more time you spend on
the site, the greater variety of stories you're
going to come across. So thank you very much
for joining us in this first ever episode of
One More Short Story. With me, Chris Fullwell,
we'll look forward to seeing you again next time.