One more short story. Hello and welcome to episode
two of One More Short Story with me, Chris Fullwell.
Thank you for joining us. Once again, we're going
to be diving into some of the stories from the
world of writing battle. Two stories this time.
Short and sweet, but that's okay. We don't mind
short and sweet. Not when they're this good.
And without giving the game away, stories where
somebody is not who they may appear to be. Very,
very different in style. Both 500 words long
from the spring microfiction in 2025. Now we're
going to kick things off with Split Ends by David
Rowe. This was back in the small town secrets
genre and the other two prompts were barbershop
and champion. Now it's read by Maverick Jones
and I definitely don't want to give too much
away on this and I know you're going to enjoy
it. But let's just say it's about a barber who
maybe is more than she appears to be. So this
is Split Ends by David Rowe read by Maverick
Jones. The man darkening my doorstep carries
a noxious aura, malice dripping cleanly from
his unburdened soul. You must be the new barber,
he says. His eyes sweep my body with a mixture
of contempt and desire. And you must be Paul
Kresser, I say, gesturing to the chair. Paul
ambles over. his ponderous bulk landing heavily
on his right side. He has the look of an athlete
gone to seed, though unmistakable power still
lurks beneath his extra pounds. So what do you
normally get, I ask, fastening the cape around
his neck. Paul shrugs. Frank always fixed me
up right. Damn shame what happened to him. Frank.
The name summons a savory taste on my tongue.
He'd been a buffet of secrets, a meal fit for
a queen. I'd gorged on the terrible truths that
had punctuated his screams. Tragic, I say, as
I meet Paul's gaze in the mirror. I know how
prominently Paul featured in some of Frank's
darker secrets. This town may be small, but it
offers a rich menu. I start cutting once it's
clear no further instruction is forthcoming.
So, tell me about yourself, Paul. Not much to
tell. Our construction. Married? Yep. Getting
all gussied up for the wife, I ask. Date night
tonight? Paul chuckles. Something like that.
The accreed scent of a lie permeates the air,
overpowering the barbicide. How nice. Paul's
scarred knuckles emerge from beneath the cape,
wiping a clump of hair from his cheek. I catch
a glimpse of silver before his hand disappears
back under the nylon. Nice ring. Paul grunts.
I was state champion. Might have gone pro until
I tore up my knee. I'm so close that his feelings
melt on my tongue. I lick my lips, trying to
place it. It's not regret nor melancholy. Its
rage tastes like iron. Sorry to hear that. After
a few more snips and some gel, I'm finished.
Paul takes a moment to admire himself in the
mirror. Not bad for a chick. He flashes nicotine
-stained teeth. Just kidding. I return his smile
and take his cash. Until next time. As soon as
Paul leaves, I flip the sign to closed. I pull
a lump of clay from the drawer and begin molding
it into the shape of a man. I give the figure
thick arms and a heavy punch and place a tinfoil
ring around its fat finger. Upon its head, I
arrange the fresh hair clippings from the floor.
I knock again. At last, a woman cracks open the
door. There are shadows in her eyes, a dark reflection
of the man I'd seen earlier. Good evening, Mrs.
Cressford, I say. She hugs herself tightly. Do
you have it? I hand her the doll. As promised.
She reaches for it with a trembling hand. Thank
you. How can I repay you? I smile. Just let me
watch. She swings open the door and steps aside.
I'm still sated by Frank, but sometimes a girl
needs dessert. Blimey. Well, that's my nightmare
sorted for the next couple of weeks. I mean,
don't get me wrong, that guy clearly had it coming.
But yeah, what a story. I think there's a non
-zero chance that either the writer or narrator
of that story have actually killed people before.
I should stress that is just a joke. I don't
want to create problems for our legal team. Our
legal team is me. But yeah, great story. Really,
really strong stuff. Now, David got himself to
the Sensational 64 in the final showdown for
that one back in the spring. I think it should
have gone further personally, but hey, what do
I know? I'm just a guy doing a podcast. Now,
we're going to move on to something lighter.
I think we all need that. And it's going to be
Pride Comes Before the Fish by Christina Kershaw.
Again, back in the spring. This was in the house
pet adventures genre. Her other prompts were
diplomat and subway. And she's been gracious
enough to let me read it. I do enjoy reading
a story now and again. Not just to myself, as
much fun as that is. But I do enjoy it and I
hope I can do it justice. So this is Pride Comes
Before the Fish by Christina Kershaw. Read by
me, Chris Falwell. Sir Alfred Whittington II
was the toughest gangster around. He ran his
territories with an iron claw, once leaving a
foe scarred and half blind. He prowled through
his tunnel, pausing to sharpen his claws on a
threadbare seat next to the platform, before
crossing the train line and entering mouse control.
Keeping track of their supply was Sable's domain.
Sable was a powerful hunter and protective of
their vermin stock. Usually. You're eating it,
Alfred hissed. He leapt on Sable, biting his
neck and ripping out a chunk of fur. Get off
me, Sable yowled. My owner's left. I'm starving.
On reflection, he did look scrawnier than when
he'd first arrived. but Alfred never showed weakness.
Starving will be the least of your problems if
I catch you again. An unfamiliar scent caught
his attention. Stay here, he said. He followed
the scent, rubbing his cheek on the walls as
he went. This didn't deter the intruders, and
their scent grew stronger. Alfred dropped onto
his haunches and slunk towards it. quieter than
those rodents Sable was so fond of. Into view
tiptoed a dishevelled gutter cat, body low and
ears pulled back. My name is Timothy. My group
and I are returning from a trip to Salmon River.
Please allow us through. It'll take half the
time to return home. Hmm. Sir Alfred Whittington
II has no interest in charity cases. Turn around
now and count yourself lucky you're still in
one piece. Timothy lowered his head. Please,
we can pay you with some of our haul. You'll
leave it all as payment for trespassing. The
gutter cat reared up. We thought you'd want this.
a baby blue collar landed at alfred's feet alfred
growled fur bristling he pounced sending timothy
hurtling backwards landing mere steps away from
the railway line how we saw you drop it outside
alfred or should i say snuggle bum we know who
you are you're old lady richardson's pampered
prince You get cuddles and fresh tuna every night.
One more word and you'll be meeting the next
train, Alfred said. Do it. My pack will still
tell the world. Or let us through. You keep the
collar and we keep quiet. Go on then, quick,
Alfred said. Leave some salmon. Timothy raised
an eyebrow. his golden eyes as piercing as Alfred's
claws. Alfred was loath to admit it, but this
guy was good. Diplomacy had never been his strong
suit, but this kitty had it nailed. Leave some
salmon, please, Alfred said. You're most welcome,
Timothy said, dropping two plump fish. With a
final glare at the retreating pack, Alfred snatched
up the salmon and traipsed back to Sable. I sent
the trespassers packing, but I got these, Alfred
said, dumping a salmon in front of Sable. Come
on, eat up. Can't have you on mouse control if
you've got no muscle. Oh, and help yourself to
mice whenever you want. The place is crawling
with them. If anyone complains, you send them
to me. So there we go. Sir Alfred Whittington,
a .k .a. Snuggle Bomb, gets a reality check.
I did enjoy the house pet adventures, and I think
Christina absolutely nailed the kind of fluffy
animals taking themselves seriously. But then,
ah, wonderful. Love it. Love it. She got herself
to the Sensational 64 with that story. I definitely
think it should have gone further, possibly unbiased
because I was allowed to read it. But hey, getting
to the last 64 out of hundreds and hundreds and
hundreds of writers is not to be sniffed at at
all. It's a great competition, writing battle,
but it does sometimes knock our egos as writers
when we don't get maybe where we want to. But
look, these fantastic stories come out of it.
We get to read them. You get to listen to them.
There are so many positives that come out of
the writing process of writing battle. In my
couple of years of doing it, just the volume
of fantastic things that I've read is huge. I've
learned a lot. I've picked up on things that
I do as a writer that don't work very well and
that do work very well in some people's eyes.
And it's just fun. First and foremost, this is
meant to be fun. And that's definitely what Christina
gave us in Pride Comes Before the Fish, as did
David in a very, very different way in Split
Ends. Thank you for joining us for another episode
of One More Short Story with me, Chris Falwell.
We'll see you next time.