One more short story. Hello and welcome to episode
8 of One More Short Story with me, Chris Fulwell,
the show where we take stories from the world
of writing battle, we get them narrated and we
put them out into the world for you good people
to enjoy. Looking forward to sharing the stories
with you today. If you're someone that's been
introduced to the podcast but hasn't taken part
in Writing Battle yourself, you're very welcome
here. It's a lot of fun. You draw your prompts
to get your story writing going. You get a genre.
You might get a character or a location or an
object, a mixture of those things. And you're
off. And then it's a knockout tournament. Check
out writingbattle .com for more details. Part
of the writing battle system is you choose your
class in advance of a battle starting. They're
D &D sort of themed, so you might get out a cleric
or a wizard or a warlock or a fighter. Now this
episode is themed around... fighters and those
of you who have taken part in a few battles will
be thinking what on earth is he on about because
the fighter just means you get extra redraws
extra opportunities for genres to look at and
you're you're throwing yourself in randomly now
these stories are not random by any stretch of
the imagination however they do all contain people
fighting back the characters in this are absolutely
fighters uh well yeah They're going to stay with
you, these stories. A quick heads up that the
stories in Writing Battle and other podcasts
will contain, you know, adult, grown -up stuff.
That doesn't mean graphic, shall we say, X -rated
material, but it does mean that there will be
stories intended for a mature audience. And,
yeah, just a heads up on that. Our first story
today is Ruthless by Nicole Calero. And Ruthless
featured in the 2025 Autumn Short Story competition
in the Heist category. A 2000 word short story
and her prompts were Heist, Secret Room and Propagandist.
Now Ruthless is narrated by Maverick Jones who's
done a really good job as always. And the main
character in this is... is one who really stands
their ground. You're going to enjoy this one.
So, here we go. Here is Ruthless by Nicole Calero,
read by Maverick Jones. Brothers and sisters,
we gather in the promise of New Eden, where the
garden is restored and the serpent is crushed
beneath the heels of the righteous. We remember
Reverend Silas Boone, though his own daughter
was lost to darkness he offered up his grief
and built this refuge so no child of god would
be swallowed again out there the world worships
chaos women unled children unbroken men stripped
of their holy dominion but here we return to
order here the faithful flourish by surrender
Let your will fall away like the chaff. Let your
father tend to you. Only obedience plants the
seeds of blessing. The man at the pulpit takes
a moment to get choked up, his eyes shining.
He puts a hand on his heart and takes a deep
breath. Give me your fear, your heart, your will,
and I will make you whole. Fuck that shit, I
think to myself. Women weep. Men puff out their
chests. Children sit blank and obedient. Not
me. I scan for one face. Dark hair. Fifteen.
Too quiet. But I don't see her. Not yet. I know
men like Eli Goodwin. A narcissist, corrupt,
money -hungry, small -dipped waste of space.
Not that I'm biased or anything. I have a job
to do. I look the part. I act the part. Applause
swells. Lights dim. Someone yells, CUT! The cameras
go out, but the glazed faces of followers remain
speckled with sweat from the hot industrial lights
of the church's studio. every one files out and
brother eli nods as he heads up the aisle towards
me some beam at his attention others cower his
smile is television broadcast perfect and i wonder
how much tithing paid for the shiny caps taking
up a residence in his mouth miss sloane we are
so pleased you are able to join us on this holy
day holy day my ass was the only day his people
would allow him to sit down for an interview
with sloane dawkins the actual sloane dawkins
of kingdom life media is having some car trouble
outside of waco her purse and phone are also
missing poor thing of course when i'm finished
here i'm sure they'll find their way back to
her thank you mr goodwin i say intentionally
getting his name wrong please Call me Brother
Eli, he corrects, kind but irritated. When we
pledge our lives to New Eden, we abandon our
legal names. Of course, Brother Eli, I'm sorry.
Thank you for having me. I lower my eyes to imply
I'm ashamed of my misstep. I feel him soften.
So predictable. There's nothing religious men
like more than a woman they believe they've put
in her place. i wonder briefly what time it is
where we're at in the countdown phones watches
and clocks of any kind are all surrendered upon
entering the temple if the timing is right the
signal will come any second i just pray i'm upstairs
before the fireworks start miss sloane would
you like to accompany me to my chambers it's
a bit more personal there and we want to make
sure you see the real new eden We want you to
have full access and transparency. This is obviously
a lie, but I play along. I want to get upstairs.
I want to find Nora. He walks me through the
gardens, the temple, the prayer room, and up
a staircase to the second floor where his personal
chambers spill out onto a sprawling veranda overlooking
hill country. I'm guessing they're going for
a Vatican City vibe. But it reeks of a McMansion.
I imagine this is what SNL would come up with
if they were spoofing the Pope. He settles into
a plush, crimson chair and motions for me to
sit. If you're comfortable, Miss Sloan, please
feel free to begin. I cross my ankles, sit up
straight, and clear my throat, reaching to be
at my most demure. Of course, Brother Eli. Where
did you get the idea for New Eden? there was
no idea for new eden my dear all our practices
sermons and beliefs stem entirely from the same
holy scripture our ancestors have studied for
centuries well yes to a degree but many of the
practices said to take place are controversial
to those on the outside purity interviews isolation
pods we help the devote connect with god he replies
there is no one -size -fits -all way to worship
everything we do is safe consensual and law -abiding
and what do you say to those in the mainstream
media who claim new eden is a cult there will
always be those who fear what they don't understand
i invite any skeptics to come to one of our services
and decide for themselves all our practices are
voluntary and rooted firmly in biblical teachings
we provide structure and purpose and those who
spend time with us give freely as they wish in
thanks for the spiritual awakening they've experienced
and of course for those who prefer this language
we're recognized by the i r s as a church and
are constitutionally protected gotta love that
constitution i say my character slipping Eli
pauses for a moment at that and takes a sip of
tea. I let my eyes scan the plush room, wondering
what horrors have taken place here. Are you married,
Miss Sloan? No. Why? I haven't found the right
person. That's a myth of the secular world. The
right person is a God -fearing man, willing and
able to provide for you financially, spiritually,
and reproductively. Would you consider yourself
a feminist? No, sir, I say. I'm thrilled to hear
it. Though even the most devout women have feminist
tendencies from traditional schooling, they don't
recognize our coloring their judgment. We'd be
happy to have you join one of our classes on
the feminine divine to awaken your womanly powers.
That's very interesting. And who teaches that
course? Brother Jonah, Brother David, and sometimes
myself. He puts his hand on my knee. I wonder
if the girl I'm looking for ended up in one of
these courses. Only God knows what's best for
you. Why so many women, I ask, tilting my head
innocently to the side. Free women for every
man. Why do you think your teaching speaks more
to women? I see that he likes this question,
but he doesn't have time to answer. Gunshots
crack from the north side of the compound. Two
o 'clock. Here it comes. We freeze. An alarm
screams. The chamber door bursts. A man slams
in, grabs Eli, and hauls him away. Stay down,
he snarls. I stay. The door slams closed. I'm
locked inside. That's all of that. If all goes
well, chaos and gunfire will continue for several
more minutes. I have a dozen armed agitators
at the front, painstakingly collected from a
network of former New Eden survivors across the
country, and a getaway car closing in at the
back. Now devoid of its usual guards. I find
the lever by the bed. One quick yank and the
far wall pops open. I step into a candlelit octagonal
room with large paintings of women on each wall.
I recognize them from childhood. Jezebel, Delilah,
Eve. I've been away for decades, but the images
of the fallen women are still burned into my
brain. The floor is made of yellow tiles circling
a large industrial drain. The tiles closest to
the drain are stained a deep rust red. Photos
fill the back wall. Brother Eli, Brother David,
Brother Jonah. Photo after photo of them with
other powerful men in this very room. An Oscar
winner. A sitting senator. A former president.
One of the guys from the Hallmark movie channel.
And then, of course, unsurprisingly, My father.
Reverend Silas Boone. The motherfucker to end
all motherfuckers. I haven't seen his face in
years. But the moment I see it, the scar on my
back tingles. I was 13. I hadn't been bleeding
for even an hour when my father and the elders
held me down and branded me with the iron rod.
Ready for marriage. Even now. All these years
later, it still makes me laugh to think of how
angry my father would be to learn I never married,
secular or not. But today isn't about Silas Boone,
and it's not even about me. It's about Nora.
She's my purpose, my paycheck, and her mother's
just outside of Austin waiting for her. I feel
the walls around the paintings, looking for buttons,
levers, anything that might reveal another room
or compartment. Beneath each painting is a drawer.
I open one. The drawer is full of grey ash. I
pull at something small and burgundy emerging
from the ash and find a passport. Elena Petrova.
I recognize the name. She has been officially
missing for... For years now. I move to the next
drawer. More ash. This time with a small, stuck
animal. Bile rises in my throat. I quickly check
the other drawers. A ring. A hair tie. A rainbow
pencil eraser. More momentum. More missing women.
The last drawer. No ashes. Only a key. A key
to what? All of a sudden, I'm hit with silence.
The alarms have stopped. Fuck. Hello? A voice
calls. Nora? I ask. Who's there? Nora Shelton,
right? Your mother, Nancy, hired me to find you.
Are you okay? Yes. I just can't get out. I look
around for the source of the voice. Her voice
echoes like it's coming from every corner. I
ask her to keep talking. At the drain, I fit
the key. It turns with a gritty click. The grate
pops open. A pair of eyes reflects in the dark.
I haul her up. She's fifteen, but could pass
for twelve. Thin, dirty, terrified. I try to
stand her up, but she winces. Her feet are red
and bloody. They cut my feet so I can't run.
Don't worry. I'll get you out of here, I say.
Sister Ruth, Eli's voice calls from the entrance.
Ruth? Noya asks, looking at me confused. He's
talking about me, I answer. Eli smiles. I recognized
you the moment I saw you. Yeah, I remember you
too, Eli. Brother Eli, he corrects with sanctimony.
Go fuck yourself, I tell him. His smile tightens.
I see you're still resisting God's plan, he says.
Your father would be so disappointed in you.
I'm sure you're right. From the moment you were
branded, you were trouble. Oh, I was trouble
long before that. There's still time for you
to repent, fulfill your purpose, honor God with
your life, your body. I pause. Really? Yes, he
steps forward. Repent now while you can still
bear children and save your soul. Are you sure?
I ask. He takes another step towards me and puts
a hand on my shoulder. I reach for the crucifix
around my neck and bow my head. Yes, be fruitful
with God. The cross in my hand collapses, a blade
sliding free. I twist and plunge. The steel finds
a soft place in his neck. His eyes widen, shocked.
He makes a wet little sound. Good. Let it hurt.
Blood runs down the drain to join the remnants
of all the women and girls who died in this room
before him. Are you ready to go? So, you're her?
You're Ruth? Nora asks. I was. Not anymore. I
kneel, drag the iron from Boone's wall, and cup
it to a votive candle until the metal smokes.
I press it to what's left of his throat. It hisses,
and he goes quiet. I shoulder Nora, step over
him. And for the second time in my life, I race
out of the compound. This time with a small girl
on my back and an ash -streaked passport in my
fist. Next time, I burn it to the ground. Powerful
stuff there from Nicole, read by Maverick. Thank
you both very, very much. There is something
sort of gruesomely satisfying about hearing characters
like that getting it in the neck, quite literally,
about seeing or hearing, in this case, the protagonist
coming out on top over some deeply unpleasant
people. I was rooting for Ruth to succeed all
the way through that, and I'm very, very glad
she did. Nicole got all the way to the ferocious
four with that one in a hugely competitive genre.
So the final four, semi -finals. out of hundreds
and hundreds and hundreds of writers, and very
well -deserved success. Well done, Nicole. Our
next story is Life is But a Dream by Ashley Riot.
With this story, it was from the summer nanofiction
in the Under the Bed category last year. What
Ashley's done is she's had the prompts Under
the Bed, Psychopath, and Raft, and she's created
something rather haunting. Very poetic and intense.
And I mean that in the best way. It's narrated
by Melanie York. Yeah, I don't want to say too
much more about this. I want you to enjoy it,
take it in. It's a very powerful piece of storytelling.
Here we go. This is Life is But a Dream by Ashley
Riott, read by Melanie York. I was 13 when I
finally slew the sea monster beneath my bed.
Darkness poured through the window that night,
rising like black water until my mattress bobbed
alone on miles of ocean. Mother always said a
bed can be a raft, and a raft is a fortress,
so I gripped the blankets, singing softly. trying
to calm the fear rising within. Row, row, row
your boat. Above, something slid across the roof,
scraping shingles like passing tentacles. Panic
cinched my throat. Stomach. Bladder. Hot ink
spilt, soaking pajamas. briny stench rising.
Drenched blankets lapped at my ankles, slick,
alive, and I thrashed, sure the beast had breached
the hole, tumbling to the floor. Gently down
the stream. Planks groaned as the leviathan hauled
itself up from below, belly sloshing bud -like
tides. Door kicked open, mouth full of foam curses,
barley breath washing over me. A tsunami. His
belt, a kraken's lash, snapped across shame -soaked
skin. Bruises for ballast. Merrily, merrily,
merrily, merrily. I scuttled to the table and
seized scissors as the creature lunged. Wheeling
around, I found myself facing the storming psychosis
of its eye. Steel first. Blades punched pupil
with a wet The orb popped, and translucent jellyfish
dribbled down on us both. I struck again, harpooning
the second socket. The leviathan lurched, slipping
on its red tide. spilling us across the carpet.
Silence and stillness pooled. I exhaled. Crawling
back onto my raft, I folded into myself and rocked,
slow and oarless, singing softly. Life is but
a dream. It's really something. It's a heck of
a piece. It really does conjure up all kinds
of images and how the main character has dealt
with so much and just takes their... their violent
revenge uh i did and this is a really important
point actually because when i was setting this
podcast up and grouping it with the other stories
i had grouped the pieces by stories of of women
you don't mess with you know sort of though she
be but little she is fierce i put this to the
writers and said this is how i'm grouping you
together and ashley very gently and very kindly
pointed out to me that at nowhere in the story
does it say the gender of the main character
what i'd done is i'd read it and with it being
a female author i'd done what my brain and i
imagine a fair few other people's brains do too
is to assume that the gender of the person writing
it is the same as the character within the story
and that of course is not true sometimes it is
but not always And in the absence of any identifying
information, that's just where my brain leapt.
Now I'm grateful to Ashley for pointing that
out to me, because even though it was read by
a female narrator, who did a great job, really
haunting, lovely singing, lovely singing from
Melanie, but a very haunting quality to it too.
Obviously people who go through those horrendous
experiences, as alluded to in that story, are
absolutely not just female. And yeah, it's important
that we remember that. It's made me pay attention
to when I'm reading stories that don't make the
details of the main character clear, not to assume
too much. There we go. It's education for me
as well. Now, Ashley got herself to the Thrilling
32 in the Summer Nanofiction competition, which
is fantastic. Again, huge competition, huge amounts
of writers out there. and she should be deservedly
proud of this. Our last story today, our third
and final one, is Last Laugh by Robert Dyer.
Now, this was in the mystery genre from the Fear
Battle in 2025, and Robert's prompts were mystery,
clown, and soap. Robert's done a fantastic job
with this one. He really has. It's a hugely enjoyable
story. It is narrated by Ryan Page. Ryan's first
narration for us on One More Short Story. And
now Ryan and his wife run an audio production
company called PageVox. They're really good.
They're really quite something. If you're looking
for an audio production company for your business
or for anything else you're running, I recommend
checking them out. I'll put their details on
social media and things. He's also on the Writing
Battle Forum, I should add. But yeah, Robert's
done a really, really good job here. And I'm
not going to spoil the story because I think
you're really going to enjoy this. I know I did.
So here is Last Laugh by Robert Dyer, narrated
by Ryan Page. In his long career as a mortician,
Horace Grayson had seen grief in many forms,
but never like this. You heard me. I want him
made up like a clown. Opposite him sat a widow
with a face radiating warmth. Her dry eyes showed
no signs of redness. With her gray hair and sweet
smile, she looked as if she should have been
offering Horace a plate of cookies instead of
planning a funeral. Was this a last request from
your husband? Her slight chuckle shook Horace's
professional disposition. No, as a matter of
fact, I don't recall Malcolm expressing an opinion
one way or another about clowns. Then, why -
The smile remained, but a firmness took root
in her tone. If my request makes you uncomfortable,
I'll be happy to try another establishment in
town. Horace knew it didn't matter where Mrs.
Abernathy would go. Every funeral director in
town would be talking about this for a long time.
Mother, stop being unreasonable. Her well -tailored
son and even more stylish daughter -in -law sat
with features of grim horror etched on their
faces. Father doesn't deserve this. It's crazy.
Her serenity remained as she patted his hand.
Michael, I was married to your father for more
than 40 years. I know what I'm doing. Horace
watched Michael's wife twisting her handkerchief
in knots. At least agree to close the casket
for the visitation in the funeral. Think of the
people in the church, she pleaded. Betsy, I am
thinking of them, in my own way, of course. The
widow stood and offered her hand to Horace. Thank
you for your help, Mr. Grayson. I'll have what
you need sent over this afternoon. You may drive
me home now, Michael. Horace watched the three
exit his office. The widow moved with quiet composure
while Michael and Betsy tried to get her to reconsider.
Once their voices faded, he picked up the phone.
Ted, stop whatever you're doing on Abernathy.
You're not gonna believe this. The visitation
line at the funeral home stretched around the
block. It had started out small, but once word
spread of the deceased's appearance, people flocked
to get a look. In his open $7 ,500 imperial casket
lay someone who looked like a refugee from the
Big Top. Malcolm Abernathy, bank president, sported
a bright red wig that threatened to escape the
casket's confines. The white grease paint covering
his face smoothed his features as it filled all
the wrinkles of age. That's one benefit of clownhood,
thought Horace. Mrs. Abernathy was insistent
that his mouth have the whitest smile possible,
along with the traditional red nose. No sad clown
for Malcolm. I want him smiling. Horace fought
an internal battle about asking where Helen Abernathy,
pillar of local society, would have gotten the
outfit she supplied. He had never seen a shirt
with a cacophony of colors fighting for dominance.
An oversized boutonniere was pinned to it. More
than one person whispered about whether or not
they were in danger of being squirted. Baggy
purple pants and oversized bright yellow shoes
completed the outfit. Horace tested the footwear
for flexibility so they would fold when the lid
finally closed. Malcolm's hands clutched not
a bouquet, but a balloon animal resembling a
dachshund. Throughout the visitation, Horace
watched Mrs. Abernathy dodge questions from inquisitive
minds. Who's to say what's unusual these days?
Michael and Betsy aren't here tonight because
of illness. I'm doing very well, thank you. No,
I'm not on any medication. The question no one
dared ask but all wanted to know was, why? The
next day, the church was packed like it was Christmas
Eve and Easter combined. No one wanted to miss
the grand finale. In the front pew sat the widow.
accompanied by her son and daughter -in -law.
Helen Abernathy maintained her tranquil nature,
while Michael kept his eyes riveted anywhere
but on his father. Betsy found refuge behind
a veil thick enough to serve as a protective
shield. Horace stood in the back watching the
service. Despite Malcolm Abernathy looking like
he belonged in the center ring instead of in
front of an altar, the proceedings were no different
from the countless last rites he had attended.
Hymns were sung, prayers were offered, and the
minister extolled the deceased's virtues. Until
the pulpit was turned over to the widow. Malcolm
would be pleased so many of you came today. I
know some of you, but many of you are strangers
to me. No doubt you're probably here out of curiosity.
Horace watched Michael twist in his seat. I loved
him dearly for 43 years. Malcolm's wish was my
command, and I never resented that role. His
death by slipping on soap in the club locker
room was a shock to me, to Michael, and to all
who knew him. He hadn't planned to die. If he
had, I'm sure he wouldn't have left these. Every
neck in the church craned as Helen pulled a stack
of letters from her handbag. A ripple of hushed
conversation spread like a gentle wave. Love
letters from not one, not two, but dozens of
women that he treasured over the years. Some
of you are here today. The smile never left her
face. I know this town, so I know many of you
knew, but never told me. Her gaze settled on
Michael. Despite the distance, Horace thought
he could hear Michael's gulp. Malcolm made me
a laughingstock with your help. The last laugh,
though, is mine. She reached into the pulpit,
removed a cream pie, and approached her husband's
body. Michael jumped to his feet to stop the
final desecration. With perfect aim, Helen deftly
tossed it, not at Malcolm. but scored a direct
hit in her son's face. Then, with shoulders erect
and chin held high, Helen marched down the aisle
and out of the church. Yes, Horace thought, this
one will be talked about for a long time. Absolutely
wonderful stuff. Really, really good story. Very,
very well written by Robert. You can see why
it got as far as it did. The story placed runner
-up. Runner -up in the entire competition. Absolutely
glorious work. And on a different day it may
have taken the whole thing. And Ryan, excellent
narration. I'm sure we'll be working with Ryan
more in the future. I just love that story. It's
just the idea of something so... heartbreakingly
plausible of the widow finding out what she does
and then just cranking up the intensity and the
absurdity of that into the clown makeup and everything
she does at the funeral is it's a great kind
of comedy it's grounded in a kind of sharp pain
of reality and then it's just cranked up so you
can't help but laugh it's it's extremely well
done okay three stories with the theme of fighter
that brings us to the end of episode eight of
one more short story with me chris fullwell thank
you so much for listening we really appreciate
it and we will see you again next time