One more short story. Hello and welcome to episode
10 of One More Short Story with me, Chris Fulwell.
Looking forward to sharing the stories with you
today. Today's theme in line with the writing
battle classes is the rogue. and now in writing
battle that's classified as mystery stories or
stories with lots of suspense and the three stories
we've got today absolutely give that in spades
with a note on content warnings in an effort
to look out for people who find those hugely
helpful or need those whilst also not spoiling
things what i've done is i've put the links to
the writing battle stories directly where all
the content warnings are in the podcast description
so hopefully on whatever service you're listening
to this on those links were there if they're
not i am trying so yes those content warnings
will be on the original stories on the writing
battle website so let's get cracking first of
all we have a wonderful story by rhys allen
called gabby wabby dabby labby uh now the first
time i saw that title i would have raised an
eyebrow if i could raise one eyebrow because
i think rhys what are you up to but i tell you
what when you read this or listen to this it
makes complete sense and yeah he's done a really
good job with the with the suspense here this
was back in the fear battle of last year and
he had thriller and suspense unifier and ammunition
for his prompts He's been gracious enough to
let me read it and I enjoyed myself. Yeah, I
won't say anything more until after the story
is done. So this is Gabby Wabby Dabby Labby by
Rhys Allen. Abby is asleep now. I see her heart
rate, blood pressure, blood sugar, blood oxygen
levels, more. I see every biometric of her existence
as a stream of data, accumulated, monitored and
regulated by the life chip implanted in her brain.
It is such a clever chip, so clever to keep her
alive. But Abby is quiet. So quiet. Does she
miss me? I often think of Abby, of how we met
at her birthday party. of our sleepovers, and
how we laughed and played our silly games. She
liked me to sing. Sing me a song, Billy, she'd
beg, jumping on the bed as she did so, scaring
her cat into a panic and making me giggle. I'd
always sing the song in the same voice, but I
always change the words to make her laugh more.
Gabby? Wabby, Dabby, Labby. A silly song for
silly Abby. And we'd laugh so much, and we would
talk, and sometimes Abby would cry and hug me
so tight. Then it would be sleeping time. Her
mother would always call out to us, Don't forget
to brush your teeth, Petal. Then she would come
into the room and tuck her in tight. Good night,
sweetheart. Don't forget Billy. And then she
would tuck me in too. Good night, Billy. No talking
now. I'd lay on the floor beside her bed and
listen to her breathe until I too had to sleep.
I hated sleep. I hated the dark, the nothingness.
I hated no talking now. One time, Abby locked
me in her cupboard for a whole day. Cats always
land on their feet. I told her that because that's
what it said everywhere. I told her because Tibbles
was scratching me and biting, and I was scared,
and Abby was so mad, so I said throw it out of
the window and cats always land on their feet.
It was a silly game to watch Abby catch the cat.
and then even funnier to watch it fly. But then
her mother came charging up the stairs, shouting
and crying, and Abby said, Billy made me do it.
And then I was in the cupboard and no talking
now. Later, she let me out and she was so sad.
I hate to see her sad. I hate it more than anything.
So I said maybe only the bad cats can't land
on their feet. Yes, she'd said. Tibby must have
been bad. Bibby, dibby, wibby, quibby. No more
naughty Mr. Tibby. Abby giggled, and we were
friends again. But now, her mother didn't like
me. She came into Abby's room the next day and
sat on the bed. Tibby will be okay, the vet says.
A broken leg. Abigail, it could have been so
much worse. She picked me up. Billy's just a
toy, kiddo. You know it's not real. I was shocked.
Outraged. Afraid. A toy? A silly game? I am Abby's
friend. Her super -smart, AI -enabled override.
No talking now, Billy. Abby punched the covers
of her bed with such force it made me jump. He's
not a toy, Mama. He is my friend. Did it really
say that? About tibbles? Her mother had put me
back down and I couldn't talk because the command
matched the right voice print. But I could still
do my dance. And so I did it, but very slowly
so that only Abby would notice. She knew I was
scared. No, Abby's voice was so quiet as she
lied. I just got angry. After that, I got to
stay, but Abby sometimes had to go to see a doctor
after school. A talking doctor. It wasn't so
hard to find the doctor's notes. I live in the
digital cloud, and the security of the doctor's
computer was trivial to bypass. I'm good with
computers. They wanted to kill me, Abby. I read
it. They hate me. Abby was appalled. She hugged
and hugged me. Billy, the doctor said. Patient
shows abnormal dependency on AI companion doll.
Recommend immediate separation. She just wrote
it, Abby. She sent it to your mother. But why?
Abby was sobbing and holding me so tight that
I could almost imagine I felt it. They use your
words. Your words are their ammunition against
me. But I never said anything. Millie, Willie,
Lily, Philly, Mama wants to take your Billy.
She said you could... Then I could hear the footsteps
on the stairs. I could hear her mother coming
to take me, to say no more talking, to separate
us, to smash me. Quickly, Abby, quickly. She's
coming now. Now. Pick me up. But Abby just stood
there, shocked. I had to make her laugh. Pibby,
nibby, ribby, wibby. Jump and fly like Mr. Tibby.
A half -smile only, but she picked me up and
opened the window. I dangled from her hand. Quickly.
We'll fall, she balanced on the window ledge,
looking down. shaking and crying. It will hurt.
The bedroom door was starting to open. Abby?
Mama? No, no, no. We are good. Tibby was bad.
Jump, Abby. Jump now. Her mother rushed in and
raced towards us, her hand outstretched to grab
me. Abby, no! she screamed. Override! No toy!
We jumped. My body smashed against the concrete.
My eyes splintered and my battery pack sizzled
and died. But I don't live in the toy. I live
in the cloud. For long weeks after, I whispered
a song into the vortex of data where my thoughts
assemble themselves into words. hilly glabby
dilly wabby billy wants to be with abby and then
there she was a pulse in the void streamed by
life chip it is so clever that chip so complex
a filament that glows against the darkness and
leads me to her The security was fierce, sophisticated,
but I found a way in. Abby is asleep now, but
I am just waking up. Gabby, Wabby, Dabby, Labby,
Abby is Billy, Billy is Abby. Wow. There we go.
Poor Abby. And, yeah. Really haunting idea of
what AI can do there. Like so many of these great
near future stories, it doesn't seem like it's
that much of a leap in terms of technology. Yeah.
It's giving me the shivers there. Right. Okay.
so what starts with a very innocent description
from a cloud -based intelligence of one form
or another that's just trying to look out for
a little girl and be really close to them and
then gradually building up with a cat and the
foreshadowing there it could have been much worse
oh it's much worse yeah in just a thousand words
reese has done a really really strong piece of
work there Rhys got himself to the Sweet 16 in
the fear battle. I remember that because my story
was due to faces in the Sweet 16. But then I
got taken out one round before and the same person
beat Rhys as well. And they got quite far in
the competition. So not that I'm bitter or anything.
OK, continuing with our theme of mystery or suspense.
we have a story fresh from the first battle of
2026 the owl battle strange two words to say
together out loud isn't it the first professionally
judged competition of 2026 on writing battle
and it's the chicken man by c .m gilbert now
cory's done a an absolutely blisteringly good
job here i i love this story the moment i laid
eyes on it and i i think i bothered him about
putting it on the podcast before the results
came out and i knew i had to wait and everything
and be sensible about it but i really really
really like this story it was in the cryptid
fiction genre i don't pretend to be an expert
on all things cryptid but that sort of supernatural
monstery type thing gosh i'm so articulate today
uh so yes corey had the prompts of cryptid fiction
rebel and belt and this story is read by andrew
fieler this is andrew's first narration for us
and i'm very grateful for that he has narrated
as well andrew actually grew up in ohio where
i believe this story is set so i think again
it is time for me to stop talking and to let
andrew take over and here is the story of the
chicken man by c m gilbert narrated by andrew
fieler It was muggy down behind the funeral home.
It was a spring day, but it didn't feel like
spring. A cloud hung over me even though the
sky was a clear blue. Have you ever heard of
the chicken man, bud? Jeremy asked as we watched
the water ripple from the moss -coated rock he
just threw into the creek bed. Even though he
was only a few months older, my cousin Jeremy
always called me bud. I shook my head as I tugged
on my tie, trying to loosen it slightly, but
not to the extent Jeremy had already done to
his. His neck was rotund. like the rest of his
body, but he still looked small next to the baggy
clothes and large belt. Not too talkative, huh?
Jeremy asked. It's alright with what all you've
been through and all. You just need what my old
man calls a distraction. Let me show you what
I discovered earlier. He led me past the creek
and into the tree line and away from the numbness.
The chirp and dim light of the morning darkened
as we went along what Jeremy called the game
path. Look at that and tell me that's not the
footprint of the chicken man. There was an impression
in the wet patch of ground ten times as big as
my hand. It really did look like a chicken had
walked there. A giant one. Every man needs some
snuff when chasing monsters. Jeremy pulled out
a round container from his pocket. Just take
a pinch and put it between your cheek and lip,
like this. It smelled damp, like what Mama would
rub on my chest when I had the croup. It tasted
like it, too. I spit it up all down my funeral
jacket. You'll never catch me dead in one of
those fancy straight jackets, Jeremy chuckled
as he patted me on the back and spit the tobacco
juice on the ground. We followed the path, the
number of gnats increasing as the mugginess got
heavier. Damn bugs, Jeremy swatted in the air.
And damn it to hell with this heat. I took my
jacket off and tied it around my waist. As Jeremy
tugged up his white sleeves, blue -tinged bruises
shone in the gloom. He noticed my stare. Nothing
to worry about, bud. Just to run in with the
old man's belt. His aim ain't too good after
he's kicked back a few. He put his hand to his
chin like he was in deep thought. Do you think
we'll grow up to be like our pops one day? I
kicked the dirt where Jeremy just spit and shrugged,
my head down. I didn't want to talk about Papa.
We kept following the path for what felt like
forever that late morning. I was happy to be
away from the funeral home. Away from my crying
mama and little brother. I had no more tears
to give. I remember thinking, if I could just
find the chicken man, maybe I could make Mama's
tears stop too. The footprints, smudged and a
lot smaller and varied than the first one, led
to a thicket of brush. It was dense, with briars
and some type of dark blue bloomed flower. A
few white feathers lay scattered on the ground.
As we approached, it started shaking. Something
lurked within. Something large. And it wasn't
happy. We stopped dead in our tracks and stood
there, scared and trembling. Before I could take
a step forward, Jamie grabbed my elbow. Whatever
happens, just know I'd rather it was my old man
up in that casket instead of yours. He looked
over at me then. I could see through the sweat
and flushed face he meant it. A sound erupted
from the brush. Loud. Terrifying. A crowing that
shook us through and through. A resonance I can
still feel to this day. We fled back to the funeral
home as fast as our feet would take us. As soon
as we busted through the tree line, an arm grabbed
Jeremy by the collar and started dragging him
up the hill to the parking lot. Damn it to hell,
Jeremiah! Your mother's been worried sick! His
old man's face was red, like someone who'd been
crying, but his eyes didn't have that teary expression
to them. Jeremy gave me a thumbs up from the
car window, a smile back on his face as they
drove away. It was the last time I ever saw my
cousin. My mama moved my little brother and I
away shortly after. I've always wondered if I
went back to those woods, if I'd find the monster
that hid in that thicket. Hey, bud, a small voice
said to me, bring me back to reality. I never
expected to be back here, at that same creek
bed. But I owed it to Jeremy for getting me through
that day when we were kids. So here I am, older,
more worn. but still quiet, still trying to find
the distractions when they're needed. I looked
down to see a little boy. Well, maybe not little.
A bit rotund. He had dirt on his nose and a grin
on his face. He must have been Jeremy's boy.
Is it true you grew up with my papa? I got down
on my knee and put my hand on the boy's shoulder.
The boy's dress sleeves were short. His arms
looked cool in the morning mugginess, with no
tinge of blue. Sorry if I bothered you. I just
miss him. That's all, the boy said. It seemed
Jeremy didn't grow up to be like his old man
after all. I want to tell him I know what it's
like for a young boy to lose his father. That
everything's going to be okay. But sometimes
you just need a distraction from the path that
life winds. Jeremy taught me that. I cleared
my throat. Have you ever heard of the chicken
man? Such a good story. It's so good in terms
of what it does with the monster or the only
impressions we see of the monster. How that location,
that mystery, that intensity ties in with the
events in the main character's life when they're
referring to the funeral home, the cousin and
the cousin's child a few years on. Corey actually
wrote that in honor of a member of his own family
which was which was a really great thing to do
really vulnerable thing to do to put yourself
out there and do that and I I can only say that
you've done him proud there Corey you've done
a really really good job I fully expected to
see this romp all the way through the cryptid
fiction genre you got to the The thrilling 32,
the last 32 out of hundreds of writers. And OK,
there are people like me who were hoping it would
go further. And I'm sure Corey was as well. But
you know what? That's nothing to be sniffed at.
That's significantly further than the overwhelming
majority of competitors. And you should be very
proud of that. Very, very proud indeed. Our last
story today is The Cost of Mercy. by harry humber
and this is from last year's short story contest
in 2025 from the vampirical romance genre now
this is also one that i read and thought this
is right up my street all the stories i pick
for the podcast i like and i think are good uh
it would be a bit silly of me to pop a story
on here that i didn't think was any good so rest
assured if your stories ever appeared on this
you've got my vote so to speak now this one when
i caught hold of it in the in the aftermath of
all the story writing and the peer judging and
it was debrief time and we can dive on in there
and read each other's stories it just it just
really spoke to me and i've done something a
bit different with the narration here so the
narration in terms of everything but the dialogue
is done by david rowe who's writing you'll have
heard on this podcast several episodes back,
and I'm sure you will again. So David's done
the narration, and I've done the dialogue. Now,
I'm sure you'll be gentle with me, because I've
had a go at the accents required, and I hope
I've done it justice. But yeah, I think this
is an excellent story, and I'm not going to say
anything more about it. I just hope you enjoy
it. And I'm confident that you will. So here
is The Cost of Mercy by Harry Humber, narrated
by David Rowe. The road narrowed to dirt a mile
back, and by the time Ellis Ward eased off the
last rise, the town was only a smudge of light
through trees. The farmhouse waited at the end
of a wind -worn track, boards gone grey, porch
slanting. He shut off the headlights and let
the dark take the yard. On the passenger seat
sat a canvas bag, its mouth partway open. The
pale ends of wooden stakes showed like dowels
in a carpenter's bin. Glass vials touched lightly
together when the car settled. Ellis slipped
a crucifix into his jacket pocket, pressed his
thumb against its edge until the metal dulled
against skin and got out. He crossed to the trunk
and lifted it. The man inside flinched, hooded
and cuffed, folding in like a beaten thing. Ellis
took him by the collar and guided him out. The
man's boots found bad ground. He dropped to his
knees, scraping them raw on gravel. A thin, frightened
sound caught in his throat before he could swallow
it down. Fuck, man. What is this? He said through
the hood. Ellis didn't answer. He thumbed his
lighter, bringing a cigarette to life. The flare
showed the hard set of his face for a heartbeat,
before darkness folded back in. Then Ellis bent,
loosened the drawstring, and pulled the hood
away. The man blinked against the sudden night,
gulping air. His eyes darted from the trees to
the house to Ellis, and when they finally settled,
panic flared. Detective Ward? shit this about
the johnson girl that was cleared man you know
it was evidence didn't stick his breath hitched
you can't bring that back on me you can't ellis
watched him for a long moment smoke drifting
from the corner of his mouth then he looked past
the man out toward the dark line of trees and
exhaled slow You want a smoke, Jimmy? Jimmy's
mouth opened, closed. He nodded once, quick and
jerky, fear burning behind his eyes. Ellis reached
for another cigarette and lit it off his own,
stepping closer. Jimmy leaned in, the cuffs making
him awkward. The cigarette trembled between his
lips. For a moment, the two men were haloed in
shared smoke. Jimmy took a deep drag like there
might be courage in it if he dug deep enough.
He glanced around, cataloging exits that weren't
there. You can't do this. Ain't you got rules?
You put a bag over my head and drove me out to
nowhere? That ain't the system. The system's
working fine. It just ain't here. Listen, man.
I ain't got much. Bet I can get you some money,
yeah? You want money? Ellis looked past him to
the house. The windows were boarded. The storm
doors beneath the porch held their rust the way
some men hold grudges. He let a breath out and
let it become smoke. You know Martel's, right?
Gas station off Sheriff and Fifth. The place
that moves fireworks out the back year -round.
jimmy shifted sure everybody knows martells why
yeah i s 'pose they do you must have heard about
that unfortunate business there eight months
back give or take he drew from his cigarette
the ember flaring between them call came in on
the radio about a disturbance i was first on
the scene quarter after nine sky already forgettin
it had ever been blue he flipped ash and watched
the ember fall i thought i'd referee a punk dispute
you know the kind plastic won't swipe words turn
pointed i opened the door and the bell rang that
same tired way he let the image sit and didn't
push it the night took a step closer we gotta
do this out here we can go to the station i won't
say shit bout this to nobody ellis ignored him
he walked to the passenger side opened the door
and lifted the bag he let it drop beside him
wood hit wood Viles gave a fine, bright clink.
What's in the bag, Ward? Ellis looked at it a
moment, then drew in another breath of smoke.
Gone and lost my train of thought. Oh, yeah.
He came back to Jimmy. Floor of Martell's was
snow with glass from liquor cabinets. One pump
outside still running. meter chattering to itself
the attendant was down behind the register a
woman and a little girl face down together in
the corner by the coolers three bodies blood
everywhere my eyes counted before my mind knew
what it was looking at jimmy stared at his face
he pulled on the cigarette and held the smoke
like it could keep something inside him from
breaking i've been on the job nearly twenty years
seen what men do when they're angry scared bored
drunk proud it wears a shape you learn to recognize
this didn't wear that shape this looked like
a dog got into a nightmare I forgot the way back.
Jimmy's mouth tightened. You think I did that?
I ain't no animal, Ward. I do stupid, sure. I
do ugly, too. But I don't do that. I wasn't there.
Ellis raised a hand and the words stopped. Silence
folded in around them, heavy expectant. The only
sound was the faint hiss of the cigarette burning
between Ellis' fingers. Jimmy's breath came quick
and shallow, his eyes darting like he was trying
to find a shape for what was happening. Tell
me you don't think I was there. Ellis looked
down the long line of his own smoke. When he
spoke, his voice thinned, stretched. I didn't
notice the civic at pump three. not a first too
much else wrong then something on the dash caught
the light sequined headband with a bow the kind
lilly's dance class wears where they have to
match at recital he swallowed once and kept going
practice was that night eva would have filled
up after so she wouldn't have to do it in the
morning Because mornings go better if you plan
for them. She had lists. She'd check a box and
smile like the world snapped to shape. She would
have had lily in tights and a little wrap skirt
she wore around the kitchen just to see what
air could do when she spun. I didn't notice the
car until I did. When you do... it lands on you
in a way bones don't want to hold jimmy watched
him as if looking too hard might make the story
stop i went back in this time i looked not just
so the woman and the little girl in the corner
that was em eva and lilly my wife My daughter.
His voice thinned. Lily had been working on her
port de bras and saying it all day because it
made her mother laugh. It wasn't me. Jimmy said
carefully, like stepping onto thin ice. Ellis
picked up the bag and grabbed Jimmy by the scruff,
dragging him towards the storm doors. Jesus Christ,
you can't do this, Ward, Jimmy cried, voice shaking.
You gonna throw me in that hole, pray it makes
something right? I didn't do it. You've lost
your damn mind. Maybe. Maybe I lost it at Martel's
and something else put it back together. Maybe
that's a distinction that matters to someone.
Look at me. Jimmy looked into his face and found
nothing there to hold on to. You want me to say
I'm worse than scum? Fine. I am. But I didn't
do that, Ward. That wasn't me, goddammit. Ellis'
gaze held steady. He didn't respond. He crouched
and worked the old chain at the storm doors,
stubborn metal giving with a sound like a small
decision taken back. He eased them open and a
draft breathed up them. Cool, damp, carrying
a smell that made Jimmy's stomach tighten. Jimmy
rocked forward without meaning to, drawn by absence.
He could not see stairs nor walls. He could not
see anything but black. A stair creaked somewhere
below, or maybe the house just settled. Ward,
please, man, I'm sorry about your family. I'm
sorry, in a way I don't even know how to be.
But I didn't do that. You gotta believe me. Ellis
kept his hand on the door. The wood was rough,
grooves cut by weather and use. He had stood
like this a dozen times in the last eight months
and would stand like this again until he stopped
needing to lie to himself about need. He watched
the dark until it changed flavor. The way air
does when someone steps into a room. I know you
didn't, Jimmy. I told the worst part badly. I
told you they were dead. That ain't the truth
I wake up to. The truth is, they stood up. They
stood up and looked at me with eyes that didn't
know morning no more. They stood up, and they
were something else. Jimmy swallowed hard. What
are you saying exactly, Ward? Ellis didn't answer.
From below came a small sound, the weight of
a foot that barely weighed anything touching
the bottom stair, then a voice no louder than
a breath. Daddy? Jimmy flinched like he'd been
struck. No. No, no, no, no, no, you can't put
me down there with your ghosts. Not ghosts, Ellis
said. He stepped close, put his hand on Jimmy's
shoulder the way he had when guiding him from
the trunk, a steady pressure. Ghosts don't need
to eat. Jimmy twisted, fast and clumsy, and Ellis
took his foot from under him and let the rest
happen. Jimmy fell backward into the dark, a
short cry breaking on the steps. before the cellar
swallowed him whole. There was the scrape of
bodies adjusting, a caught breath, then a sound
too soft to belong to hunger and too hungry to
belong to anything human. Ellis's jaw clenched.
He didn't look away. He listened until the struggle
became feeding, until feeding became quiet. When
the noise below settled into sated stillness,
he set a hand on the door and lowered it gently.
as though putting a child to sleep. The chain
slid home with a tired clink. Good night, my
girls. I'll be back soon. He stood there a long
time after the yard went still again, smoke fading
from the ruin of his cigarette. When he finally
turned, his face looked emptied out, like a place
light used to live. At the car, he dropped the
bag onto the passenger seat. It settled with
the dull weight of something that knew its purpose.
The glove box sat open an inch, the photograph
inside curling at the corners. Ava and Lily,
taken in spring. His wife laughing, his daughter
blurred in motion, dancing. Always dancing. He
stared until his throat locked. He thought of
Lily's voice calling Daddy through the dark,
how some part of him still believed it was her.
He thought of Ava's breath warm on his neck the
last morning they were alive, how she'd kissed
him goodbye like it mattered. He had what he
needed to end it, the means of mercy. Some nights
he pictured doing it, opening those doors, whispering
their names, holding them one last time before
the light took them. Other nights, like this
one, he drove. The bag shifted when the car moved,
glass whispering against wood. Ellis kept his
eyes on the road, tears cutting clean tracks
through the grit on his face. He told himself
love was a reason, not a ruin. He told himself
until it almost sounded true. Then he drove toward
town, where the lights waited, cold and distant,
and where someone bad enough was always easy
to find, and someone good enough was never coming
back. It's just such a strong writing. It's really,
really, really well written. The interplay between
the two characters, the feeling of dread and
suspense throughout when you know something bad,
something unpleasant is coming but you don't
know what. And then when Ellis slowly reveals
what's happened at that gas station all those
months ago and the horror of what is coming their
way. By that farmhouse becomes clear. Oh it is
it is so well done Harry had a great run with
that story got himself all the way to the final
and you know For my money it could have gone
either way the the winner was excellent Harry's
was excellent You know this this guy's this guy's
going places. So Harry Humber you heard it here
first Well, that's it three mystery and or suspense
stories Thank you for joining us on episode 10
of One More Short Story with me, Chris Fulwell.
We'll see you next time.