Paul Armstrong

Joined January 2021

6 stories

Stories (6)

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A glimpse through the sights
I see the helmet first, then a human face. There are no fangs or horns, just an ordinary man I could have walked by in the street. But this is a war, not back home. My weary trigger finger hovers looking if there is danger.
By Paul Armstrongabout a year ago in Fiction
From the Couch to a Novel
I like all weedy 30 somethings who don't fit, I have tried to write a novel. When I have a story idea, the first few days are so vivid with characters and plots. Yet I put off putting pen to paper because there my idea crumbles.
By Paul Armstrongabout a year ago in Fiction
Go-Fever
I don’t regret what I said, but I do regret that I was powerless to do anything. That damned car should have never raced that day and maybe young Jack Hamilton would have got his hands on the world championship. Tragedy is not when we all say something is meant to be, it's when what should happen is cruelly taken away from us.
By Paul Armstrong4 years ago in Fiction
Bull Juice
The Furher is being injected with Bull Semen, read the highly top secret telegram. Bernard Cribbins stared at that particular passage again trying to figure out its significance for the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. Was it means to which the world could get rid of one of it's most evil bastard's, was it a propaganda master stroke the equal of that one ball in the albert hall song that the boffins came up last year or was it what was usually placed on his desk, utter piffle? The report seemed even too far for this department. Sure, in the course of six years of long hard attritional warfare that had involved the murky worlds of murder, sabotage and espionage the men and woman of Cribbin's department had done some very ungentlemanly things but this seemed beyond the pale somewhat to the British. Maybe I should pass it over to the Americans, wondered Cribbins to himself.
By Paul Armstrong4 years ago in Fiction
The most exciting place to work
My father worked at the box factory for 40 years and told me to never end up there. It was not a profession that offered much respect. Most people assumed that anyone could make a box and assumed that’s how they are made. But there is a need in the job market for professional box makers. Somehow your fireworks, your candies and your nails need to get to you somehow.
By Paul Armstrong4 years ago in Fiction
The Last Piece
Two old men stand in front of each other with only a knife between them. “A peace offering”, says the taller one to the other, holding the knife in one hand and a big brown chocolate cake as well. The shorter one does not look convinced however. He stares at the cake as the biggest danger rather than the knife itself.
By Paul Armstrong4 years ago in Fiction