Rupert Rowlingson
Bio
Just a struggling author with a back catalogue and a set of new ideas for short stories.
Thought rather than leave them sitting gathering dust, I'd upload them here in the hopes they may entertain.
Stories (5)
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Cold Mourning
God it was cold that morning. Of course, it was always bloody cold on Tartarus. Two decades Abel had lived on this back water of a planet. All that time and this rock had never even had the decency to rise above freezing. Two decades of not being able to step outside, without three thick layers on. Two decades of not being able to touch anyone, outside of the hermetically sealed habitat units. Two decades of this pathetic imitation of life. God Able hated this frozen planet. If it had not been for the extortionate price of a ticket off world, he would have left as soon as his six month contract was up. But then he had to go and get himself a reason to stay. A god damn anchor to this frozen hell. And now, now he couldn’t leave.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
The Trolley Problem
There is a small coffee shop, on the edge of a rather large town. The shop was rather unexceptional, save for its half price mid-week madness special. It was the only time the, rather pricey, shop was ever truly busy. Today was not the middle of the week. As a consequence the expensive shop now had a few loyal patrons, along with the occasional passer bye. They stayed for shelter as they drank their coffee on this especially cold morning. One of these pedestrians was a smartly dressed business man, who looked down his nose at the quaint shop. But he was unwilling to lose the feeling in his fingers while he enjoyed one of his few remaining vices. Philip smiled at the pretty barista as he ordered his large latte, before remembering his most recent health kick and altered it to a skinny decaf. The barista let out an exasperated sigh as she threw out the half-finished drink, starting from the beginning with the slightly more convoluted order.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
Ice Cave Meltdown
My vision is fuzzy, not that it matters. I can barely see anything in the dim light. My entire body aches; except for my left foot, I can’t feel that at all. I lift a cold, trembling hand to my head. Wet. I feel around some more, wincing as I come across a deep cut along my left temple. My eyes are slow to adjust to the light but I can just about make out four other bodies. All of them lying worryingly still. My mind is still in a daze, but I realize something terrible. Weren’t there six of us? As I try to wake up fully from my unconsciousness, my memories start to return.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
The Visit
Heavy drops of rain struck the windows of the black Mercedes. The tiny, wet, pellets hit with such force that the passenger was nearly certain that some malevolent force trying to smash through the glass. The driver paid it no heed. He just carefully steered his way through the dilapidated trail. He had made the trip many times before, it’s possible he could have made the trip on autopilot. Not that he ever would. No there was no force on earth that could force the driver to take his eyes from this road, not for any longer than the time it took to blink.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
A Journey to Remember
The sound of the train on the tracks was the first thing he registered. That rhythmic beat that soaks into the body. As sense slowly returned to his body the man realized he was, rather strangely, lying on the floor. With what was far too much effort for such a simple task he opened his eyes and, rather unsteadily, sat up. He was indeed aboard a train, in what looked to be the cargo hold, a reasonable deduction given all the stacks of boxes. Deciding that the binds of the nearest stack looked too strained for his liking, the man forced himself to his feet.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
