S. T. Buxton
Bio
British writer delving into the horror, folk tales and whimsical comedy genres, with allusions to historical themes and settings.
Stories (12)
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A night in October
Freya jerked the curtains closed immediately, pulling some of the plastic hooks off the rail as she did. She threw herself back into the bed and yanked the white covers over her head. Her phone was underneath her, she pulled it out and stared into its brightness, like its light was a tether to safety.
By S. T. Buxtonabout a year ago in Horror
A night in October
Three more sheep found dead today. That’s what the man in the shop had told her. Freya had been wearing her big headphones, the red ones with an X on them. She had opted for them over her more discreet earbuds because she hadn’t wanted anyone to talk to her. But while deliberating between a fifteen pence bar of chocolate, and a paper bag filled with penny sweets, a pair of work boots had sidled into her vision. She turned to see a short man, about five-five, enter the aisle. His clothes were dusty and smelled like the air around the quarry. She thought at first that she might be in his way, so she slid aside. When she moved, her shoes juddered over the shiny shop floor. The noise suddenly recalled to Freya the image of her younger self lying on the floor. She was lying down and putting her whole arm under the shelving units to feel for dropped pennies. Freya shuddered to think of doing that now. She looked away from the floor and the memory, and saw that the man was still stood next to her. His face was old and dirty with stubble, and his mouth was moving with exaggerated animation. He was trying to talk to her, she realised.
By S. T. Buxtonabout a year ago in Horror
Friday's child
One day, over in the ancient lands of Mornkiss, the town of Friday was experiencing a spot of trouble. Not because its name sounds like a day in our world, but because on the fourth and final day of their week (Thendersday), crowds of townsfolk were attempting to leave the town by its only gate.
By S. T. Buxton2 years ago in Fiction
Train Follies
The frog that sat in the seat opposite Ostero licked its eyeball. ‘Exactly!’ Mr Morris slapped his knee and chortled at the frog’s insight. Ostero laughed politely. He was a dear old friend to Mr Morris but hardly an acquaintance to the frog, whose name he did not know. It had simply been sat there in the train cabin, when he had woken up. And he had no clue as to how he happened to be on the train either, the faint hint of questioning that he had put to Mr Morris upon waking, revealed only that he had agreed to a three-week holiday on the coast.
By S. T. Buxton3 years ago in Fiction
