Stephen Stanley
Stories (18)
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DAY ELEVEN: Eleven Pipers Piping
It began at dawn, which was unfair. Nothing good had ever arrived at dawn. Stephen was dreaming of silence—clean, merciful silence—when the first blast of bagpipes tore through the bungalow like an alarm clock that had taken a personal interest in his suffering. His heart jolted; he sat upright, certain the world had ended.
By Stephen Stanley2 months ago in Fiction
DAY SIX: Six Geese a-Laying
The first sign was the smell. A sharp, swampy odour crept up the porch before the doorbell even rang. It smelled of ponds, panic, and something that might once have been straw. Stephen had been mid–Teams call, trying to look competent while nudging a partridge away from his keyboard, when Jane called from the hallway:
By Stephen Stanley2 months ago in Fiction
Day Four: Four Calling Birds
Stephen woke to an unusual quiet. The partridge perched peacefully on the windowsill like a feathered monk. The pigeons dozed in their bathroom exile. Even the French hens had clustered by the radiator, gossiping in polite whispers.
By Stephen Stanley2 months ago in Fiction
Day Three: Three French Hens
At 6:40 a.m., the doorbell rang with the authority of a police raid. The partridge, asleep on the router like a dragon on a hoard of warm LEDs, detonated into the hallway. One of the pigeons cooed in the bathtub as if to say, we warned you about mornings. Jane rolled over and tugged the duvet over her head.
By Stephen Stanley2 months ago in Fiction
