Stephen Stanley

Joined October 2025

18 stories

Stories (18)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

Day One: A Partridge in a Pear Tree
Stephen had never seen a contractor look so defeated by a tree. “It’s… indoor?” the man asked, standing in the hallway with a rootball the size of a corgi wrapped in burlap. The pear tree’s leaves trembled as if laughing, and a slick of damp soil tattooed the carpet in dark commas.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
The Old Bill
The stage had that smell particular to British theatres that had seen too many winters — a mixture of damp curtains, dust, and ambition. The lights buzzed half-heartedly above the pier, the kind of bulbs that gave up before the actors did.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
The New Season
The poster went up on a Tuesday, which was never a good day for anything. The wind off the Channel had already started lifting its corners before the paste was dry. Tommy Blythe stood watching from the railings, his coat collar up against the drizzle.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
A Hat and a Prayer
There was a certain sense of relief for Tommy as the train picked up speed to something resembling movement faster than a trotting horse. He opened the carriage window to feel the fresh air crash against his tired face, hoping it would wash away the remnants of the hangover from the previous night’s attempt to forget his troubles and sorrows. Another year, and another summer season starts for his well‑past sell‑by date stand‑up comedy act. Almost bottom of the bill in some end‑of‑the‑pier show, headlined by a young girl he had never heard of. But it was work. It was money. It was another day in paradise, he said, as he grinned to himself.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
The Review
The train sighed into Weston-super-Mare with all the enthusiasm of a man told there’s a meeting after lunch. Tommy Blythe stepped down with his suitcase in one hand and his bowler in the other, nodded to the gulls as if they were ushers, and followed the smell of salt and fried batter toward the front.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
Bottom of the Bill
There was a card of thick cream dropped through the boarding-house letterbox that afternoon, and Mrs Collier downstairs called up the stairs as if she were hailing the Queen Mary. “Mr Blythe! Something official! Don’t tread on the runner; I’ve just polished it.”
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction