Humor
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
I Thought We Were Cleaning Out our Uncle’s House, Then We Found This
Uncle Jerry had been dead for three days, and already the house smelled like a mixture of old newspapers, mothballs, and despair. The family had gathered to clean it out, ostensibly to honor him, but mostly to figure out who got the good stuff before someone else did.
By Tim Carmichael2 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
