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“Hey, Gramps! This ain’t your skate park, bro!”
The old man brushed his jacket sleeves and sat. He smiled as the gang slowly circled around him.
“This ain’t no tea shop, old timer” the largest boy snarled. “Can you hear me?!”
The boy reached out to flick the stereo off but the old man raised his palm. His head was nodding to the beat.
Fingers padded at the keys of a trumpet. The gang shifted on their heels as the old man lifted the instrument to his lips.
A knife gleamed.
A knife fell.
The party lasted all night.
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image by Matteo Paganelli.
Today’s story title was suggested by the wonderful Ian Sutherland, author of the bestselling thriller Invasion of Privacy. You can follow him on Twitter @ Thanks Ian!
As ever, if you’ve a title idea, pop it in the comments to this story or tweet it to me @.
See you tomorrow for “Election”!
“All the chicks are, like, “Whoa! Is that really,….?!””
“And I bet you’re all “Yeah, baby – It’s me!””
Their chirping laughs rang loud around the curved walls.
“I’m telling you; if you have the right bling they’ll let you do anything.”
Legs bent and muscles stretched. The cool morning air shook with squawking jeers.
“Just gotta show them what you got. And remember the breath mints.”
A young girl pressed her face to the bars. “Hey Mommy, look at the pwetty birdies!”
“They’re Peacocks, dear,” her Mother replied, watching on.
She whispered beneath her breath.
“Emphasis on Cock. Small C.”
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image by Anthony Delanoix via Unsplash.
Well, would you look at that: it’s election day in the US of A! I’m a Brit so I couldn’t possibly comment. It’s important to get out and vote, though: you can never complain about the result if you didn’t take your stand and be counted.
Got a word you’d like to suggest as the next story title for One Word One Story? Pop it in the comments or tweet it to me @.
Explore your favourite genre using the tabs to the left and share your favourite stories far and wide!
The rain consumed the air – dense and cold, and soaking to the skin. Jacob’s sweater was already heavy with water,… but it was not the reason he was shivering.
He couldn’t be sure. There was no way to be sure. But it didn’t matter if it was true or not: it was information and information was what they wanted.
A breath of steam floated over his shoulder as the man by the wall turned to speak.
“You have served your country well, comrade.”
Without another word he was alone with the new bag.
Inside was the doll his daughter always wanted.
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image by Reza Shayestehpour via Unsplash.
Keep those one word titles coming in! I need more 🙂 Just pop your suggestion in the comments or tweet it to @ with the hashtag #OWOS.
Visit and Like my Facebook page too: there’s a TONNE of content incoming so you don’t want to miss a post!
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Hit that Like button and come back tomorrow for “Display” – see you then!
She was looking at me.
I couldn’t place the look. It was sadness and,… desperation. Her green eyes seemed lost.
I stepped closer without realising, my instinct taking over. I didn’t breathe again until I felt her hand on my chest. She was trembling.
She drew back and opened the phone booth door, stepping inside and turning, her hands pressing white against the glass. I didn’t understand. Not until I saw the photograph crushed in her palm.
The picture showed a booth identical to this, steamed from within – a wet hand print on the glass.
She lifted her skirt.
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image by Joe deSousa via Unsplash.
Another decidedly NSFW story today. No, I don’t know where the image came from. But if you want to throw me another title that piques an erotic image in your head, go ahead: pop the word in the comments section or tweet it to me @ using the hashtag #OWOS.
I’m nearly at 100 stories – let’s boost this into 200. Explore your favourite genre using the tabs to the left and share your favourite stories far and wide! I can’t do it without you!
Say hello, pop comments and like the OWOS Facebook page. I’ll see you tomorrow for “Inform”!
Shards of crystal shook with each thundering crack of feet on the marble floor below: a hundred shoes raining to the ground as hands met, palm on palm. The chandelier swayed. Wax dripped.
At each turn of the music a sighing hiss filled the air. Silk skirts brushed the thighs of men, teasing them as their wives looked on.
Jenny watched the dance from the corridor, the golds and blues of the scene reflected in the young maid’s gaze. Behind her, others carried chamberpots from the room.
“Remember, girl,” called the housekeeper. “Their piss smells just as sweet as ours.”
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image by Peter Oswald via Unsplash.
Thanks to aspiring novelist and blogger extraordinaire Roderick Wills for suggesting today’s story title! You can follow him @ or on his website at https://roderickwills.com/.
Suggest your own title and I’ll write the first image that springs to mind – just pop a single word in the comments below or Tweet it to me @.
White droplets patted against damp straw, soaking through and pooling against frozen concrete beneath. Billowing steam span through the air and glimmered in the breaking dawn.
Two dozen cows mooed and lowed as their teeth ground in a grumbling, champing chorus.
Still the milk spilled from the machines, streams gathering together amid the red mud that caked each beast’s hooves.
Four dozen eyes saw the black truck arrive. Four dozen eyes saw the man wash his boots with disinfectant.
White streams became red as the man handed papers to the farmer. The cow shed door closed for the last time.
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Image via Freestocks.org
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I’m nearly at 100 stories – let’s boost this into 200. Explore your favourite genre using the tabs to the left and share your favourite stories far and wide! I can’t do it without you 🙂
“Hey man, do I need to be wearing these?!”
Michael rose his arms to display thin plastic strips digging into his wrists.
“Pipe down, Jones. You got a time out and you take it – or do you want to go back to your cell?”
Michael Jones blew in frustration, dropping his hands to his lap and thudding the back of his head to the wall. Through the thick glass of the door he watched as orange-clad men fed metal strips into presses, their heads bent low.
The lines were long: the penance unending.
“No Sir,” Michael sighed. “I do not.”
(c) Tim Austin. Image by Miguel A Ramirez via Unsplash.
Not being political, not being political, not being political,………
My generous thanks to long-time follower and supporter of the OWOS project Sarah Doughty of Heartstring Eulogies. Check out her poetry here – I can’t recommend it highly enough.
If you enjoyed this or any other OWOS stories, be sure to like and share!