• Short Stories

    Unicorn in the Attic

    Unicorn in the Attic (A Christmas story)

    © Peter l. Barnes and Peter Barnett

     

    A Unicorny story.

     

    “Can you get the tree down, please,” called Jamie’s wife, Susan.

    Another trip up into the dusty attic, he thought. He never remembered where he had put the tree or all the lights and decorations. Christmases never lived up to their expectations since the family split up across the globe.

    He dropped the attic hatch, pulled down the ladder and climbed up. He switched on the light, which created a series of bright spots and many dark shadows. He had never explored some of the shadowy areas, not that he was worried about what he might find, in fact he imagined hidden treasures, tucked in ancient trunks. But there was still enough space in the lit areas, for some suitcases, toy boxes and old soft furnishings that they stored up here.

    Climbing up and stooping low to avoid the low beams, he began his search, sweeping the tiny torch across the humps and lumps of cloth covered boxes and small furniture discards.

    “Hello.”

    “What,” exclaimed Jamie, spinning around and hitting his head on the rafters, expecting to see her pretty head over the top of the hatch.

    “Did you say something Susan,” he called down.

    Not a peep from below.

    “That’s strange, I’m sure she called. It must be my imagination.”

    “Figment?”

    “What?”

    “Am I a figment of your imagination,” said the voice, from the black depths of the attic.

    “Who are you?” Jamie asked, swinging the beam of his small torch around the dark recesses.

    “Me,” said a creature, appearing out of the shadows.

    A beautiful Unicorn with a glistening golden horn in the middle of its forehead appeared from the gloom. The  exquisite Unicorn, only two foot tall, was adorned by red and blue ribbons in its perfect white mane, stood in front of Jamie, swishing its feathery tail, stirring up dust and sweeping it from the rafters.

    “Careful,” said Jamie, hiding his eyes from the perilous dust. “How did you get up here.”

    Because of copywrite in fringements, you’ll have to buy the book once published to read more.

     

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  • Short Stories

    The Eruption Acrylics. Short play on words

    The Eruption Acrylics.

    All that is noun of the Eruption land gauge has been found from a Ceres of marks and punt uration on a Rose Petal Stone, found by a conqueror called Napoli Man as his troops searched for ancient replicas.

    This was a long time Before Calendars (BC) but the Stone was found 1800 years after decimalization (AD). Jean-François Champollion was a great puzzler and pretended he could read it, but he was mocked by many of his pears, so he created the Cross Word to put them in their place.

    Apparently, names were put into baffoons, which is where we get comics from, and they were called carte blanches. They had no skools and were very bad at their ABC, so they drew pictures instead.

    These people were called the Walking Dead, as they were never seen alive and many movies have been made of them. They were frightened of the dark, living in their Tomes, wrapped in sheets to prevent being swept away in the floods of the river Nail.

    Tutti Carmen was a great leader who to help them escape from their underground Tomes by building huge Pyrites, towering into the sky, with tiny shafts, to get them used to the light.

    It is no wonder that these night people were afraid of humans as they often had heads of birds or dogs and were ridiculed by the river Nail Krockodile people, who lived under psalms.

    Many mysts surround the Euruptions, especially that they were sun gods which were only misspelled when I Car Us flew too close and was frazzled, unlike the rock which survived.

    Which is why I have a fairy on top of my Christmas Tree.

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  • Short Stories

    A Vet’s Nightmare – short Story

    A Vet’s Nightmare

    “Hello. Welsh Hill’s Vetinarian practise.”

    “Yes, hello. Do you look after all animals?”

    “Oh yes, all creatures great and small, we do them all.”

    “Excellent. Can I get an appointment, please?”

    “What seems to be the problem?”

    “He’s gone off his food.”

    “Can you come over at 3?”

    “Great,” said Susan. “Do you have a helipad there?”

    “What?”

    “A Helipad, or a flat roof?”

    “Ah.. yes, we have a flat roof,” said the receptionist. “Why?”

    “Okay we’ll drop in about 3pm.”

    Susan guiding her pet down onto the flat roof and then climbed down to the front entrance.

    “Hello. I’m Susan. I have an appointment for my pet.”

    “Oh yes,” said the receptionist. “What’s his name please?”

    “Nogard”

    “And what is he?”

    “A dragon of course, although he’s a little backward.”

    “And where is this dragon,” said the receptionist, trying to humour her.

    “He’s waiting outside a bit big for your doors.”

    The receptionist looked out to see that indeed there was a dragon waiting patiently, out in the car park, taking up a large disabled bay.

    “Oh yyyyyes,” she stuttered. “I’ll get the vet to come out.”

    The vet appeared form his room stethoscope around his neck.

    “Hello, Dr Little,” said the vet, holding out his hand.

    “Susan, Nice to meet you Dr Little.”

    “Call me Doo please,” said the vet.

    “Doo?”

    “Short for Donald, or maybe because I’m always up to my eyeballs in it.”

    “Oh Right.”

    “So, where’s this ‘dragon’ then.”

    “Nogard’s outside.”

    “Is he trained. I don’t want him biting my head off.

    “Oh yes,” said Susan. “That’s his favourite film, always watching it.”

    Because of copywrite in fringements, you’ll have to buy the book once published to read more.

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  • Short Stories

    Red Roses – a murdererous story

    Red Roses

     

    Hanna dug amongst the foliage and deep leaf litter, looking for insects that might be the answer to the burning question that the police required. Beetles would be the best indicator of time of death now that the blowflies were on their second or third cycle. She collected a few different species from the corpse and surrounding area, including a bone beetle, suggesting a couple of weeks since death.

    “Any clues?” asked the detective.

    “Well, I would say at least a couple of weeks old,” she said, holding up the vial containing the little black beetle.

    Hanna loved her role in the laboratory attached to the Coroner’s Court. She had trained as a pathologist progressing through bloods and diseases, until specialising in Forensics. Much more varied than only peering down a microscope at blood and examining body cells every day.

    She had the freedom of a varied work experience from visiting crime scenes, discussions with police departments and even giving evidence at murder trials. The downside, was night visits like this one to remote sites in woods and moorlands, at the most inconvenient times and weathers.

    She tried not to think about the identity of the body, thankful that it wasn’t the one she feared. She divorced her mind from the affect its discovery would have on the family and friends of the victim, her job was the collection of evidence and her mind could cope with that.

    A few days later they were reviewing the case of the body in the woods.

    “Will you be nailing the father?”

    “He has been charged with her murder,” said Mark, the detective. “The samples and insects you recovered showed that his daughter had disappeared a couple of days earlier than he reported, blowing his alibi out of the water. The fibres you found linking him to the site were the final straw.”

    “Excellent.”

    “Now about this evening,” said Mark. “Are you still ready for an interesting night out. You know you don’t need to come with us.”

    They were planning to get to know a local playboy, who was known for his extravagant parties. They suspected he was using the parties as a front to pick up lonely women, who later disappeared. He typically started at the high-end venue by inviting a few singles and couples around to his place, after the club closed, offering free drinks, food and great music.

    Because of copywrite in fringements, you’ll have to buy the book once published to read more.

     

     

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