Stories 119 and 120:

Story 119:


The last man to approach the coffin offered it a single red rose before saying, “Rest in peace, Lord Bunsby.” Then he turned—the honorable Lord Bunsby himself!


Story 120:

In Athens the sun shines as if Apollo were still driving it. He is, but don’t tell anyone. The Olympians are keeping themselves secret until the prophecy is fulfilled.

Stories 117 and 118:

Story 117:

Zombie Trilogy:

1. The zombies have taken over California.
2. New York fights. Zombies win.
3. Washington, America, the world--all Zombies.

Story 118:

He awoke on the battlefield floor--no past, no memories. Only a fiendish headache. He didn't know what was happening around him or why he was here. Nearby, one man was aiming a long gun toward another. He leapt between them. The gun fired.

Stories 115 and 116:

Story 115:

It was a dark and stormy night. Mr. Joseph Maxwell II felt slightly ill. By morning, he was dead. Private detective Quinton Peabody was sent for. He investigated. After supper that evening he returned to the house and broke the news to the family: the cook was guilty.

Story 116:

I looked out the window. It was sunny, like all those years ago. Like when I used to have fun and when I used to laugh. That was before. This is now.

Stories 113 and 114:

Story 113:

"Who's he?" I asked, pointing to the man who appeared to be in charge.

"That's Professor Ross, doctor of temporal physics at the UCLA," said my guide.

"Temporal physics? I didn't know there was such a thing."

"There isn't. Yet."

Story 114:

The last marquis blinked back a couple tears. It hadn't been his fault, not really. But now all he could do was replay the music box, over and over, and pretend nothing had ever happened.

Stories 111 and 112:

Story 111:

"Hands up," said the new sheriff.

"I'm innocent!" the outlaw protested. "It was my long-lost twin brother, Wes. He returned."

"So he did," said the sheriff. "It's good to see you again, Pete, but I'm afraid you're still under arrest."


Story 112:

We never learned who he was, or who he had been. A spy, or a prince of an unknown country, perhaps? No one could tell. We only knew what he wasn't: a baker.

Note: I'm on Twitter now, so you can follow me to get more short short stories or odd lines/thoughts! Just look for @Specterpoet.