The Stories 10

The Stories 10

A Story by Christopher Robin

10 Different thought provoking stories in under 250 words each, a good challenge for any writer ;)


The Stories 10





The puppeteer sat in his hard-backed chair watching an infomercial on classical music. They were playing a violin in the background of the advert, the words of the infomercial were meaningless to him, and he focused only on the music. Conducting a cast of puppets was much the same as conducting an orchestra he thought; it required precise but elegant timing, knowledge of where everything was and where to put it. He closed his eyes, letting the soft violin wash over him, picturing it as the backing track to a puppet show, a dance piece perhaps, something emotional.

He’d have to write it down later. He thought about tonight’s performance as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he spoke to his reflection.

“Control the puppets, control the crowd”.

He repeated his mantra two more times as was his custom before leaving for a show, and as he packed a revolver in amongst his bag of theatre props, he mused briefly that tonight’s final performance would be one to remember.




I did not expect to be woken up at 3 in the morning. I also did not expect to wake to the sound of part of my house being demolished. But what I really did not expect, when I went downstairs to warily investigate, was to see the front end of a 4-wheel drive sticking through the living room wall. This image was so unexpected that I must have stood for a full minute simply gaping at the impossibility of what lay before me. Then, as I should have expected, the adrenaline kicked in and I started taking in everything, without judgment, at a million miles an hour. The car had destroyed two couches, the television, a window (which was attached to the destroyed wall), a coffee table, the laptop, which had been on the coffee table, and my life, which had been on the laptop. I noticed the death of my computer before I noticed the still living man inside the vehicle. His face was covered in blood from hitting the windshield on his car; he was in a bad way but slowly coming to consciousness. I stepped carefully over to the passenger door and opened it, taking in the image of the man, his look, his smell, his pain. I felt pressed upon to explain the situation to him, but rather thought he should explain it to me first, then I could get on with being angry with him if his explanation was no good.




There is an unidentified glass filled with an unidentified liquid sitting on the bedside table. It doesn’t belong to me, and no one has slept next to me. How then, did it come to be there? A sip of the liquid may confirm its origins, but to sip an unsipped liquid of unknown origins? Pure madness! The liquid has a pink tinge to it, an inviting, friendly colour, but still my mind cautions of the poisons that may lie beneath the rosy tint. For a moment I look away and the answer hits me immediately…this is not my room at all.




Every day she makes the same decision, to take the longer way home from the bus stop. She does not enjoy walking the extra distance, nor does she do it for the exercise. There is an alleyway along this detour; the end of the alleyway is always obscured in shadow, no matter what the time of day. Every day she steps into the shadows and closes her eyes, waiting…wishing for unknown hands to pin her, to grope her, to violate her. Again, she leaves disappointed, telling herself that if it does not happen by next week, she will find an even longer way home.




Seemingly meaningless and evenly tedious thoughts fraught with strings of things best left untested repressed and hopefully left festered. Unadulterated hated and x-rated visions of scissions and break-ups and make-ups, remembering the dismembering fears and tears throughout the years, blocked ears and twenty beers, still couldn’t hide from the snide leers and jeers. Dispassionate rational brain waves of days spent hazily waving life away lazily and crazily deigning to aim for fame. Wake up. Wake up!




He is bored with her, and she with him. He leaves pictures of his ex girlfriend in conspicuous places around the room, hoping she sees them. She cries out of the blue and when he doesn’t understand she tells him he’ll never understand. He is purposely late and she sometimes never comes at all. He leaves the toilet seat up and she takes his cd’s out of alphabetical order. He sprays himself with cheap perfume and comes home drunk; she makes a show of leaving the room to answer her calls from a ‘private number’. One night he refuses to pass the salt, they fight and they fight, the most glorious and most passionate fight of their lives. That night they make love, sweetly, beautifully, perfectly.




No one has emptied the dumpster behind the closed down shop for years. A homeless man who died 2 nights ago still lies on his bench. Ben hasn’t told any of his friends that he changed his mobile number. Julie is the only one who catches the final train home on a Wednesday. John hasn’t read the paper in 2 months because he knows someone will tell him if anything important happens. While we eat, sleep and dream in our own little worlds, we trust the rest of the world knows what to do. We rarely realize what we stand to lose by not taking notice.




The air is filled with screams, gunshots and explosions. Fragments of metal and concrete fly through the air, not taking sides, killing without judgment. The soldier sits behind a barricade that is rapidly growing less safe, he can hear the rumble of tanks around the corner and knows he must move. He panics and scrambles out of his position, firing wildly in the direction of the enemy fire. He sees a house and bursts through the doors, instantly registering a dog and three family members, a husband wife and small boy. He screams in their language to stay down, the woman is screaming and waving something metal, she comes towards him. Faster than blinking he guns them down, he closes his eyes so as not to see it but he hears their final desperate shouts for life. He looks down at the woman, bent and broken, with a crucifix lying in her hand. He stoops and holds the child in his arms, screaming into the incoherent blaze of gunfire outside the house.




It’s pissing down rain and I’m standing under a shop front on the corner of Russell and Bourke St. My hoodie’s up but I’m still wet and shaking from the cold. Suddenly I see him walking towards me, the prick that’s kept me waiting an extra fifteen minutes in this s**t weather. He struts up, smile all over his face, he yaps. ‘Sorry bud, got the gear?’. I’ve got it ready in my hand, I hand him the baggie half filled with coke and he slips a roll of twenties into my hand. Just as it happens lights pop up from everywhere and sirens blaze. S**t, it’s the pigs. I bolt for all I’m worth heading for Russell Place, I can hot-foot it from there all the way back to Degraves Lane and melt into one of the alleys there. I can hear their cars screeching and the slap-slap of their feet coming after me, maybe thirty metres away. I’m light, I’m skinny and I’m smiling, because I’ve never felt so alive.




George died 4 days ago. After realizing that nothing special was going to happen he decided to attend his own funeral. He would never admit it to his wife or kids but he found it rather disappointing. They were only alive for a short time, whereas he was going to be dead forever, surely they could have come up with something a bit grander. It was nice to see his old school friends, some ex-girlfriends, his extended family, but in George’s eyes, it all happened rather quickly. He tried to spend the next few years travelling, but found it more comfortable at his home. His wife never remarried, he was touched that she kissed the photo frame of their wedding day every morning before work. He began to worry about his purpose. He watched his kids grow and start their own families, he longed to tell them how proud he was. His wife began to take ill in her old age; he would stay by her bed, whispering to her, trying to comfort her. She died surrounded by her family, they all kept looking at her even after her last breath, whereupon George saw her sit up, turn and look directly at him. He laughed and cried at the same time, it had been well worth the wait.

© 2014 Christopher Robin

Author's Note

Christopher Robin
If you're gonna mistreat it, beat it.

My Review

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These are just phenomenal.. I found you through your contest and I am stumped to see such good short literature on this site.

Thanks for sharing.

Posted 6 Years Ago

Christopher Robin

6 Years Ago

Thanks Stonz P. I like to try my hand at all sorts of different styles of writing, rap and rhyme bei.. read more
I like these little stories. some more than others (obviously). the brevity didn't leave me wanting. I'm really impressed at your ability to tell an interesting, intriguing story in so few words.
I enjoyed the delightful read.

Posted 6 Years Ago

Christopher Robin

6 Years Ago

Thanks for the feedback Woody! glad you enjoyed, I've just started a competition to find other peopl.. read more
I visited here after reading your comments on one of Chris V's epistles to the Philistines. I thought the comment cogent, hence the visit. What are these nuggets? Your own creations, or a pass through of mind candy to your fellows? Either way- provoking. Thanks for sharing.

Posted 6 Years Ago

Christopher Robin

6 Years Ago

Thanks for reading! I'm glad you found my feedback logical and coherent, I always try to make it so... read more
Delmar Cooper

6 Years Ago

Devious-writers? Deviant maybe.
Christopher Robin

6 Years Ago

Ha! perhaps both.

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3 Reviews
Added on August 1, 2014
Last Updated on August 1, 2014
Tags: poetry, rap, prose, commentry, contemporary, poem, story, rhyme


Christopher Robin
Christopher Robin

Melbourne, Caulfield, Australia

Chris, almost 28, live in Melbourne, love reading, writing, gaming. I like to have fun with words. I'd also like to raise the bar a little when it comes to publishing online 'literature'. I hope you b.. more..