Short Stories

I will post stories on here whenever I have something I feel people will want to read. The stories are about varying different things. Some have come from songs that have influenced me. For example ‘What if The Sky was Green’ was influenced by the Hank William’s song Rambling Man. Others have come from idea’s I get from people I meet, conversations I hear, or my own experiences. Have fun trying to guess which are which. If you like them then good for you, its possible that you are intelligent. If you don’t… well there’s an even bigger chance that you are intelligent.

10th June 2020

I am posting the story below because it has been rejected over fifty times. FIFTY. Now my heart cannot take much more punishment so up it goes here. To be viewed a grand total of four times if i’m lucky.

What if The Sky Was Green 

10th June 2020

If anyone reads this. Enjoy. I hope.

3AM on the train tracks

11th June 2020

The story below is one of the first ones that I wrote that I thought had the capacity at the very least to become a good story. Now clearly the literary magazines disagreed because they shat on my dreams like an elephant walking over eggs. Well this story is dedicated to anyone who takes the time to read it. I thank you.

12th June 2020

I stole the plot of this story from the Tom Waits song Frank’s wild years. I have no shame about doing this as I think all creative endevours are essentialy taking old ideas and making them your own. But if you disagree then don’t read it. If you do happen to read it. Please enjoy. I am your servant for life. WH

15th June 2020

This was the first story I wrote that was autobiographical almost. I’d never tried to write about myself before because, to be frank, I didn’t think I was honest enough to do so. I wanted to write one that was as honest as I could. Whether or not you will think so remains to be seen. Thank you as always WH.

17th June 2020

What to say but Dear God send me someone to read my stuff. What is this this story about? Ernest Hemingway. Or how I would feel if I was Ernest Hemingway. I don’t know. This story is about a tough guy beaten down by love. Enjoy. WH

19th June 2020

This a story that I wrote around a year ago. When I first started it, I only had the first line. Which I was tremendously excited about. First lines are my favourite parts of any story or novel. I wasn’t sure what the story would be about or if I could write any following lines that I felt would equal the first one but I tried. The story is okay. I liked it immensely when I first wrote it, though now i’m not so sure. I originally got the idea from the Bob Dylan song I can’t believe you (You act like we never met). Please enjoy it. It would mean the world to me if you did. WH

22nd June 2020

23rd June 2020

Ahh another day another story. I was debating which failure to put up today and I decided on the worst of the two I was considering.

I find myself with the feeling astronauts must get when they are floating through space with their coms switched off. But still they shout as if anyone can hear or is listening. I’m shouting into this void and I just don’t think anyone is listening. On one hand I don’t really care but on the other… it’s slightly hurtful.

Anyway if anyone looks at this pathetic excuse for a website enjoy this pathetic excuse for a story WH.

24th June 2020

I guess I’m a genius? This next story made my balls do happy little dances after it was completed. The sure sign of genius. WH

29th June 2020

I guess I have nothing to say today. Enjoy if anyone is out there. WH

1st July 2020

This story was written during a period when I was obsessed with John Fante. A writer of such power that it convinced me for a brief period that I could write in the same vein as him and hold such power. As you will see from reading the following piece I have no such power, but you may enjoy it anyway. In the same way a perverse person may enjoy kicking a dog when he is crippled and down. WH

10th July 2020

Here I am again. Gracing the web with my unpleasantness. Love me. Please. Read me. Because I’m sick of this bravado when all I want is for you to read me. WH

27th January 2021

Ahh it’s been too long my online friends, if that is what you are, which of course you’re not. Recently I’ve had to say goodbye to my car of three years and the loss has hit me harder than when my brother was found hanging from his neck with his pants around his ankles and an orange in his mouth (I’ll leave it to your imagination whether I am joking or not).

The loss has forced me into a medium I haven’t used for several years. Poetry. The love child of depressed teens and now apparently me. I include it below and I do hope you like it. Please God like it. Thank you as always. WH

29th January 2021

I bow to you reader if you still grace this site and read my words. The following story came to me unsurprisingly while I was in a bath. I wanted to write a story in the same way a portrait is painted, letting you infer whatever meaning you so wish from the quite meaningless story. I enjoy this story and I hope you do to.
That being said I don’t want you to think my happiness depends on you reading the story. On the contrary, the writing of the piece was a source of happiness for me for at least two weeks. So read it. Don’t read it. Enjoy it (and again I stress, I hope you do). Don’t enjoy it. Don’t even know it exist. I will be happy either way. And unless your inclined to phone or email me to tell me how much you enjoy my writing, you will never have any say on my happiness. WH

4th February 2021

This morning I went for a run. A habit I’ve picked up lately and rather enjoy. I find it relaxing and it gives me an excuse to not do anything else for the rest of the day. I’ve always been a person who had do something, I can never just stay in and relax. It drives me insane sometimes this pressure, but if it wasn’t for said pressure I would never have started writing.

I say all this because on my run I began to think about my great grandfather. There is a rosary hanging up at my grandparents house that was given to him by a french nun in the second world war for reasons no one knows. I’ve always been fascinated by that rosary. By its history. I wrote the following story because of that rosary.

WH

p.s. sorry there are no quips today they will follow next time I’m sure.

25th February 2021

Hello, hello, hello. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour. Hallo, hallo, hallo. こんにちは, こんにちは, こんにちは. Hola, hola, hola. So many ways of saying hello and so little time. So little writing to do and so much time. Or the other way round?

Perhaps I’m being absurd, but that my beautiful readers is what the next story is about! Absurdity in its beautiful, orgasmic glory. I never generally venture into territory but I decided to give it a shot, and it just might be possible that I was right all those years ago when I first set pen to paper. I am the greatest writer since Shakespeare, which coincidently is my mothers surname, so I could in fact be William Shakespeare. I love this next story with the passion a lion has for a carcass still steaming in the warm African sun, with the passion a sock has for a foot. I think the people that have refused to publish it, including my dream publication of (sob) The Paris Review, are fools. And I hope you agree with me.

W.H

P.S. I told you there would be quips.

P.P.S Just to mention a stylistic point in the story, the dialogue has no quotation marks to create a more free flowing body of text or some other pretentious bullshit reason. Really I just thought it looked cool and Cormac Mccarthy does it.

15th March 2021

There once was a fool named Will,

Who collapsed with the weight of his living bill,

And the bill it did grow,

And his garden didn’t sow,

So his words ran away to Brazil…

To tell you the truth I can’t write poetry. That was one of my better efforts and that was frankly dismal. I’ve been reading a lot of Dr Seuss and Roald Dahl recently though and I felt inspired.

This story is one of my older efforts that I felt didn’t deserve the numerous rejections that it received. I am not being very objective though. I never am. I love myself. WH

24th March 2021

It is that time again. Your favourite writer is gracing your digital screens with another work of genius that unfortunately I have to give away for free because no one sane would pay for it. It’s the hardship of our/my times that people don’t seem to like or even be interested in me, one that I solve by being so interested and in love with myself that anymore attention and love would be too much for any man to take. I would chaff and collapse breathless on my bed, spent from the love being projected by you, my dedicated and non-existent readers.

People ask me, is this a true story? Is it based on you? I reply simply… yes and no. Feel free to guess if I’m lying. WH

31st Match 2021

“Hey… what’s up?… Yo…”

Dialogue is what we all speak in everyday lives, but it is also the hardest thing to write. I can’t act arrogant and say I’m the best as I usually can when discussing dialogue because I’m not. Or if I am, I’ve never personally noticed a profound ability or talent in it’s sector. Of course like any person should, I like to learn and improve, so I have written a story that is entirely dialogue. It is based around a phone call between a rich old man and his young mistress who he loves.

Is the story any good? Has my dialogue improved? You tell me. But if no one reads it or wants to let me know their thoughts, I can personally say that when I finished writing it I collapsed breathless on my bed, shuddering as if I’d finally achieved ecstasy. So God knows what kind of spiritual orgasm it will give a reader. Probably none at all. But there is hope! Hope!

Just like I hope that maybe one day someone will read my drivel. WH

29th April 2021

Vete a la mierda si no lees esto.

W.H

%d bloggers like this: