Short Stories

"At the Edge of the World" by E. Hughes

He stood at the very edge of the world, wind blowing, clouds steaming by, grey and then brilliant light, then grey again, quickly and too fast to fully take in. This was what he wanted, to be away from it all, off the beaten track, a path that led to nowhere, but was the first road he had ever felt he had a choice in taking. And how many roads did a man walk down after all?

There was a couple in the distance, with a little dot that turned out to be a dog. If it was barking, and the couple laughing and teasing it, he had no way of knowing as they were so far away, and the wind was blowing all the sound of the world away, to somewhere else.

How different the city was to the far off and lonely; when you were lonely in a city, you were surrounded by hundreds of thousands of other equally lonely people. Alone in this rugged wilderness, you felt just right, just comfortable, and surrounded by love. He clicked his camera, another masterpiece. Well he thought so anyway. The couple had disappeared, but stayed in his mind. Even if places like this were so far away, they were always ever-present in the heart. What was the pleasure of a place like this, and what was it he was looking for? Perhaps he'd found it.

This paradise at the edge of the world would be waiting for him to visit again.

"Flat Life" by E. Hughes

Flat life. Dole life. Daytime TV life. Soft drug life. Lazy life. What life? Whose life? Where's life? No life.

It was that kind of day. Grey. Rain threatening. People everywhere miserable. The eternal everyday Tuesday of shopping, dreaming, scheming and promises and plans to leave, and start a new life under a brighter canopy, where the stars burn just that bit brighter, and people smile just that bit more sweeter.

What was England? Hadn't we ruled the world? Once? Was this the nation that took on the world, and won? What had we won anyway? Copyright on the colour grey, or misery, or ironic, bitter and cynical humour?

Buy the shopping, make your way home, rest your weary feet, put the telly on, watch the news, have your tea, dream your dreams. Make your plans. Scheme your schemes.

What is the human condition?

And is it to be found in daytime TV, or pothead realities, or drunken debauchery of one kind or another?