All of my current and new short stories!

Here I write stories/paragraphs from brainstorming while listening to Juice WRLD type beats.

The bullet hit the brickwork above my head. The twanging whine of the ricochet echoed down the alley. These goons meant business. I was up to my neck in it this time.

It started with a call from a local music retailer. “Mr Wright my name is Harold Greene, I am Manager of ‘Music Land’ in Burbank St. If you are available, I would like to employ you to do some investigative work for us. Can you come and see me?”

“Sure, how about Monday morning 9 am.”

“That suits me fine. I’ll see you then.”

Staff at Music Land had spotted a stall holder at the Market Precinct in the City, offering CD’s, DVD’s and other music related products at low prices.

“Many of the products he has on sale are identical to the stock we sell,”  Harald Greene explained. “Our HQ has given me permission to look into the matter further. We want to know if his products are genuine, and if not, locate the source of his supply.”

Micro Taggants, microscopic identification particles on every Music Land product, mark it as a genuine article. The laser pen the Manager handed me activates when near the taggants up to a distance of one metre. No flashing light, no genuine product.

I was certain the job would be straight forward. The technology for duplication of media products is within easy reach of anybody who has a mind to do it, these days. If the products were illegal it was just a matter of finding the amateur impresario and giving Harold Greene the lowdown on the production location.

Tuesday, I hit the Market Precinct. A mid-twenties Asian man with a perpetual smile presided over a comprehensive selection of CD’s DVD’s and Music Video’s. With the laser pen taped to the inside of my wrist, a slight turn of my hand provided a view of the indicator light. I looked at the guy, “Are these all authentic products?” The smile remained but it was obvious that was too much English for him. “These,”  I said sweeping my hand over the display, “not fake?”

“Oh! no! no! not fake. All good All good.”

I smiled and nodded.

I handled various items from different areas of the display under the pretence of interest .The indicator had not flashed once. It was possible the Asian gentleman was the producer as well as the seller of the illicit media. The only avenue to determine that was by monitoring his movements over time.

Late that afternoon I sat in my car watching him pack up the stall and place everything under lock and key in the security lockers provided by the Market Administration. I tailed his vehicle to a small stucco house in an Asian neighbourhood. I knew it would take time. The stall was popular. He was selling items every-day. Hopefully, that meant he would need more stock soon. It required me to stake out his house early morning and the stall at finishing time. If he was not making the copies I would be on his tail when he visited his supplier.

Apart from a two hour visit to a local pokies venue Wednesday evening, my quarry kept to an unvarying routine. An early start at the stall and a late evening return home. Friday morning he caught me by surprise, pulling out of the driveway at the usual time and motoring off in the opposite direction from his usual route. I kept up with him until he turned into a factory car park in an industrial area. It was obviously a distribution centre. The place was a hive of activity. Cars pulling in, people loading boxes into their vehicles and driving off.

This was more than I had anticipated. Way beyond being a small one-man operation. After an hour, my man came out with boxes which he loaded into the back seat of his car. He went back inside twice reappearing with more boxes until the rear seat of his vehicle was stacked to the roof.

To my mind this place was a wholesale distribution centre. It was not the production centre. A few days surveillance here might get me a lead in that direction.

Two men in a black BMW X5 SUV visited the factory daily. A couple of hard looking characters. Both were tall. One lean and hawk-faced, the other large and Muscular with a black beard. Both wore dark brown leather Jackets and dark trousers. After a few days I pegged them as the owners of the business. If an illegal operation can be called a business. Shadowing them would get me to the base of operations.

I had an eerie feeling I was getting into deep water with these two Gorilla’s. They looked like professionals. The type who would spot a tail if I was careless.

The size of the operation puzzled me. I called Walter. My 18-year-old nephew is a University student living at home with his Parents. His computer skills have become an essential part of my business. I pay him for time spent on his computer for me.

“It’s research, this time Walter. Get me some facts on counterfeiting of  CD’s, DVD’s and Video. On counterfeiting in general, and who is doing it.”

“ No problem Uncle Charles.”

“ Email me a summary of what you come up with. And be sure to note how much time you spend.”

“Ok.”

It was afternoon on the day I followed them. I kept five cars behind in traffic. My odometer indicated 40 kilometres, as they turned into an abandoned industrial area, pulling up out front of one of a group of old Warehouses. The place had no windows. Nothing of the building's exterior gave any indication of what went on inside. The one loading bay might have given some view of the interior. For the present, the roller door was down.

It was imperative that I verify whether this was the counterfeiting centre before passing the location to Harald Greene. A brief foray inside was my only choice. My stomach was informing me of the need for food. I had a few hours before darkness. I drove back to the MacDonald’s, passed during the pursuit, for a leisurely meal.

10 pm I left my car half a kilometre from the warehouse and approached on foot. There appeared to be no security cameras on the building. I would have to brave whatever security was in place. My intent was a quick entry, a quick look around and a quick exit. A large padlock secured a side entrance door. I made quick work of that with the Private Investigators friend, a small set of locksmith’s lock picking tools.

Once inside my torch beam revealed what I was looking for. A bench beside a large offset printing press with set up runs of CD and DVD covers. Stacks of clear plastic CD, DVD and Video cases. Machines surrounded by evidence of being product duplicators. Evidence enough.

Loud voices and torch beams erupted from my entry door. I crouched down behind the printing machine. In the dark I had a good chance of getting out. Unfortunately, someone had begun to switch on the lights. My only chance was to make a run for it now. I bolted for the side door. I made it, but more shouts and torch beams told me they had seen me.

The bullet hit the brickwork as I raced down the alley between the buildings. The whining echo of another followed it. They were firing blind into the dark. I plunged ahead. My only thought was to get to my car. They were coming fast behind me. A shout went up each time a torch beam picked me out. Thankfully, I had not locked the car. I slid in behind the wheel, started the vehicle, and put my foot down. The last I saw of my pursuers was torch beams dancing around the rear of my vehicle. Trying for the numberplate?

Walters email that evening cleared up a lot of questions for me. Counterfeiting of media, prescription drugs, car parts, aviation parts, clothes, shoes and much more is a $600 billion industry. The biggest players are the Mafia, Chinese triad gangs, Irish Republican Army, Korean criminals, and terrorist groups. Which of these groups I had upset I did not know. I did know it was way above my pay grade. The battleground of Government agencies.

The sight of the shattered glass panel of my office door the next morning, prepared me for what was inside. Nothing in the office had escaped unscathed. Everything was smashed, slashed or beaten into uselessness. I guess they picked up my number plate. It was a warning. ‘Stay out of our business.’

I was philosophical. I could remedy the situation. Items could be replaced. The office repaired. It could have been much worse. Much worse !!

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A collection of short stories, inspired by pictures and writing prompts found on the internet.

The stories will be written in 2019, I aim to have around 30-35 stories included in a variety of genres. Any trigger warnings will be disclosed in the entries, this is a solo project. Once I have most of the collection completed, this blurb will be changed to reflect the content included. Thank you for stopping by and supporting, don't forget to like, bookmark and follow me on Penana!

A young man has died unexpectedly and has encountered death. They talk about his death and thoughts on life, but throughout their conversation, the man feels something beating in his supposedly dead heart.

What is life without a purpose unfulfilled.

So was this story too angsty and did it jump the shark at the end? I would love criticism, I would like for this to be good for the future and past works.

This is a short story I made in the Tale Foundry group. They wanted the story to stay below 350 words and because of that, I had to cut a lot out. Here is that uncut version, our at least the parts I remembered to put back in.

After a father's 4th near-fatal heart attack, he once again meets with death. Now he must decide again whether to leave into a peaceful afterlife or struggle to live for his daughter's sake.

Inspired by Hiroyuki Sawano – [Ashes] “Suite [Vocal: Gemie- Epic battle music video and formated for a magazine.

A girl sings for the fallen warriors of the army, they die for her and she cries for them. A caged bird who is forced to inspire soldiers to fight an endless battle is given a choice to be free.

Humanity's last hope lies in the shadows.

Fear the light.  Run to the dark.

A brief look at a group of men en-route to their workplace's annual staff party. Lust, loneliness, and lager.

Verse Project

This is a quick story in verse, about an un-named girl who gets caught up in a horrific situation in which her world falls to pieces. Or does it?

"Ashes in the Storm" is a short story about Ash, a nonbinary teen trying to get through a conservative life. Dealing with conservative parents, awkward romance, and gender dysphoria, "Ashes in the Storm" will take you on a trip through the life of a nonbinary teen.

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In anticipation that I may either experience inspiration or force myself to write a short-story as a sort of mental-break from my main project, here is my solution: an always available-online sketch-pad of sorts. Whether it is a quick story hammered out via keyboard in a single session, or a mini serial picked up, put down, and turned around whenever the inspiration strikes, this is the place for it. 

Honestly I have no idea what’s going to happen here in the weeks and months to come! So that said, sit back and enjoy the ride as we throw the map and compass out the window and slam the gas pedal blindly into the wild unknown!