Short Stories

BG 45 – A thriller in 33 words

Fortunately, the footsteps behind her in the dark had stopped. She exhaled with relief. Two more blocks before she was home. Suddenly strong hands closed around her neck. She saw a stockinged foot.

BG 44 – Falling

During her daily walk through Quiet Belgian Village, the residents today seem to fall spontaneously as soon as they see The Maakster. That could of course be coincidental. It hasn’t frozen, on the contrary, it is actually quite warm for this time of year, but last night’s rain has made the remaining rotting leaves on the street slippery.

Halfway through her route, between the sports fields on one side and the mountain bike terrain on the other, The Maakster sees an elderly man with his dog in the distance. The man suddenly swings both his arms through the air and then falls slap on his behind. The dog, a blond labrador, looks at him in surprise. When she passes him a moment later and asks how he is doing – the man, not his dog –

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BG 22 – The Dog Dance

Her daily walk through Quiet Belgian Village takes The Maakster over the Noensewegel, a narrow, asphalted path for cyclists and walkers. With on the left, purposely hidden from view by greenery, a quiet cemetery and a slightly less quiet institution for the mentally handicapped, and on the right, behind a ditch with scattered pollard willows, pastures that in summer are grazed in turn by a group of cows.

This morning, preceded by loud yapping, a pretty young woman

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BG 16 – Sunny house

A house across the street is currently an open house. Not an open house in the normal sense of the word, but more of an unintended sunny home.

The former residents, an old-fashioned unmarried sister and brother, who still pumped water in their kitchen, did their laundry by hand, cooked on bottled gas and did not trust any bank with their money, have long gone. The brother to the afterlife and the sister, who never left their yard, – adrift in the fog without her brother – to a nursing home.

The people next door bought the house,

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BG 12 – Ballpoint pen

We write black. We also write all kinds of other colors, but they look black just the same.

At night I wait in the dark on her desk. When it is quiet and cold. Behind me the computer and printer rest in silence. I remember the last word we wrote last night: call. The kitchen is next to her office and the connecting door is always open, so that it doesn’t get stuffy here during the daytime. As a result, I can hear the hollow plastic kitchen clock ticking away the seconds, louder than during the day. A lonely car rubbers through the puddles on the cobblestones in front of the house. And like every night I lie here waiting patiently.

When the new day has started,

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BG 8 – The Roundabout

Of the four chairs that usually stood around the kitchen table, one was missing this morning. That was strange. While looking around for the chair with her brother, she found a note from their mother on the kitchen table. That was even stranger. Mother had written that she would be out all day and not be home until late, that they should not be worried.

On social media a video appeared that was made in the early light of the rising sun using a drone. A curious circle of empty chairs was lined up around the large roundabout just outside the capital.

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