My Short Stories

Hey! Nice to see you again. Good to know that you’re on my site! Anyhow, Here are a couple of my own stories that I wrote. I hope you like them. Feel free to write your reviews.

The Retirement Home Smuggler

A man of ninety-two years, short, very well preserved, who takes great care of his appearance is moving into an old people’s home today. His seventy year old wife has recently died and he is obliged to leave his home. After waiting several hours in the retirement home lobby, he gently smiles as he is told that his room is ready. As he slowly walks to the elevator he puts his hand in his pocket, confirming that an object the shape and size of a wallet is still with him. It is. He walks leisurely to the door of the elevator and the doors close, suspending him in a metal box in a one hundred metre high shaft.

At that moment, the man on the opposite roof knows that he has found his target. Whatever was going on here was far less innocent than it seemed. The old man went by the name of Jacob Whight. He was involved in an illegal smuggling operation, and the whole reason he was here was a well-made cover story. In reality he didn’t have a wife and wasn’t ninety two, but closer to forty. What he had in his pocket was in fact a wallet, but modified so as to shoot one tranquiliser dart and store more than its weight in gold.

He had purposefully chosen this home as it as it allowed for a neat system of piping and ledges that would facilitate a climb down but not up he would frame the scene to look like a murder and escape. He would change his disguise and cover story thereafter, as he would be instantly recognised by any respectable policeman or customs official. This was because his photo had been taken by a hidden camera on a man whom he had had an encounter with. It had involved a lot of big bangs and a lot of blood. Mainly his opponent’s.

The man on the roof, going by the code name of Wolf in the Special Operations division of the CIA, had been tracking Whight for a month and was determined to end one of the largest smuggling networks in the world.

Then pain, two seconds of blinding, obliterating pain as Wolf was shot. One of his ribs was shattered, a lung punctured and his left ventricle cut. As sure a death as any.

Behind him, a man rose, holding a sniper. Elongated barrel and loaded with one twenty calibre bullet, now shot. The man smiled with pleasure, a smile that had scared the most hardened of men.

The smile of Jacob Whight.

The Hiest

He had always been a favourite, an example to all those who knew him. Now, after what he had done, would they still feel the same? This was one of the thoughts buzzing through Jeremy Archer’s mind. And the most important one, he thought. Of course, this went without saying. To him, all that mattered was his money and his fame. Selfish, one may say, but it hardly mattered to him after owning one of the largest companies on the planet. His parents had died young; he had no wife or son, so the only person he cared for was himself. You may ask, what had he done? Simple answer really. He was running low on funds, and his investors were backing out, so he had decided to steal the Kohinoor, in London. And failed. Miserably. The police had been tipped off. One of his men had been bribed. All his men were arrested, and they dragged him along. He would get out soon enough. He could pretend that he had been framed. His lawyers would do the rest. He wasn’t scared, really. He had been in such situations umpteen times. And yet the London court couldn’t manage to hold anything against him. Being the head of the second largest consumer electronics manufacturer in the world did involve sacrifices.

He was jerked back to the present, as the policeman escorting hum gave him a particularly painful jab in the back. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his back, “is that how you treat your V.I.Ps? Very Important Prisoners.” He added, noticing the guard’s befuddled expression. “You’re all the same for us, VIP or not. Now you get in your cell and stop wisecracking.” Jeremy walked in with a sigh. He would really have to get out of here soon.

It was all on the headlines the next day. “Multi-millionaire humiliated,” “Businessman put to shame,” Businessman? Jeremy thought I’m the second wealthiest man in the world, for gods’ sake! The newspaper really does never run out of rubbish words to use. “Fans protest against arrest.” There you go. At least some people still liked him.

The day after that he was out. His lawyers did a marvellous job. He roamed freely around the streets of London, surrounded by seven personal bodyguards and more that fifteen times as many fans. At least my reputation hasn’t defamed, no matter what the newspapers may say.

He walked over to his limousine, a top model Cadillac and painted jet black. It had cost him a fortune. But fortunes couldn’t measure his wealth. As he got into his private section, his body guards climbed into their own seats. His last thought as he closed his tinted glass windows was:

What heist should I pull off next?


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