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    Voices: Short Stories, #1
    Voices: Short Stories, #1
    Voices: Short Stories, #1
    Ebook57 pages42 minutes

    Voices: Short Stories, #1

    By D B English

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    About this ebook

    A selection of short stories on life, love and death from D.B. English.

    From the atmospheric horror of 'The Writer' to the tender romance of 'Angela', these eight tales introduce a major new talent in the world of literature.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherD B English
    Release dateMay 20, 2016
    ISBN9781533770349
    Voices: Short Stories, #1
    Author

    D B English

    D B English is a totally cool guy; wit, raconteur, international playboy, lover par excellence, gourmet chef with a penchant for fine wines, cask ales and aged brandy. His sexual prowess is the stuff of legend amongst the harems of Eastern potentates, his formidable abilities as both swordsman and unarmed combatant have made his name both feared and respected across the globe. Iron Mike Tyson, the former world heavyweight boxing champion, was once reported to have locked himself in a bathroom, whimpering in terror upon being told that D B was looking for him. Not only is D B phenomenally well-blessed in the trouser department, his techniques of seduction are so irresistible that it has been said that no female can resist the urge to hurl themselves bodily at his feet the moment he enters the room. No doubt many readers will recall the words of Marylin Monroe when, upon being asked what she wore in bed, replied 'Hey, is that D B English over there? Outta my way, boys, hubba! hubba!' And yet, despite being undoubtedly the most handsome, virile, witty, articulate and totally fabulous all-round embodiment of masculinity, D B remains at heart a simple, humble soul. Perhaps this is why great statesmen and captains of industry have sought the wisdom of his counsel, availing themselves of his freely-proffered pearls of intellectual perfection as they have wrestled with the weighty issues of the day. It may be recalled how, upon being asked what he thought of Western civilisation, the great Mahatma Ghandi remarked 'Apart from that god in human form, D B English, I think it would be a very good idea'. And so, dear reader, you may indeed consider yourself fortunate, nay, blessed to hold in your hand a selection of the mighty D B's work in your mortal hand. How fortunate was that day on which the fates decreed that you should be so favoured. Surely, there can be no finer way to close the curtain on our little performance than to quote the master himself. As D B English said: 'If you believe a word of this bullshit, you can weave fog!'

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      Book preview

      Voices - D B English

      The Last Chance Saloon

      He jumped off the wagon and landed heavily in the dust of Main Street. He brushed himself down and looked around. There was no-one in sight. The houses and stores were asleep, shuttered against the shimmering heat of high noon. Only the saloon was open. He read the name, printed in peeling, faded paint above the swing doors.

      'Yep, figures', he thought 'this is the one joint that never closes. Thank God.'

      He went inside. The air was cool in here, perfumed by countless cheap cigars, stale beer and lost hopes. The barman was wiping a beer glass, leaning against the mahogany bar, which had been polished smooth by a million sleeves. A brown-haired man sat on a bar stool, nursing a glass of memories and forgetfulness.

      The barman looked up, smiled. 'Howdy', he said 'what'll it be?'

      He thought for moment. What the hell. 'Just water, I guess.'

      The barman nodded, drew a glass of cool, clear water, set it on the bar. 'No charge.'

      'Thanks', he said and drank deeply. How many years since he'd had a glass of water? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter now, anyway.

      The brown-haired man looked up, gave him a rye smile. He pointed to the door, where the noise of the wagon was fading into the distance. 'On it long?' he asked.

      'Nine years, three months, one week and four days. Doing just fine 'til Christmas came along. You?'

      'Managed a fortnight once, few years back. Don't usually remember the holiday season. Or any other, come to that.'

      He nodded, smiling. He understood. He drained his glass, glanced at the clock behind the bar. The clock had neither numbers nor hands. 'Figures', he thought 'who needs them here?'

      The barman took the empty glass. 'Another?'

      'No, thanks', he said 'guess it's my time.'

      The barman nodded, stuck out his hand. 'Good luck, my friend,'

      They shook hands. He turned to the brown-haired man, offered his hand. 'See you soon, brother.'

      They shook hands. He turned to the door, the brown-haired man turned back to his whiskey.

      Outside, the sun still blazed down on the deserted street. The wagon would roll in again sooner or later and someone else would step off. Or jump off. Or fall off. Sooner or later, someone always did.

      He turned to his left and began walking out of town. It wasn't too far. He could see it looming on the horizon from here.

      There was no breeze as he approached the wall. Just the eternal sun watching impassively. He stepped up to the wall. It stretched away to infinity left and right, soared up out of sight above him.

      He sighed. A million years ago, back when he'd still had a chance, he'd heard people say that when you reach rock bottom, the only way is up.

      'Nope', he said to nobody in particular 'when you arrive at Rock Bottom, the only way is out.'

      He laid a hand on the rock. 'I'm ready.'

      A tunnel appeared in the rock face. Far, far away, an almost imperceptible point of light twinkled in the darkness.

      Without a backwards glance, he stepped into the tunnel and walked towards the light.

      The Writer

      'Oh, fat lady who nobody fucks, why won't you read my fucking books?'

      That's poetry, that is. 'Cos it rhymes, see? Sorry about the language but it was the only way I could get it to rhyme. Or do I mean scan?

      Anyway, it's true, isn't it? I mean, just look at you! You can't've seen your own

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