Short Stories – Page 3 – Michael J McCluskey

The Long Winter Nap

Nestled deep in the forest’s heart, where the trees stood tall and silent under blankets of snow, a cozy den lay beneath a massive oak. This den belonged to a bear named Bartholomew, a gentle and thoughtful creature who eagerly awaited his favorite time of year—his long winter nap.

The weeks leading up to Bartholomew’s hibernation were always a flurry of activity. He’d spent autumn feasting on berries, salmon, and honey, building up a warm layer of fat to sustain him through the cold months. As the first snowflakes began to fall, Bartholomew could feel the familiar pull of sleepiness settling over him like a heavy quilt.

Bartholomew wasn’t the only one preparing for winter. The other animals of the forest were busy making their arrangements. The squirrels chattered noisily as they stored acorns, while the foxes dug burrows to escape the icy winds. But unlike his neighbors, Bartholomew faced winter with serene anticipation.

“Why do you sleep so long?” asked Pip, a curious field mouse who had scampered into the bear’s den one chilly evening.

Bartholomew chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Ah, little Pip, it’s not just sleep—it’s a dream of peace. When the world is frozen and quiet, I rest and let the forest heal itself. By spring, everything feels new again, and so do I.”

Satisfied with the answer, Pip wished the bear a good nap and scurried away.

As the days grew shorter, Bartholomew made his final preparations. He lined his den with soft moss and pine needles, ensuring it was warm and snug. When the first major snowstorm blanketed the forest in silence, Bartholomew yawned mightily, stretched his massive limbs, and settled down into the nest.

At first, his dreams were vivid and playful, filled with memories of sunny meadows and shimmering streams. But as time passed, his dreams grew deeper, and he floated through visions of stars, moonlit skies, and the rhythmic heartbeat of the earth itself.

Outside, winter unfolded in its full splendor. Icicles glistened in the pale sun, and frost etched delicate patterns on the bare branches. The forest, so often alive with sound, fell into a hush that matched Bartholomew’s slumber.

Months later, the warmth of spring began to creep into the forest. The snow melted into rivulets that gurgled and danced through the undergrowth, and the first shoots of green pushed through the thawing ground. Bartholomew stirred, his nose twitching at the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers.

With a final, hearty stretch, Bartholomew lumbered out of his den. He blinked against the brightness of the sun and listened to the chatter of returning birds. The forest was alive again, renewed and bustling, just as he had dreamed it would be.

Bartholomew smiled, ready to embrace the adventures of spring, knowing that his long winter nap had been well worth it—for him and the forest he called home.

The Christmas Star

Snow gently blanketed the quiet town of Willowcreek, dusting the rooftops and shimmering under the glow of streetlights. The townsfolk bustled about, preparing for the annual Christmas Eve festival, an event cherished by all.

At the heart of the town stood a towering pine tree in the square, its branches adorned with ornaments lovingly crafted by children, garlands of popcorn, and glittering lights. But the crowning jewel was missing at the very top—the Christmas Star. It had been lost during a winter storm the previous year, and no one could replace it.

Nine-year-old Lily wandered through the square, her cheeks rosy from the cold. She paused to look up at the empty treetop. “The tree just doesn’t feel magical without the star,” she murmured.

Lily’s grandmother, who had raised her after her parents passed away, always told her that Christmas wasn’t about perfection but about the love and warmth shared between people. Yet, Lily couldn’t shake the feeling that the star was important—it was a symbol of hope, guiding everyone home.

Determined, Lily decided to make her own star. She rummaged through her grandmother’s attic, unearthing scraps of shiny fabric, old tinsel, and a broken picture frame. With clumsy but earnest hands, she pieced together a star, patchy and imperfect, but shimmering nonetheless.

On Christmas Eve, as the townsfolk gathered, Lily clutched her creation tightly and approached the mayor. “I made this,” she said, holding up the star. “It’s not perfect, but I think it belongs up there.”

The mayor crouched to Lily’s level, inspecting the star. His eyes softened. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “And it will shine brighter than anything store-bought.”

With the help of a ladder and some careful hands, Lily’s star was placed atop the tree. As the lights were turned on, the entire town gasped. The star reflected the twinkling lights, casting a warm, golden glow that seemed to envelop the square.

Grandma hugged Lily tightly. “You reminded us of something important,” she said. “Sometimes, the most imperfect things carry the most love.”

As carolers sang and laughter filled the air, Lily looked up at the tree, her heart swelling with pride. That Christmas, Willowcreek rediscovered the true magic of the season: hope, love, and the light we bring to each other’s lives.

The Reluctant Warrior

Cancer was a quiet monster that moved silently through the streets of ordinary lives, choosing its battles without rhyme or reason. It crept into homes, workplaces, and hospital rooms, wearing countless faces: a lump, a shadow on an X-ray, a sudden wave of exhaustion.

For Emily, Cancer came one autumn afternoon, disguised as a routine doctor’s visit. She had gone in for a persistent cough but left with a diagnosis that felt like a storm cloud swallowing her sky. Stage II lung cancer. She was only 34, a non-smoker, and a lover of morning jogs and green smoothies. She thought cancer happened to other people.

At first, she fought like someone drowning—thrashing, gasping, begging for a lifeboat. The nights were the hardest, filled with the hum of machines and the quiet sobs she tried to muffle in her pillow. Her parents stayed brave for her, their smiles stretched thin over faces carved with worry. Her friends rallied, delivering meals and awkwardly hopeful text messages.

But Cancer had a way of isolating its victims. No matter how many people surrounded her, Emily felt alone in the labyrinth of her fears. The “what-ifs” loomed like shadows: What if this treatment doesn’t work? What if I’m not strong enough? What if I don’t make it?

Then, one evening in the oncology ward, Emily met Carl, a wiry old man with a weathered face and a booming laugh that seemed utterly out of place. He was hooked to an IV, just like her, but his eyes sparkled like he knew a secret.

“Stage IV,” he said when she asked about his condition, his tone nonchalant. “But I’m not dead yet, so why act like it?”

Carl introduced her to a world beyond her diagnosis. He taught her to focus on moments, not milestones. To savor the bittersweetness of hospital coffee, how the sun warmed her skin on the rare days she could step outside, and the sound of her niece’s giggle over video calls.

Cancer was a thief, yes, but it couldn’t steal everything.

The treatments were grueling: rounds of chemo that left her weak, hair falling in tufts that she tried to laugh off with a “pixie cut’s in, right?” But Emily found a strength she never knew she had. It wasn’t the kind of strength that looked like stoic bravery—it was raw, messy, and deeply human.

Months later, Emily rang the bell in the cancer center to mark the end of her treatment. The cheers of the nurses and patients echoed down the sterile hallways. Carl was there too, though his prognosis hadn’t changed.

“You won,” he told her, clapping her back.

“No,” Emily said, her voice trembling. “We did.”

Carl passed away a few weeks later, but his lessons stayed with Emily. The cancer had scarred her body, changed her life, and taken friends she had met along the way. But it had also taught her to cherish every breath, every heartbeat, and every moment of connection.

Emily wasn’t just a survivor; she was a warrior—a reluctant one, but a warrior nonetheless.

A Journey of Hope: Emma’s Battle Against Liver Cancer

Emma Thompson had always been the heart and soul of her family. As a dedicated nurse, she spent her days caring for others, often putting her own needs aside. Her vibrant spirit and unwavering optimism inspired everyone around her. But one chilly autumn morning, Emma’s world changed forever.

The Diagnosis

It began with persistent fatigue and unexplained weight loss. Initially dismissing these symptoms as signs of burnout, Emma continued her demanding work schedule. However, when the fatigue intensified and jaundice appeared, she decided to visit her doctor. After a series of tests, the diagnosis was made: Emma had liver cancer.

The news hit her like a tidal wave. Fear, uncertainty, and sadness clouded her usually bright demeanor. Yet, Emma was determined not to let the diagnosis define her. Drawing strength from her family and the very patients she had cared for over the years, she resolved to fight with every ounce of her being.

Facing the Battle

Emma’s treatment plan was rigorous. She underwent surgery to remove the tumor, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. The physical toll was immense—nausea, pain, and fatigue became her daily companions. But Emma’s spirit remained unbroken. She maintained a positive outlook, focusing on small victories each day.

Her family became her anchor. Her husband, Daniel, took on more responsibilities at home, while their two children, Lily and Noah, offered unwavering support and love. Friends and colleagues rallied around her, organizing meal trains, providing transportation to appointments, and simply being there to listen.

Finding Strength in Community

Throughout her journey, Emma discovered the power of community. Support groups connected her with others facing similar battles, offering comfort and shared experiences. She found solace in storytelling, sharing her fears and hopes, and listening to others do the same. These connections reinforced her belief that she was not alone.

Emma also embraced holistic practices to support her well-being. Meditation, gentle yoga, and spending time in nature became essential parts of her routine, helping her manage stress and maintain a sense of peace amidst the chaos of treatment.

A Glimmer of Hope

Months passed, and Emma’s resilience began to bear fruit. Follow-up scans showed promising signs of remission. The news was met with tears of joy and relief from her loved ones. Emma knew the journey wasn’t over, but the progress filled her with renewed hope and determination to continue fighting.

Life After Cancer

As Emma entered remission, she reflected on her journey. The experience had transformed her, deepening her empathy and appreciation for life. She became an advocate for liver cancer awareness, sharing her story to inspire others and promote early detection.

Emma returned to work with a renewed sense of purpose, cherishing each day and the connections she made. Her battle with liver cancer had been arduous, but it also revealed the depths of her strength and the boundless support of those around her.

A Legacy of Hope

Emma’s story is one of courage, resilience, and the enduring power of hope. Her unwavering spirit not only helped her overcome liver cancer but also touched the lives of countless others. Through her journey, Emma demonstrated that even in the darkest times, the human spirit can shine brightly, illuminating the path toward healing and new beginnings.

If you or someone you know is facing liver cancer, remember Emma’s story. Seek support, stay informed, and hold onto hope. Every step forward is a testament to the strength within us all.

Highway to the Stars

Jake Morrison had spent 20 years behind the wheel of his rig, a gleaming blue Kenworth with chrome accents that shone like silver under the moonlight. He called her “Starlight.” Night driving was his favorite—just him, the open road, and the endless sky full of stars.

One particularly late haul found Jake cruising through the flatlands of Kansas. The highway stretched ahead like a black ribbon, framed by fields of gold and a horizon painted with faint hues of dawn. His eyelids grew heavy, but he resisted the call of sleep, knowing rest areas were few and far between.

He adjusted the CB radio, hoping for chatter, but only static greeted him. The white noise blended with the hum of his engine, lulling him into a trance. Jake shook his head, took a swig of lukewarm coffee, and then—he saw it.

A light streaked across the sky, brighter than any shooting star he’d ever seen. It hovered, then zigzagged in impossible patterns before descending, landing somewhere beyond the next bend. Jake felt his heart quicken. Was it fatigue playing tricks, or had he just witnessed something extraordinary?

Curiosity overpowered caution. He slowed Starlight to a stop on the shoulder and grabbed his flashlight. Leaving the warmth of the cab, Jake stepped into the cool night air. His boots crunched against gravel as he walked toward the glow in the distance.

What he found defied explanation.

In a clearing stood an otherworldly craft, shimmering with colors that seemed alive, shifting and pulsing like the aurora borealis. A figure emerged—tall, slender, and surrounded by an aura of light. Its face was indistinct, but its presence radiated calm.

“You seek the stars,” a voice echoed in Jake’s mind, not spoken but felt.

Before he could reply, the figure extended a hand. Against all logic, Jake took it. In an instant, he was no longer in the field but standing in the cockpit of the craft. Through a panoramic window, he saw Earth below, a glowing marble suspended in the vast darkness of space.

“You are a traveler,” the being said. “You’ve always been drawn to the unknown. Let us show you more.”

Jake’s pulse raced as the ship soared past the moon and into the galaxy. Stars zipped by, their light forming trails like highway markers. He saw nebulae swirling in vibrant colors, planets with rings of crystalline ice, and suns blazing with the heat of a thousand fires.

For what felt like hours—or perhaps lifetimes—Jake traveled the cosmos, his mind expanding with every sight, his soul filling with wonder.

When he awoke, Jake was back in the cab of Starlight, parked at a rest area he didn’t remember reaching. The sun was rising, casting golden light over the windshield. Shaking his head, he glanced at the dash. The coffee cup was gone, replaced by a small, iridescent stone that shimmered like the craft he’d seen.

Jake smiled as he shifted into gear and pulled back onto the highway. Whether dream or reality, he didn’t care. His perspective had changed. The road still stretched endlessly ahead, but now, it wasn’t just the Earth he longed to explore. Somewhere out there, the stars were calling, and he knew he’d find his way back to them someday.

For now, though, the open road would do.

The Last Shift

Under the blinding arena lights, Ryan “Diesel” Dempsey laced up his skates, his fingers moving with the automatic precision of decades of practice. The roar of 18,000 fans echoed through the arena, but Ryan barely noticed. His focus was elsewhere tonight.

After 18 years in the league, this game—Game 7 of the championship series—was likely his last. His 39-year-old body had taken more hits than he cared to count, and his knees screamed at him every time he stood. But this wasn’t just about the pain. He had a family now—his wife Emily and their two-year-old daughter, Harper. They deserved more than a tired, aching husband and father who could barely keep up.

The first period was a blur of speed and brutality. Ryan didn’t even realize his team was down 1–0 until he sat on the bench, gulping water. His teammates were younger, faster, and brimming with energy, but they leaned on him for guidance, a steady hand in the chaos.

The second period began, and Ryan found himself in a scuffle along the boards. His body reacted instinctively, shielding the puck before snapping a pass to the slot. His linemate, Peters, buried it in the net, tying the game. Ryan grinned despite himself. Maybe there was still some Diesel left in the tank.

The final period was a grind. With less than two minutes left and the score still tied, the coach called Ryan over. “You’re up next,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Ryan hopped over the boards, adrenaline drowning out the pain in his legs. The puck careened toward him, and he intercepted it with a practiced flick of his stick. He surged up the ice, weaving between defenders like he was 25 again.

Near the blue line, he faked a shot, drawing the goalie out of position, before sliding the puck to Peters once more. Peters didn’t hesitate, slapping it into the net. The red light flashed, and the crowd erupted.

The final seconds ticked away, and when the buzzer sounded, Ryan was buried in a pile of teammates. They hoisted the championship trophy high, the weight of it surprisingly familiar in Ryan’s hands.

Later, as the arena emptied and the media frenzy faded, Ryan sat alone in the locker room. He held his skates in his hands, the leather worn and frayed, and he knew it was time to hang them up.

Emily and Harper appeared in the doorway, Harper giggling as she toddled toward him. Ryan scooped her up, holding her close. “That’s it, kiddo,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. “Daddy’s coming home.”

The game had given Ryan everything—fame, fortune, and memories he’d treasure forever. But now, it was time to start the next chapter.

The Hustler’s Gambit

Eddie “Eight-Ball” Parker sauntered into Murphy’s Billiards, a dimly lit dive tucked into the corner of a nondescript strip mall. The smell of stale beer and chalk dust greeted him like an old friend. His cue case swung lazily at his side, and his battered leather jacket hung loose over his wiry frame.

The regulars didn’t pay him much attention—just another drifter in a joint where dreams of big money sank as often as the eight-ball. Eddie liked it that way. He wasn’t a flashy player, nor did he come off as the kind of guy who’d clear a table in one stroke. He played the long game, setting traps for anyone greedy enough to bite.

At the far end of the room, a local named Tony “Big Shot” Garrison held court. A brash guy with a loud laugh and an even louder shirt, Tony fancied himself the king of Murphy’s. He had a stack of cash resting on the edge of his table and a line of challengers eager to part with their money. Eddie clocked the scene, watching Tony swagger his way through match after match, his victories more about intimidation than skill.

Eddie approached casually, ordering a beer at the bar and pretending not to notice the spectacle. After a few games, when Tony’s bravado was at its peak, Eddie sidled up to the table.

“You looking for another game?” Eddie asked, his voice low and steady.

Tony sized him up, sneering. “You play much, old-timer?”

“A little,” Eddie replied with a shrug. “Enough to know I might have a chance.”

The room chuckled, and Tony grinned wide. “All right, grandpa. What’s the wager?”

Eddie patted his pockets and produced a modest roll of twenties. “Let’s start small. Fifty bucks?”

Tony laughed. “Fifty bucks? You sure you wanna gamble your grocery money?”

Eddie smiled faintly and racked the balls. “Just breaking the ice.”

The first game was deliberately sloppy. Eddie missed easy shots and scratched on the eight-ball, losing fifty bucks without so much as a flinch. Tony basked in the attention, crowing about his victory and goading Eddie into another round.

“How about a hundred this time?” Eddie offered.

Tony’s eyes gleamed with greed. “You’re on.”

The second game was tighter, with Eddie playing just well enough to seem lucky. He sank the eight-ball by a hair, evening the score and riling Tony’s ego.

“Double or nothing,” Tony demanded, slapping two hundred on the table.

Eddie hesitated, scratching his chin. “Sure,” he said, drawing out the word. “But how about we make it interesting? Five hundred says I take the next two games.”

The room buzzed with murmurs. Tony hesitated for a moment, but his pride wouldn’t let him back down. “You’re on, old man. Hope you brought your checkbook.”

Eddie nodded, his demeanor calm as he chalked his cue. The next two games were masterclasses in precision. He ran the table with the grace of a man who had spent more time holding a cue than a fork. Tony’s bravado evaporated with every sinking ball, his face twisting in disbelief as Eddie pocketed the eight-ball for the final win.

The room erupted in applause, but Eddie didn’t stick around to bask in the glory. He collected his winnings, tipped his beer to the crowd, and walked out the door, leaving Tony fuming in his wake.

As Eddie stepped into the cool night air, he smirked. The hustle wasn’t just about the money—it was about the art. And tonight, Eddie “Eight-Ball” Parker had painted a masterpiece.

Bank Robbery

The man approached the bank counter and handed a note to the teller.

The teller read it.

It was a robbery.

The teller slowly looked up to assess the robber.

He slowly got up, handed the paper back with one hand, and picked a wrapped candy from the desk with the other.

– Sir, I must inform you that the New Bank of England abides by the 121st Amendment.

He began unwrapping the candy.

The robber paused for a bit.

– That… doesn’t change anything.

– It might… I’m one of the new employees.

The man paused again, trying to assess the seriousness of that affirmation.

– You…

– I have multiple personalities, yes.

– Still…

– One of them is extremely dangerous.

– I have a gun.

– Then you’ll probably kill me. You’ll have to if you want to save yourself.

The man’s voice trembled:

– No, no, no. I read! I know! Your other personalities can only arise to save you, not to doom you, and if that other personality arises you will end up dead! I will shoot you!

– It will arise nonetheless.

– You can’t! You can’t switch personalities at will!

– You’re right; I can’t.

The teller put the candy in his mouth.

The man smiled.

– Then I get what I want.

– Oh, I just said I couldn’t switch at will, I didn’t say I couldn’t change at all.

– But… How could you?

The teller slowly put down the candy wrapper and swallowed.

– That’s what the pill was for.

Welcome…

Corin understood perfectly well that he had to pay for his actions, but he nonetheless considered this penal transportation a bit too much.

It wasn’t the fact that he was being sent away, he really had always felt this way about the process, even before he had done anything wrong; being sent somewhere you could not return from seemed like a very harsh sentence, regardless of one’s crime.

On the journey, Corin didn’t even bother to talk to strangers, as he knew he’d have no relation with any of them once they arrived.

He considered that if he had received a proper education he would have never been sent to this forsaken place. Doctors, engineers, and anyone with advanced knowledge were seldom sent there.

That, in turn, brought in another challenge: there would be no real doctors around, no real technology; it would pretty much be like traveling to the past, he imagined.

As he arrived he considered, just as the person next to him, the perils of being left in such a savage territory, away from civilization: he’d have access to no proper medical care, which meant that he could easily lose a tooth and never grow it back; if he lost a limb, there’d be no way to make it grow again or attach a replacement, cybernetic or otherwise; if he died, he’d have very little chance of being revived; and, worst of all, he would most definitely die, as he’d be aging all the time he’d be stuck in this place.

He knew very little about the prison, but he did know that it was dangerous and that it was huge. The prison had been in place for such a long time that no one had any idea anymore of how many prisoners were still alive, or how many descendants were now present.

Everything was a huge unknown.

Forget about not being able to talk to your friends or family, forget about not being able to go where you wanted, forget about all of that: he’d be in imminent danger every single day.

The officer interrupted his train of thought:

– These are your papers, and this is your standard package of information.

– Anything else I should know?

– No, that is all. Welcome to Earth.

When the Fire Broke

– Madam, are you in imminent danger?

The woman did not expect such a question from her robot.

– What? Why? Is something wrong?

– I am required to ask this of you: are you in imminent danger?

– No… I don’t think so… Do you think I might be?

– There is a huge fire not too far from here. I am prepared to help and I am supposed to. You can forbid me from going if you have any strong reason to do that, but I am obliged by law to warn you that denying help to those in need when you are not in imminent danger is a crime and you may be fined accordingly.

The woman paused and slowly nodded as she spoke:

– And I assume this is all in the contract I didn’t read, right?

– It is in the contract, madam. You can file a complaint with your customer service if you feel appropriate. Do you allow me to go?

– Do I have a choice? Go!

The robot headed to the door.

– Thank you, madam.

The drones circled the fire gathering data.

The command center received all the information and worked on a plan.

The fight had not begun yet, but the strategy was being outlined.

At home, a man wondered where he might have misplaced his drone.

Soon he’d find an email pointing out the contract clause that allowed the company to pull drones into service at the government’s request in case of an emergency.

To get lower taxes, most advanced aids from the company were able to be called into service during emergencies.

The agreement pleased everyone, except for those not in an emergency.

The firemen stared at the road nervously.

– It should be a matter of minutes.

In the distance, a car appeared.

Shortly after, another one.

One of the men sighed in relief. They were coming.

Self-driving vehicles had abandoned their parking spots and were bringing in the robots.

They would do as many trips as necessary to bring all robots available, but they would not take them back.

Not because they wouldn’t return — most of them would — but rather because the company knew better than to provide the owners of such expensive equipment any reason to complain.

No, the robots would be cleaned and only then returned, and the cars had no business transporting dirty goods.

Wirelessly, one by one got instructions from the truck, picked up their gear, and went to meet the flames.

They’d come back only when out of battery or when the flames had been extinguished.

They’d synchronize with the drones so that the center knew exactly where each of them was at any given time, and so that further orders could be given.

With no fear for the lives they didn’t have and no fatigue on the muscles that weren’t there, the relentless robots contained the fire without putting lives at risk.

When the drone came back, the man removed the additional gear he had installed.

The drone had been cleared of all data pertaining to the emergency service, but the man now had access to footage and radio communications of everything the machine had been through.

He played the video.

He saw the flames, the robots, the other drones, and then the culprit.

He saw the robots circling him and leaving him no escape, while the drones that had spotted and tracked him were still in place to transmit the feed to decision command.

One of the robots approached and swung its axe.

The man pondered on what to do with that information.