Lonely Stories by Xavier St John (best management books of all time .txt) 📕

floorboards outside his door creak. He ran back to his chair, slumping into it just as Theo re-entered with a laptop. The other ministers followed him, each brandishing a laptop, tablet or mobile phone, and laying them on the table so the screens faced Sam. On each screen was a world leader.

“Hello Sam, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” said the British prime Minister.

“This might be a bit of a shock to you, but this has been almost a year in the planning.” added the German Chancellor.

“Sam, your aides and ministers have just informed us you are resigning. Is this correct?” asked the Japanese emperor.

“Uhhhhh.... yeah....” mumbled Sam. The world leaders collectively sighed in relief.

“So, all the paperwork is done. The laws are passed, and the entire world is in agreement. You start now.” the Brazilian president said.

“Start what?” asked Sam, a dreading sensation filling him. Surely not. They aren’t that stupid...

“The job. You’re President of the Earth, Sam.”

Singing in the Rain

 

Singing in the Rain

 

The Hebrides are cold. The Hebrides are wet. The Hebrides were the last place on earth you would want to live, so obviously my family thought it would be a great idea to live here, hence why I’m stuck in this hellhole. I figured I should start writing some notes on life to keep myself sane and sell for millions when I’m rich and famous, so, to whoever reads this, welcome to the exciting life of Sally Gildford.

It’s been a miserable day like normal but we got an hour of sun so in my opinion, it’s been above average.

Wet.

Wet.

Wetter.

STILL RAINING.

EVEN MORE RAIN.

I got bored of counting raindrops on the window after the third day of rain. Didn’t realise that there was more than one type of water torture.

Dad’s been complaining about the rain all day. Apparently the storm is bad for the tug, so we’ll have to do the whole ‘DIY repairs’ thing again. The amount of wood we’ve used to fix that boat, I’m starting to suspect we’re the current principal threats to the rainforests.

Storm’s over. Fixed tug with dad as best I could. Hope it doesn’t sink, he’s the only one who’s good at cards, mum and gran are terrible. Need another pen cos I’m running out of ink, but dad said he’d get some stuff from a few islands over when he next heads out fishing.

Gran’s birthday, gave her the fruitcake we got a few months ago from our holiday to the mainland. She looked happy but hard to tell. Pen about to die, so might have to stop writing for a bit. See you guys on the other side.

--

Hi. Sorry. Got a new pen. This is gonna be weird. Dad didn’t come back the next day like he was supposed to. Mum got hysterical and sad too, and I didn’t know what to do so just hugged her for a while. Then, a day late, dad came back. Jesus Christ it was weird. He wouldn’t let us go on the boat and help him unload, he did it by himself for a good couple of hours. Would have taken a third of the time if he let us help. After I went to bed I could hear them fighting but not sure what over, couldn’t make it out.

All hell has broken loose. Mum slammed door and hasn’t come back yet, and we have a visitor. Dad said she was on the rocks of an island he was passing and there was blood. He anchored and swam onshore, risking his entire life in the process, and grabbed her. Nearly drowned a few times when trying to swim back to the tug. Hes an idiot, the new woman wont talk, and shes not normal. She obviously wasn’t wearing much after being half drowned at sea by dad, so her feet were out. She has webbed feet. Like, properly webbed. I know there are jokes about incest in the Hebrides, but seriously, they are like flippers. Normal sized flipper feet. Hopefully she’ll actually talk and tell me what the hell they are.

Mum’s back. She came back late last night but I was asleep. Grans been pretty much oblivious to the whole thing so far, satistfied with the crumbs of her fruitcake. The rock lady is talking now. Not in English but talking, so at least that’s good. She keeps saying ‘soren’ and pointing at her so we’re calling her that. Dad’s pretty sure it’s a name and we’re not being idiots. Soren seems to like fish so we’ll probably get along fine.

Rain’s back.

Gran had a fit the other night, mum said it happens when you get old. Soren saw her and looked uncomfortable, but its not our fault we have an old, dying gran. Dads been teaching Soren English when mum’s not around, she knows our names and a couple of sea-related things now, which is good. Still, going to have to wait a while until I can ask about the feet and get an intelligible answer.

Rain’s relentless, but taught Soren to play go fish. She likes it I think.

Soren is not normal at all. I woke up last night to the thumps of gran having another fit, but dad and mum were still conked out so I went to help. Soren was there with her. Just sitting there. Not helping. Her face was pressed against Gran’s, and her mouth was moving, whispering in her gibbering language. Gran was properly fitting by this point, her spasms crashing against the bed as the floorboards moaned under the strain. Then she saw me. The second soren locked eyes with me, gran stopped and slumped back asleep. I slammed the door and ran. I don’t want to tell dad, he’ll think im crazy. Soren’s been following me all day, just looking. I don’t like it.

Gran died in the night.

The rain stopped. If the ground dries today we can bury gran tomorrow, she needs to be out of the house. Soren keeps following me.

Everybody is nuts. Gran DIED, but I swear I could hear mum and dad doing the thing in the night, the ceiling above me was shaking from it. We buried her in the morning, and mum cried. Soren looked really uncomfortable when mum did that. Not guilty, just almost puzzled, like she was figuring something out. It was weird. I don’t think Soren should stay. Dad said we’ll go fishing tomorrow.

Im writing from a tugboat somewhere between the mainland and my island. Don’t go to my island. Don’t go back. Soren is a psychopath. She dug her up and ate her. Mum and dad went out to stop her. Through the window I could see Soren’s mouth moving, and mum just broke down. Sobbing into the rain. And the rock… dad and me scrambled down to the tug after, trying to get away, as far from that monster as we could. We cast off and sailed as fast as we could, but of course she has those damn flippers. She launched herself at dad, tangled around him as he slid onto the slick deck. Her mouth moved again but this time it didn’t make them sad, it made him crazy for her, like how he was for mum the other night. When she jumped back in, he jumped after her. Now its just me. Im scribbling and I don’t know how long I have but don’t come to the islands in the rain, or let her see you.

Please, stay away from the rain.

Heaven Sent

 

Heaven Sent

 

On my fourth birthday, my parents bought me a model plane. It was bright red, with a white stripe running across the centre of each wing, and housed a small, nondescript pilot complete with aviator goggles. To me, the plane was not just a model, but a fully-fledged aircraft - I spent countless afternoons running up the stairs, swooping the plane in my hand left and right, dodging enemy fighters and winning dogfights. After years of drawing bombers and running around playgrounds with my arms stretched wide like my very own wings, it had become obvious to my parents that planes were the key to my imagination; with them, I could burst through the grey clouds surrounding real life and soar through the vast blue skies that hid above. Childhood slipped past me whilst I was lost in a world of aviation. Realising my whole life was ahead of me, I visited career fairs at secondary school, searching for something that offered more than the lonely office cubicles my classmates aimed for.

That was when I discovered the RAF.

Military training, squadron drills, simulators, red faced sergeants – these obstacles led to my eventual integration into the Royal Air Force. I ended up flying Eurofighters across the channel, escorting any foreign fighters that had strayed too close to English territory back to their respective homes. I had a squadron – a family of sorts – who would all laugh and drink together on our nights off. Life was good. Better than good. I found a place where I could do what I loved, surrounded by people who thought like me. Everything was perfect.

One hot summer day, a jet popped up on the channel radar. My squadron buddy Chuck and I were scrambled into the air to intercept it. Flying into the unknown brought a unique kind of rush – not adrenalin, but excitement. After eight minutes, the jet was visible. It looked like a Russian plane, but you couldn’t be sure from that distance. Chuck and I were joking across the Coms system, ready to fly the interloping plane home. Normally, the planes would have turned around by now – the jet facing us was still heading straight. The gap was closing. A nervous laugh passed from between my lips. I realized I was sweating – must be the summer heat. My hand rested on the Bible I kept in the pocket of the plane door – just in case. The jet still hadn't altered course. I may not have been able to see the pilot, but I could feel his grimace from my seat.

That was when he opened fire. When my left engine exploded into a fiery ball of shrapnel. When my plane flipped over, spiraled to the ground, red lights flashed and a cacophony of beeping flooded the cockpit.

I woke up in a cold, dark cavern. Peculiarly, I was still wearing my headset from the plane... albeit without a wire connecting back to the cockpit. My clothes were still soaked with my