Stephen Stanley

Joined October 2025

21 stories

Stories (21)

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On Tuesday, the notification arrived before the light did. Marianne was already awake. Sleep had become shallow and contractual — the kind that ended the moment something in the air shifted.
By Stephen Stanleyabout 6 hours ago in Fiction
A Tremendous Peace
“Mr. President, are we at war?” “We’re winning tremendously.” “That isn’t an answer.” “It’s the best answer.” “Which country are we winning against?”
By Stephen Stanley5 days ago in Humans
Passengers Are Advised
Passengers are advised that the night trains have slipped beyond the timetable and that all departures scheduled for today departed yesterday
By Stephen Stanleyabout a month ago in Poets
Pending
“Why is the clock melting?” “Because it remembers tomorrow’s lunch.” “We don’t have lunch plans tomorrow.” “We did. Several times. We kept moving it.”
By Stephen Stanleyabout a month ago in Fiction
Day Twelve: Twelve Drummers Drumming
Christmas morning began with a sound so deep it felt geological—like the earth beneath the Stanley bungalow was clearing its throat.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
DAY ELEVEN: Eleven Pipers Piping
It began at dawn, which was unfair. Nothing good had ever arrived at dawn. Stephen was dreaming of silence—clean, merciful silence—when the first blast of bagpipes tore through the bungalow like an alarm clock that had taken a personal interest in his suffering. His heart jolted; he sat upright, certain the world had ended.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
Day Ten: Ten Lords a-Leaping
By Saturday, Stephen was running out of plausible lies. To the neighbours, the swans were part of “an ecological morale initiative.”
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
DAY NINE: Nine Ladies Dancing
The bungalow was too quiet. Not peaceful—tense. The kind of hush that made Stephen feel the universe was holding its breath, waiting to lob something regrettable through their front door.
By Stephen Stanley3 months ago in Fiction
Day Eight: Eight Maids a-Milking
By morning, the bungalow smelled faintly of oat milk, wet feathers, and a kind of moral fatigue normally associated with tax season.
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction
Day Seven: Seven Swans a-Swimming
Stephen woke to the sound of running water. For one blissful second, he thought it was rain. Then came the splash, the hiss, and the unmistakable honk of entitled aquatic royalty.
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction
DAY SIX: Six Geese a-Laying
The first sign was the smell. A sharp, swampy odour crept up the porch before the doorbell even rang. It smelled of ponds, panic, and something that might once have been straw. Stephen had been mid–Teams call, trying to look competent while nudging a partridge away from his keyboard, when Jane called from the hallway:
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction
Day Five: Five Gold Rings
The silence the next morning felt suspicious — the sort of silence that implies the universe has stepped out of the room to fetch something worrying.
By Stephen Stanley4 months ago in Fiction