[{"id":3226,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/an-autumn-love-story-told-in-the-last-days-of-summer\/","name":"an-autumn-love-story-told-in-the-last-days-of-summer","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/pexels-photo-1274220.jpeg?fit=1880%2C1254&ssl=1","alt":"woman standing outdoor holding smartphone"},"title":"An Autumn Love Story, Told in The Last Days of Summer","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jul 26, 2025","dateGMT":"2025-07-26 10:42:04","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:56:40","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:56:40","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/short-story-collections\/thenewsletter\/\" rel=\"category tag\">The Newsletter<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/short-story-collections\/thenewsletter\/\" rel=\"category tag\">The Newsletter<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":7,"sec":0},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3120,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/lucid-a-very-short-story\/","name":"lucid-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/1_2OJ7AE8076R7_SQgnOebTQ.jpeg?fit=1400%2C933&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Lucid [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 24, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-24 14:04:14","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:54:10","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:54:10","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":10,"sec":55},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3117,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/lifes-adventure-a-short-reminiscence\/","name":"lifes-adventure-a-short-reminiscence","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/pexels-photo-571249.jpeg?fit=1880%2C1253&ssl=1","alt":"brown metal playground during golden hour"},"title":"Life's Adventure [A Short Reminiscence]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 24, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-24 14:04:03","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:52:33","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:52:33","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/reminiscence\/' rel='post_tag'>reminiscence<\/a><a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":7,"sec":3},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":3113,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/summer-sun-winter-sun-a-very-short-story\/","name":"summer-sun-winter-sun-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/1_XIGYtRPqtIeGoMmomtz5tg.jpeg?fit=1400%2C933&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Summer Sun, Winter Sun [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 21, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-21 21:01:58","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:51:29","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:51:29","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"closed","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":6,"sec":44},"status":"publish","excerpt":""},{"id":2478,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/summer-rain-a-very-short-story\/","name":"summer-rain-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/06\/0_OiRugIj4unYuuIT1.jpeg?fit=1456%2C1092&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Summer Rain [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 20, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-20 14:54:55","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:48:29","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:48:29","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"open","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":2,"sec":45},"status":"publish","excerpt":"The rain was warm and fine, a mist of heavenly tears that crept into the creases of her palm. It turned her lifeline into a river, collecting in a waterfall at its edge, where head and heart met. Head, heart, and life stretched across her hand, with fate cutting through each, connecting them all as she thought it should. \tShe looked up and saw the last of the rain, its brief cascade complete. The skies were now cloudless and blue, the raindrops already drying on her palm. Across the city, shining and slick with the sudden rain, the sun gleamed on steel and glass. Windows winked at her, the city smiling its private smile. Overhead something glimmered and she looked higher into the heavens.\tThe rainbow was vivid and she counted the colours, then paused and counted them again. Five times she counted and five times she was presented with a different result. Some of its colours she could not name.\tShe smiled, and she did not know it – but her smile shone.\tHe watched her, the book in front of him forgotten. Its pages’ damp, the edges of the printed letters expanding as if the ink had conspired to consume its whole world. \tHe closed the book and some part of him realised it was useless to him now. As its pages dried they would cling to each other in a death rattle of ideas, curving and coiling into something unrecognisable.\tHe didn’t care.\tHe watched as she raised her hand, fingers long and slim.\tHis eyes drifted to her face as she turned it to the sun in salutation.\tA dozen steps separated them, and if the sudden downpour had not pulled him from his book he would never have noticed her as she passed. She would have swept by and their lives would have remained untouched by each other’s passing.\tBut it had rained, and - as dots of fine rain had obscured his faded paperback – he had looked up to see her standing there with her hand raised, and her eyes wide.\tA person’s mind and soul are not one and the same. The soul knows things the mind has yet to learn. He knew that, at least his soul did, his mind had yet to catch up. So when he rose from the low wall he had used as a seat, his footsteps surprised him. His courage surprised him, the moment surprised him – but still his feet moved as if of their own accord.She heard the footsteps before she saw him, sensed his body just outside of her view. She knew it was a man, but she did not know how she knew.\tShe counted the colours again, and received another total.\t“How many colours do you see?”\tHis voice was as gentle as summer rain, quiet as if it was reluctant to be heard, but it was strong, as though it’s reluctance was born of choice rather than necessity.\t“Five, eight, twelve, fourteen.” She said, accompanied with the slightest shake of her head. \t“Maybe more.” She concluded.\t“Thousands.” He said.\t“Perhaps millions.” She replied.\tShe turned and smiled, feeling for a moment a fraction of her true age. He smiled back, and she thought she saw herself reflected in his eyes.\n      \n      posted by Alan  Preece\n      on November, 10"},{"id":2479,"link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/three-a-very-short-story\/","name":"three-a-very-short-story","thumbnail":{"url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/neverwhere.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/01\/Red-Boxing-Gloves-Background.jpg?fit=1920%2C1080&ssl=1","alt":""},"title":"Three [A Very Short Story]","author":{"name":"Alan Preece","link":"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/author\/alan-preece\/"},"date":"Jan 20, 2024","dateGMT":"2024-01-20 14:54:55","modifiedDate":"2025-07-26 15:46:33","modifiedDateGMT":"2025-07-26 14:46:33","commentCount":"0","commentStatus":"open","categories":{"coma":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>","space":"<a href=\"https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/category\/as-a-writer\/stories\/\" rel=\"category tag\">Uncollected Stories<\/a>"},"taxonomies":{"post_tag":"<a href='https:\/\/neverwhere.co.uk\/tag\/short-story\/' rel='post_tag'>short story<\/a>"},"readTime":{"min":5,"sec":13},"status":"publish","excerpt":"When he was asked, he always answered with what he thought was a lie. It never occurred to him to do anything else. The lie popped from his lips automatically, fabrication on automation.\tThis time it was a reporter for local radio who had clear blue eyes, but he remembered nothing else about her. When she asked the question and he replied with the lie. Then she smiled and asked a follow up, but he was ushered on and he raised a glove to her in salute.\tThe square circle received him, and though there were spectators he saw little of them. The lights blurred their faces, and they were little more than blobs of grey in the darkness beyond the spotlights glare. He had learned long ago that this was a good thing. He knew that often their cries were just socially accepted bloodlust, no different from the reaction to gladiators from a bygone era. They could only be a distraction, and any distraction would result is his loss.\tThe Fighter slipped off his robe, blue with gold trim. The trim had originally been a trio of plaited threads that ran around his robe, and down the seam of his shorts. One night he had spent four hours picking off one thread until only two remained. That night his fingers felt raw, and one fingertip bled, but when he saw the duo of gleaming gold remaining he felt far better for it.He shifted from foot to foot, swinging warm up blows to an imaginary opponent, and thought of his Grandfather laughing at his labour. He shook his arms, and waited. There was no pomp and circumstance here, he had far further up the ladder to climb before that would be a burden. Here there was a darkened gym, the smell of sweat and smoke, and the occasional dark smear of dried blood.\tThere was a murmur and across the gym a square of light folded open as a door let in his Opponent. He knew the other man’s name, knew his reputation, but he would acknowledge neither. From when the bell rang to when it chimed in the fights conclusion he would acknowledge nothing that marked his opponent as anything more than that; his Opponent.\tThe Opponent climbed the steps and through the ropes, and the Fighter took an involuntary half-a-step back. There had been a mistake. There was a whisper in his ear and he almost swung out, but caught himself. It was his Second, his words intelligible, the Fighters brain slipping into the familiar flight-or-fight space where words had no meaning. The fighter looked at the Opponent again. Did the man step over the top rope? No, the Fighter clearly remembered him ducking under the third rope. Was he sure about that? He seemed far too tall to have slipped under any of the ropes, far too broad to fit between them.\tHis Second held out his black gum guard, and he bit down on it. His tongue slid over the slick plastic, and he wriggled his lips until it was slicked with his saliva. He chewed on the guard gently until it sat as it should, and he felt more at home.\tIt doesn't matter, the Fighter told himself, and then he told himself his lie.\tThe referee stepped out of nowhere, waving the men forward, and the Fighter dutifully complied. He didn't hear the words, he knew where to nod and when to touch gloves. It was ritual, nothing more, and when he looked into his Opponents eyes he saw that they were not blinking from the lofty heights of a giant, but from the height of a normal man.\tHis heard his Second leave the ring, and three of them remained.\tThree people.\tThe number stung, and – again – he told himself his lie.\tHe took a step backward and then turned into his corner, only turning his back when he knew he was far from the Opponents reach. There were only seconds now, the last few seconds that would remain coherent before the bell. Then the adrenalin would rush in, and those seconds would degrade from an ordered march into a jumble of moments.\tA round lasted three minutes, with a respite of one before another one hundred and eighty of these fragmented seconds – these broken moments – would descend.Three.\tThree people died every second, of every moment, of every day. His Grandfathers face flashed before his eyes. One round seeing the final breaths of over five-hundred people. His Grandfathers breath harsh as it rattled through tubes. Twelve rounds, a minute between them.\tForty-seven minutes, two-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty seconds.\tEight-thousand, four-hundred and sixty people gone.\tWhen the first punch hit him, it stung far less than the knowledge that so few lasted the distance.The Fighter beat the average, four rounds. Nine minutes and thirty-six seconds. Five hundred and seventy-six seconds in all, with no more than fifty of them making any sense. Any plan had evaporated less than a minute in, leaving him at the mercy of his instincts.\tThankfully, the Fighters instincts were good, humans were apex predators for a reason.\tThe Fighter saw his Opponent favour his left side, it was nothing more than a drop of the glove, a meagre twist of the body as he approached, but it was all the Fighters instincts needed. His mind drew a circle around the second rib up, and with each punch he imagined the rib splintering.\tHe did not want to win by concession, the proverbial throwing in of the towel, but a win was a win, and the Fighter was not a proud man. Well, that was except for the lie of course, he knew the lie was a matter of pride.\tThe reporter with the clear blue eyes met him ringside, and this time he noted that her hair was short, shaved along one side in a fetching cut. He did not hear her words, but he knew what was expected of him. As his second busied himself with the Fighters’ split and bruised skin, she asked the question and he told what he thought was his lie.\t“Nah,” he said, “life moves too fast to feel afraid.”\n      \n      posted by Alan  Preece\n      on November, 10"}]