15 mins

Series: Personal series. Personal are short one off stories done by events inspired first by my own life, and then slightly taking a different turn that I WANT to happen. Obviously names and locations have been changed. 

 Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire 

Sora AI Video: 1 

 

 

 

The phone slammed into its cradle harder than I meant, but at this point I didn’t care. Honestly at this point, I didn't give a crap about anything. If management wanted to scold me about things like tone, manners and being approachable they could shove it. Shove it hard with sandpaper. You see, I just spent ten minutes explaining to a woman why an expired coupon from 2017 was not valid anymore, and you fu- freaking think I just told her I keyed her car in the parking lot. Worse part was, this was the easiest thing of the day. 

Customer service. Retail. What a Gods damn joke. I swear every person who comes through this line thinks I’m the king of the universe with powers to bend reality. What am I Thanos? 

• Can I honor their expired coupons?

• Can I adjust prices to whatever fantasy number they dreamed up last night?

• Can I be personally responsible for shipping delays caused by a blizzard in another state?

Sure. Let me just wave my magic wand.

The worst part? Well one of the worst parts (yes with a s), it's the attitude. No one’s happy, like ever. Nobody walks up smiling, nobody says thank you. Or please. Nope, what I get are sighs so dramatic you think I just ruined Broadway for them. Oh did I mention the eyes rolling so hard I would wonder how they are still attached? Geez, one guy earlier looked at me like I just kicked his puppy because I asked him to swipe his card again. Heaven forbid someone be mildly inconvenienced. And Gods help you if you tell them no. People look me dead in the eye, like I’ve personally betrayed them, like refusing that crusty, crumpled two-dollar coupon is the same as murdering their firstborn.

Screw it, ill say it. Just fuck me.  

So yeah. When my fifteen-minute break finally comes around, that’s my time. Me, me and only me. No fake smiles, no “how can I help you today?”, no playing referee between people who want to fight over the last half price piece of shit blender. Just me, silence, and whatever cheap caffeine I can scrape out of the break room. Really anything will do, just as long as it makes the hurting stop for a few minutes. I want to sit down, stare at the wall, and feel nothing. That’s the dream, baby. Not a beach in Cancun, not winning the lottery, just fifteen uninterrupted minutes where no one looks at me like I ruined their lives by doing my job. Yeah that's me right now. I am one more sigh, one more eye-roll, one more “but the customer is always right” away from snapping.

Back Yard Show Down

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire  

Sora AI Video: 1 2 3

 

 

 

The late afternoon sun hung low, casting molten gold across the backyard. The weathered fence circling the patchy grass looked less like suburban privacy and more like the battered walls of a makeshift arena. No crowd. No referee. Not really needed. Just the dull thud of gloves on flesh, the sharp snap of breath between clenched teeth, and the steady rhythm of two men who’d been trading leather long enough to wear the fight on their bodies. Sweat ran in rivulets, darkening patches of dirt where it fell. Bruises bloomed in purple and red along ribs and shoulders. A thin line of blood traced the edge of a mouth, a raw badge of how much fun they were having. This wasn’t about points or belts. This was about power. About pushing past pain until it turned into something addictive.

Kevin’s chest heaved, the black-ink spirals across it shifting with each breath, the design alive with motion. Sweat clung stubbornly to the wiry hair on his torso, glistening like molten glass in the sunlight. His bright green hair, matted, damp, still caught the light like a flare every time he moved. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and grinned through split lips, eyes locked on Rena. Rena stood lighter on his feet, bouncing, his smooth skin slick with sweat that caught the gold of the sun. His curls, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead. His jaw was tight, his breathing steady but charged, gloves already up, not out of caution, but instinct. He shifted with the grace of a streetwise dancer, legs alive with energy, waiting for the next beat in this bruising rhythm they were writing together.

They didn’t speak. They just circled.

TKO to the Core

Series: Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire  

Sora AI Video: 1 

The gym reeked of sweat, rubber, and something older, something like... memory and grudges? Not just any grudges mind you, the kind that was settled the old fashion way, with gloving up. Being men. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that made men shift in their boots and hold their breath without knowing why. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sickly glow over the old, battered ring, a relic held together more by tradition than wood and steel. It should’ve been replaced decades ago, but no one dared touch it. No one would even dare suggest it be replaced. After all, men got sentimental over the damnedest things, even more so when blood had been spilled on it. All around, the roar of the gym crowd pulsed like a heartbeat. Trainers, fighters, the curious and the excited, they leaned on ropes and railings, eyes fixed on the square stage like it was holy ground. To them, and really any man of worth, it was. But inside that ring, the world narrowed down to just two men. Everything else, the noise, the heat, the sweat, faded into background static.

Jack stood tall in his corner, bare chest rising and falling. His wiry frame was coiled tight, tension rippling through each breath. Lean muscle clung to his bones like it had grown there for this exact moment. Sweat already gathered along his collarbones, trickling down the shallow valley of his sternum. His eyes were wild with something half cockiness, half thrill. He looked like a man who couldn’t help but smile on the edge of a cliff. Across from him stood Kevin. Like always, he was solid, unmoved, a statue waiting to come to life. The green streaks in his hair caught the overhead lights, glowing like war paint. But it was his eyes that did it. Not the color, but the stillness. Calm. Cold. Focused like a storm before the first crack of lightning. Something dangerous simmered behind that quiet stare, the kind of rage that didn’t shout, it waited.

Lazy Sundays...

Series: Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.  

 Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire

Sora AI Video: 1 

 

 

 

The scene was really so basic American, that it could have taken place in any small city or old town. Kevin was middle-aged, solidly built but really unremarkable and never really standing out personality wise. His hair clung thick to his chest and arms, with his nature themed tattoos covering most of his upper body. He worked, he slept and he did nonsense on the weekends, pretty much like any other single American male. The guy that was next to him on the sofa, watching TV like it meant something, was James. James, also single and not caring, was slightly younger (not that it mattered much in your 40's), taller, and have a build that even a baggy shirt couldn't hide. Lady killer the boys at work called him. James, paid such nicknames no mind. During the day on weekdays, they worked at the local factory. They traded their labor, sweat, blood and youth for pennies on the dollar, and making some stuck up fat cat rich idiot even richer. During the weekends, they hung out a lot, mostly at James’s apartment. Beer, cheap takeout, the TV always on in the background. Not saying much, because they really didn't need to. When one got up for another drink, they grabbed another, for the other. When it was time for a new show, they changed the channel. They knew each other, and what clicked well. It was the kind of friendship and understanding that felt needed after dealing with everything and everyone else during the week.

A friendly Holmgang

Series: Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.  

 Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire

AI Fun:  1

 

 

The two had known each other for years. They trained side by side through countless sessions, pushing each other on the heavy bags, spotting each other in the weight room, trading jabs during sparring rounds, and offering quiet encouragement before real fights. No matter what happened, they had each others back in and outside the ring. Brothers you could call them. Not by blood, but by choice. In the world of boxing, or any fighting sport really, where rivalry could turn bitter, their bond was different. It was built on trust, sweat, and a shared respect for the grind. So when the idea of facing off finally came up, it wasn’t born from ego or any need to prove who was better. It was more like checking in with an old friend, seeing how far they’d both come, testing themselves the way only two people who truly knew each other could. The day it happened, there was no big announcement, no flyers, no hype. Just a mutual nod, it was of quiet understanding. They each laced up their gloves without a word, stepped into the ring, and met in the center, calm, focused, and smiling just a little.

The "official" bell was a timer app running on someone’s cracked phone, resting on a bench outside the ropes. The crowd was whoever happened to be in the gym that day. Some guys mid-set on the bench press, a couple trainers on break shooting the shit over water, a handful of regulars who knew this wasn’t something to miss. No one yelled, they didn't have too. No one called out odds, it wasn't that kind of fight anyways. There was just a low hum of anticipation, knowing it would be a good male time. More importantly, there was no bad blood in the air. Just the heat of the gym, the sound of gloves tightening, and the quiet kind of energy that comes from two men about to share a fight, not to hurt each other, but to honor each other.