Short Stories

	Help! My Stamp Is Stuck! "A single bead of sweat dripped down Sunny the Scorchio’s forehead. It should have been more, but for the past six hours..." by erduoduo
	Feathered and Flightless: The Discovery of Weewoo "My name is Roxton: Roxton A. Colchester the Third. I’ve made innumerable findings travelling the continents of Neopia, and the discovery of the Weewoo is one of my favourite stories to share. It began..." by enkouen
	The Hidden Robot "A Robot Tuskaninny flies past - on fire..." by the_academy_awards
	Echoes in the Snow "I knew that I was growing old when I really started getting into jazz. My old man was much the same. I remember every Sunday morning he would..." by kadface
	A Weewoo's Delivery Day "The crisp smell of ink and paper filled the air as another morning at the Neopian Times office began. Neopets rushed around, sipping their coffees and skimming their notepads..." by maddie_bangz
	Failure : A Boochi Tale "There's something to be said about failure, or at least Boochi assumes..." by xsorrel
	Can’t You See Me? "Novaic’s ears perked up at the sound of his name and bounced on over..." by l0000000l
	Niemyra's Big Break "The alarm clock next to Niemyra’s head suddenly blared, violently ripping her from her dreams of a sunny, peaceful weekend with no deadlines looming over her head. She tossed her..." by neoholic17

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"Echoes in the Snow" by kadface
I knew that I was growing old when I really started getting into jazz. My old man was much the same. I remember every Sunday morning he would go into his library, take a record off the shelf, and set it on the record player. It was like a ritual. He would sit back in his brown leather chair, eyes closed, humming along, and tapping his feet. Whenever I picture him now, I see the sunlight coming through the window, lighting up the dust with a golden glow, spiral smoke rising from the Borovan as it slowly goes cold. It’s only recently that I have started to realise how much I miss those days. I find myself thinking about them more and more during the winter months, waiting for the days to lengthen and life to return. It was the third day of the Month of Sleeping, and the world had filled with snow and ice. I had taken down my Christmas tree, and I knew it would be the last time I played the Jazzmosis seasonal album until it went back up. Sitting in my own leather chair, I allowed my eyes to close with the heaviness of a long day’s work. Although I felt at peace, I had an air of melancholy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As I listened to the fireplace cracking, I was close...

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