Hello there folks and folkessess. Here we go again and are at Week 576.
Before I start I need to warn you that there is a new virus doing the rounds. If you get it, don’t go to A&E. With this ‘Peekaboo Virus’ go to ICU.
I apologise for that and I despise myself for admitting that it did make me smile. (Mr Cowan once again.)
Continue reading “Week 576 – Pretty Colours, Being Alert And An Attempt At Misdirection.”
The ol’ boy downstairs humps his walker a few inches b’fore ever’ step he takes down the driveway. Had a stroke his wife tol’ me but she says he’s stubborn as a cocklebur and won’t let nobody else git his mail.
In the summer of 1997, when most men of his age were discovering the quiet dignity of cholesterol, Gopal Banerjee decided to make a perfume that would outlive death itself. Not metaphorically, he meant it quite literally. “Eternity,” he called it, though Calvin Klein had already used the name. Gopal didn’t mind; he believed trademarks were for those who lacked vision.
Continue reading “The Scent of Eternity by Susmita Mukherjee”
In a war-torn region of the Balkans. Esma weaved around the fly-blown corpse, hand-flipped out. Like she was a model on the runway. The other hand carried a bouquet of blue and yellow wildflowers held up to her face. She breathed in the fragrance like perfumed death.
Continue reading “Flowers for Esma by Christopher Ananias”
Andy put down the phone on his sister, though she was still sobbing intermittently. They’d already been talking for half an hour; he realised that there was no more comfort he could offer, til he saw her tomorrow at the undertakers. And he needed a break to process her news of their father’s death. So, booted and rain-proofed, he headed out the door for a familiar walk beside the river.
Continue reading “Beside the Dying Ash Tree by Michael Bloor”
Harry Pembroke, 67, a retired PE teacher came to London from Gobowen. It took him five hours to reach the capital; he had missed one of his connections. He felt really clever though when he arrived to his destination. He had paid for his tickets three months ago, used his National Railcard, and was able to save quite a lot of money with his advance booking: instead of £317 one way which he would have paid had he bought the tickets right before his trip at the station he had only paid £143 return. These numbers kept him warm and happy when he walked out of the train terminal into the cold November drizzle.
Continue reading “Happy Point by Sergey Bolmat”
Travels With Charley: In Search of America (1962)
By John Steinbeck
In late September 1960 John Steinbeck and a French Poodle named Charley loaded a vehicle called “Rocinante” with a sizable amount of liquor and went on a road trip to discover America. Two years later the account was published to wild success. I happened to find a copy (which I later gave to a friend) of a first edition of the book at the local St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store about twenty-five years ago.
Continue reading “Writers Read – Travels With Charley – an essay by Leila”
Sometime last year I became a recipient of “The Word of the Day.” I didn’t sign up for it, but I must have accidentally hit a link. Still, I’m glad to have it.
Continue reading “Week 575- Hey Man, are You Scripturient?”
(The image is of the actual Andy, who graciously posed)
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Charity and Baby Hope had been searching for the perfect place to build a castle. Magick Minion Andy had done some in person searches and returned with the best prospect, which he explained to Charity in his surprisingly good Wiccan. “Surprisingly good” because your basic Cat, although all are born understanding the Wiccan tongue, has a bit of difficulty speaking it due to some of the trickier elongated vowels. Whenever your basic Cat meets a difficulty that really is not his problem he ignores it, but Andy is not your basic Cat, even though he does somewhat closely resemble a heavily used mop head more than he does an immortal Magick Gray Tabby.
Continue reading “A Castle For the Roller Derby Queen”
She’s in the middle of the street – a blur, a twirl, of color, this woman with a boombox. She’s not safe behind barricades or idling in a car as the rest of us are. She wears no coat, no makeup, shielded only by her floral dress.
Continue reading “The Dancing Woman by Bradley J. Collins”
literally stories 