(published posthumously, 1927)
The list of writers nabbed or injured by tuberculosis is staggering. Even Charles Bukowski, at the time living well in Los Angeles, circa 1990 got a dose, and it appears to have opened the door to his death a couple of years down the road.
Continue reading “The Journal of Katherine Mansfield/Auld Author”
Here we go again. Another Saturday round up and we are now at Week 602.
A bit of wisdom I read this week. It states that we should never steal, never cheat or lie. Don’t be a despicable human being. This should be a given, but that’s not the reason! You see, our governments hate competition!!
Continue reading “Week 602 – A P.D. With Whiskers, It Wasn’t Even Porn And Could Be An Interesting Image Diane!”
He finds it beneath the firewood, stashed amongst hickory and maple, wrapped in linen cloth and frayed pages of a Daily Express; by its side, ammunition.
It is long and unwieldy. Rowan has never held a rifle before. He examines its walnut stock, a Savage Model 110, rubs his palm along the shaft and looks around. As far as he knows, no-one has come to his grandfather’s farm in weeks but the item’s sheer menace beckons caution. Swallows swoop and warble, eyeing his catch, tending their precious nests in the rafters.
Does it work?
He turns it in his hands, holds it up, takes aim.
Is it loaded?
He has no idea how to use it. He googles Savage 110, allocates pieces and elements, slings the leather strap over his shoulder and walks to the far end of the barn. The swallows look on in silence. Rowan wonders what he looks like: stupid, no doubt. Yet he doesn’t feel stupid.
Considered objectively, Alan wasn’t really one of the bad guys. Provided it didn’t cost him significant quantities of time and/or cash, he was okay about helping out unfortunate relatives, friends, or neighbours. He had a soft spot for rough sleepers, as long as they weren’t hallucinating. He claimed, with some justice, that when he was working he’d worn a hole in the arse of a perfectly good suit sitting on committees, but he remained willing to do the odd shift of volunteering here and there.
Continue reading “The Lingering Regrets by Michael Bloor”
Brutal, late May. Wet blankets of hot weather, suffocating. When the midday heat receded, Thomas nixed the novellas (Mattie’s legacy), filled a tall glass with seltzer and ice, and padded into the yard. He sprayed the concrete and his chair, sat on the damp fabric facing east toward the fishtail palm and the privacy fence, looking up at the eaves of the cottages the far side of the street. Old Florida. Wood and stucco. Termites and social security checks. Not yet gentrified.
Continue reading “Ascension by Nigel Pugh”
I was busy wiping the sweat from my brow when Oliver came over.
“It’s still down,” he said.
“I know that, but is it going any lower,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. My heart was pounding too hard again and I was out of the meds, I hadn’t had time to get to the drugstore and get more. I was going to have a heart attack before thirty-five, it was obscene, it was beyond all reason.
Continue reading “Humpty Dumpty by Scott Taylor”
Diane tilted her head back to find the top of the slide, one hand shading her eyes, and thought: that’s very high up for an eight-year-old alone.
“Mom, can I go?”
Her eyes followed the slide’s downward arc, its twists and loops. Bodies zipped through the tube. Muffled cries reverberated outward to the ground. Her chest tightened.
Continue reading “In a Flash by Marcus Delmont”
The legend about him, or I should say one of the many legends about him, is that he was nine feet tall.
No one now believes that the great Chinese teacher Confucius was really nine feet tall.
Nine is a magic number. That number was chosen for a reason.
Saying that Confucius was nine feet tall meant, and means, that his ideas, and his presence, were nine feet tall.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Confucius Still Speaks an essay by Dale Williams Barrigar”
My great great great great great grand daughter, Miss Allison, usually tends to the bi-weekly festivities at Literally Stories, but her continuous state of despair has created a temporary state of mental paralysis brought on by the conspicuous consumption of apple jack on an empty stomach, heart and soul. Therefore she beseeched Yours Truly, Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender Spirit, to fill in for her this bi-week.
Continue reading “Week 601: The Judge Steps In (It)”
As I pulled into an almost vacant lot in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with the cars of the few Saturday patrons and library staff parked, I noticed a pale woman wearing a cream-colored dress, its lace browned faintly around the cuffs. Her face possessed the pale stillness of old photographs. Her eyes shifted strangely, as if several people were considering me from behind them at once.
“Good morning,” I said to her.
Continue reading “Specificity by Ryan Scribner”
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