All Stories, General Fiction

The Claw  by Mark Czanik

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Everyone was scared of it, although it was just a hand I found in the gutter. Not even a gripping one. ‘The Claw! Beware the Claw! Son of Claw!’ I cried as I chased them up and down the garages.

Pamela and Trudy ran screaming into the sanctuary of Trudy’s back garden. Harry flapped his arms like a wounded bird. Windy somehow heaved himself up by the drainpipe onto the asbestos garage roof and sat there hunched like a gargoyle, while Pods was so terrified he ran into Ted’s empty garage and pulled both doors shut on himself. I couldn’t catch any of them.

‘Revenge of the Claw!’

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All Stories, General Fiction

No Moon In January by Joe Mallon

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Danny got to Average Joe’s early.  Ten o’clock.  Before Bobby.  Before he lost his nerve.

Maybe ten people there, a couple along the bar, a few at the tables.  A geezer sat on a stool near the door, with a cop’s buzzcut and a hard stare. A baseball bat leaned against the wall.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Baby’s Breath by Leanne Simmons

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Peggy Garrett must have been glad that Geary’s had given up on the old way and got a ramp fitted. For years I’d watched her lump poor Jim up the step, the wheels catching on the threshold, before she’d lean forward to see to him, like a magpie claiming a crust. She, always in black with her wispy hair that had turned white the night of the accident.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Second Husband by Cris Aboobaker

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If I’m born again as a man instead of as a woman, I will aim the silly-looking mushroom waggling between my legs and shoot my stream so it splashes dead center in the toilet bowl. Bullseye! Bango! How hard can that be?

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All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever:- Skid Row Wine an Essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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Every great writer, if they want to be a great writer, needs to be able to break it all down into the simplest thing.

For Shakespeare, it’s “To be, or…” and one, or a few, of the sonnets, as well as Juliet on her balcony.

For Cervantes, it’s Don Quixote, his horse Rocinante, and the windmill they think is a giant.

For Goethe, it’s Faust making a deal with the Devil.

For Jack Kerouac, author of On the Road (1957), it’s SKID ROW WINE.

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Short Fiction

Week 596 – Cattle-prod Your Child, We Do Have A ‘No Fucking Chance List’ And You Can’t Escape.

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Here we are at Week 596

Every now and then I try to give a few tips on what we’re looking for and our thought process in deciding.

Today I want to point out a huge NO! NO! This was inspired by a submission and my sister who is a proud grand-parent. (Aye-One of those!) You see, she had a video of her grand-child who is my Great Grand-Nephew (I’m not sure that deserves to be capitalised) dancing. The kid is two years old and his dancing is shite. All kids at that age dance shite. Maybe apart from Michael Jackson but he turned out to be a junky paedo.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Judge Me by Ace Boggess

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I have no music in my soul. A man told me that once, full of conviction. No real anger in him, but definitely judgment. I sentenced him to twenty-five years in the penitentiary, and he was back before me on a Rule 35 (b) motion for reconsideration, which I denied. He stood at the defense table in his baggy orange prison-transport jumper, his wrists and ankles shackled, and he grinned at me, biting and cold, a man with nothing left to lose.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Crusader by Diane M. Dickson

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The air in the alleyway was damp and cold, smelling of urine, rot and decay. Old bricks were wet as his hands brushed against them and the cement under his trainers was slick with vile gunk. Frankie drew away from the wall with a shudder. Pulling his zipper closer under his chin, he crept slowly towards the doorway hidden in the gloom. His dark knitted hat sparkled slightly with moisture under the dim overhead lighting, making him appear to have been sprinkled with Christmas glitter. The thought would not have amused him. He had no patience for such stuff, tinsel and trimming, laughter, joy. What place did it have in a world with all this work to do, all this clearing out and cleaning up?

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All Stories, General Fiction

Thirty Eight Special by Robert Kruger

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“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.”

—Stephen Fry

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Author’s note: My good friend, Sean, had repurposed an old decanter that once held Johnny Walker scotch, whose label he had steamed off and replaced with one of his own design. On the new label he had printed: CONVO-LOTION. In fine print, it announced: “Good for what ails you. Apply liberally.” If only those words had proven to be true.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

Blow, Bonny Breeze by Stephen Silvester

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The big man filled the doorway of The Smack Inn, blocking out the insistent daylight. ‘Samuel Root?’ he boomed into the gloom.

A wiry little figure leapt up from a table in the depths of the room and scurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ned Polley?’ The other grunted. ‘Welcome. How was the journey?’

‘Long. Hard on the arse.’

‘Ale will see to that.’ Root waved and slopping tankards appeared. ‘Parents well?’

‘Mother same as ever. Father won’t see fifty again but good for a few years yet.’

‘Sorry about your uncle.’

‘Took me an age to read your letter.’

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