Leila has brought out a piece by our most published author and he needs no introductions to regular visitors to the site:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – The Story of My Home Town Saugus, Massachusetts by Tom Sheehan”
Week 324 – An Advert, He’s Behind You And I’ll Always Remember The Belter That Was Effie!!!!!!!!!!
Before I begin, I send out a warning to ‘The Sensitives’ – God forbid us ever upsetting ‘The Sensitives’ by mention even one of the three trillion things that they’ll get upset about!!
To all you ‘Sensitives’ out there, I use the bad swear word three times in the last two paragraphs so either take some Prozac or don’t read those paragraphs.
And I mean the bad, bad swear word that sounds like Kent if you are from London. You know the one I mean, well maybe you don’t, the one that’s a term for a lady part and not the cheeky ‘f’ word for a lady part that I refuse to use as I hate it. So many folks do and think it’s a bit of a laugh but not me!
However…Have a look –
Anyhow – You’ve been warned!
Continue reading “Week 324 – An Advert, He’s Behind You And I’ll Always Remember The Belter That Was Effie!!!!!!!!!!”
Creep by Boshra Rasti-Ghalati
The turbulence on the plane makes my skin creep. I hate airplanes, motion that I can’t control. Two lanes down I see the back of a punk’s rainbow colored mohawk. What makes someone decide to get a haircut like that? The air hostess is giving him some advice about transferring at the airport. He’s transferring, he wouldn’t be allowed in Doha looking like that.
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Dust to Dust by A. Elizabeth Herting
The sheet snaps crisply in the wind, perfectly white, a blank canvas hanging on a line. A woman, neither young nor particularly old, bends over a large, wicker basket. Her hands are large and red, prematurely knotted from the harsh, unceasing wind. She is a good-sized woman. An old floral print dress clings to generous haunches as she efficiently plucks each item from the line and places it in the basket. She is one of an unbroken line of generations past, hardened and forged by life on the plains.
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Ladybird by Joy Florentine
The waitress who has taken my order wears a sepia-coloured dress, checkers faded and hem ruffled. She excuses herself as she leans in and wipes the table with a damp cloth. On her sleeve is a single red, round button. It gleams. She asks me something. My car is parked between two cargo trucks. I’m not usually the type of person who visits roadside diners. The red, round button reflects the light from the fluorescent lamp, its four holes laced with loose black thread.
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The Shadow of Your Smile by Yash Seyedbagheri
Nick takes pictures of smiles, in coffee shops, at the store.
He especially likes crooked smiles, like his older sister Nan’s. When she smiled. When she was a being and not a shadow in the past tense. He’s tried to store her smiles like contraband. A smile on the way to bed, the two of them exchanging a glance. A smile pronouncing his nickname. Nicky. Or a smile while watching The Big Lebowski, a smile transforming into real, crackled laughter, especially when The Dude lit a joint without care.
But time makes it impossible to store things.
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A Strutting Rooster by Matthew McGuirk
“I don’t know about you guys, but I just about started to drink that day Jason got caught in 6th grade.” I tipped back the coffee for the last dribble and put up a hand to see if Shirley, who was working the counter could get me another pour.
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Literally Stories – Sky Clad by Diane M Dickson
Leila has done me the great honour of not only suggesting one of my scribbles but also making me honorary ‘mother’ of all you lot. So eat your greens, get your elbows off the table and have a look at this:
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Week 323: A Dope By Any Other Name is Still a…
Prologue
Welcome to week 323. My name is Leila Allison, and I believe that I am the first American editor at Literally Stories, which, of course, means nothing to no one nowhere no how, but since I so rarely come in first, I thought I’d mention it.
For those who are addicted to Hugh’s Saturday posts, I extend my apologies. But the fellow deserves a break every so often, and this week I have taken up the cause in his place. Although I have no idea what Hugh will do on his mini-vacation, rest assured it probably doesn’t involve listening to Coldplay or soliciting funds for a statue of the late Royal Consort to be erected in Ayr, Scotland.
The world is an unsteady place, but one thing is for certain: Hugh makes the Saturday post look easier than it is to accomplish in reality. So it is with great anxiety and a general sense of foreboding that I now present my pale imitation of the master.
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A Flower for a Lost Grave by Andrew Johnston
It’s right rare that someone asks me to take them down a road I don’t know – been traveling the backroads of Teyach going on twenty years, and the only ones I don’t know are those little sandy, marshy stretches in the inside. Figures that’s where the lady wanted me to take her. She wasn’t much of a talker, wouldn’t even give me her name. She just sat there in the passenger seat with her eyes fixed on the horizon, those dried up flowers crinkling in her grip. Not that I didn’t try to make conversation – drive mile after mile through silt that’s aching to swallow your tires whole, and you just have to say something, even if it ends up being to yourself.
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