The Cave by Diane M Dickson

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It was darker now, he wouldn’t have believed it possible.  It was, deep, impenetrable and velvet.  For the first time Tom was afraid.  When the others had suggested the trip it sounded like fun.  A chance to explore the newly discovered pothole, to be the first and so have their names in the journals as the original team opening up a new cavern, shining light on the newly opened place.  He wasn’t very experienced and found the roping complicated, he had done it wrong and it had stuck twice on the trial run, the rope catching in the pulley but they told him it would be fine.  He knew that they were finding him irritating, they were all so much more experienced but hey, that wasn’t his fault.  Anyway in the end it hadn’t been fine, it had let him down and as he began to slide into the smaller cavern, pushing and slithering on the loose gravel at the head the damned thing had failed tossing him end over end into this pit.

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Word Puppet by Nik Eveleigh

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Right now. Right at this very moment. The moment we are sharing through the medium of a page and the words it contains a man is washing blood from a nine inch blade. His hands are shaking and not just from the chill of the brown water that alternately dribbles then vomits from a rusting tap.

The bathroom is stark. You know the type. Single, naked bulb throwing diseased shards of light into your brain, alive with a frequency on the ragged edge of your hearing. The floor tiles might be white under the patina of despair, shit and god knows what else. The ones on the walls are much the same but with more graffiti to hide their shame. The mirror above the sink keeps showing the same re-run of a man washing a knife. He looks familiar but he’s changed. Hollowed out. He has no idea why he is cleaning the knife but he doesn’t stop.

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Atreus (Arthur) and Thyestes (Theo) by Frederick K. Foote

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Fraternal twin brothers from an exemplary family with a long history of silver spoons, silk stockings, white gloves, and blueblood.

Arthur, the elder by minutes, born to ponder, plan, plot and practice minor deceits for major gains and elaborate scams for minimal returns or momentous losses.

Theo of the laughing lips and smiling eyes, a charming and pliable character and a lubricous seducer of young girls and married women. The younger brother, a slippery wordsmith, giving every word a double or triple meaning. His promises are rarely broken because they are seldom understood.

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Beau Geste Murtaugh, Veteran of Wars by Tom Sheehan

typewriter“Here I am,” says his imperative argument in an undertone, “eighty-seven frigging years old, my knees gone to hell and back, my gut talking about all the beer I’ve sailed my life across, barrels of it talking to me all at once, and this little kid out in front of my house crying his head off. This little kid, this little shaver, one of the ones we did our thing for, our future.

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Week 87 – Submissions, Words And The Nazareth Fencing Team

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Here we go again. Another seven days have gone as quick as Usain Bolt with a dodgy stomach! I think you can see where this post is going. I can’t ignore what is a world-wide event so I have been thinking on The Olympics this week. Due to me not wanting to upset many people I won’t comment on the big man overlooking but not helping the Nazareth team winning any medals. (Broken Down Angel anyone???)

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Brake Lights by C. W. Bigelow

 

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“He’d been a philanderer for years.”

Those words spilling out slowly from my mother’s mouth, chin firm, lips straight, not a tear in her eye, about my father who had just died – came as a total surprise – especially when there was no chance to verify her accusation.  He was gone, unable to defend himself.  So as his son, I wasn’t sure to take the announcement as total truth or as someone’s bruised opinion?

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