She’s never home when I want her to be, and when she is, sometimes I wish she’d just go. Tonight there’s a cat on our couch. It’s purring under the pressure of her palm. She’s left the window open, and the very edge of a drizzle is falling through. Tiny little droplets are falling through the awnings and onto the windowsill. Portents of water damage and mold.
Continue reading “Little Bites by Jake K. Istuk”
September 8th
The idea came to Louis Lovelace after a phone call informing him of the end of the world.
He groped for an excuse to end the call, but his mind was foggy from the smoldering joint in the ashtray. He’d been burning through the severance from his last job for almost five months now, and the truth was he had nothing better to do than listen.
“Louis, it’s Sheldon. We went to college together, remember?” the hopeful voice on the other end of the line said.
“I know this seems strange, but it’s urgent.”
Louis remembered Sheldon as a devoutly religious student who shared his notes whenever Louis was too hungover to take his own. They had hardly been friends, and in the fifteen years since graduation, Louis hadn’t thought about him once.
The Damascus steel, fresh off eight sets of eight strokes at fifteen degrees against the diamond rod, meets no resistance when you turn it on yourself by accident. Across the web of skin that spans forefinger and thumb, a line of blood appears and lengthens until the bright sting of pain arrives. You place the boning knife to the side of your butcher block with a gasp that you hope the other cooks don’t hear. You hold the cut to your mouth and when you remove it from between your lips, you pretend what you see is a gash in someone else’s flesh.
Continue reading “The Butcher by Brandon Sharp”
“The dead don’t die.” – Jeff Tweedy
Whoever believes that a 58-year-old man can’t rock out any more hasn’t heard (or has heard and hasn’t understood) Jeff Tweedy’s new song “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter” from his 2025 triple album Twilight Override.
The symbolic title of this song alone is worth volumes as it encapsulates an American way of life, for good and ill, in five words.
Anything with Lou in it has to be great, or near-great, to justify the use of his name and this song is.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever: Tweedy on Reed an essay from Dale Williams Barrigar.”
Another week, another Saturday Posting!
Week 592 if I’m not mistaken.
I wondered why I had so many random stories this week. But I realised why, I held the newspapers back and hadn’t read them for a few days, most of this nonsense, I found today. It’s actually a bit of fortune as I had very little to go on. What I did have can wait for another day.
Continue reading “Week 592 – R.I.P The AP, Julius Is Second And No Nail Varnish.”
In Which are recorded Arguments and Misunderstandings among Neighbors and Subjects in the Village of Gebsattel in Middle Franconia during my Tenure as Bailiff, and how the Same were Adjudicated and Settled, as well as Other Matters requiring Punishment in the Stocks.
Beginning in the Year of Our Lord Christ’s Birth,
Anno 1574.
Erhard Wolffhardt, Bailiff in Gebsattel
(Excerpts)
Continue reading “Manorial Roll by Ann Tlusty”
Maggie walked into the kitchen and flinched. Bert was in the kitchen. In her spot.
The clock chimed. Seven minutes before the day started. She teetered forward, shielding her eyes as the jumble of papers and pens on the kitchen table leapt out at her.
She gasped, hot tears stinging her eyes. Bert had desecrated her workspace.
“Good morning, darling,” Bert said, turning his head. “Tea will be ready in a minute.”
Continue reading “Five Millimetres from the Rim by Charlotte L. Sworn”
For two months of Summer, I spent my midnights wandering the streets of London with a sleepwalking girl. It wasn’t voluntary, to be honest. I was on my way home one night after my shift as a street cleaner: the pavement was empty of pedestrians, roads empty of cars; the night shift staff stirred the dim lighting of the dining rooms with their exhausted silhouettes; tumbleweeds of Gregg’s wrappers flew past my peripheral; pigeons strolled mindlessly over the large tiles of Trafalgar Square pecking for bits of croissant between the cracks; rats drunk on Aperol spritz bin-hopped in a chorus of squeaks; waltzing flies cast flecks of shadows beneath a streetlamp.
Continue reading “(Sleep)Walking London by Akio Lê”
“Sorry?” The young man looks up from his reading.
“That a mystery?” the visitor says again. Odd for a July night, the tweed overcoat. It’s fraying at the cuffs, and stains, smudges on the one shoulder, soot all down that side, the extra long scarf rounding the throat then across his chest, wrapped like a royal sash, and beneath it a t-shirt, yellowed at the belly.
Continue reading “Mr. Terrence by Rick Moss”
The cross looked small from the back of the nave. Flanked by emblems of the Alpha and Omega, the Celtic Cross, called the Cross of Iona by the church fathers, appeared disfigured in the stained-glass light. Holling Krannert, statistician of the Second Presbyterian Church for more than fifty years, had a decision to make. Having spent the night in a pew, meditating upon the sins of the world, he would decide the fate of the church—whether the building he loved and served so faithfully should live or die in flame.
Continue reading “The Soul Counter by Charles Sutphin”
literally stories 