Leila has been perusing Hugh’s back catalogue and has come up with another of his little gems. This is what she said:
Five Years!!! A Celebration Of Literally Stories.
Here we are at week 249.
This is a special posting as tomorrow on the 17th, we have been going for five years.
We have a few bits and bobs that we want to do so I’ll get this weeks stories out the way first.
Breakfast At The Hospital for the Criminally Insane by Harrison Kim
Quan falls into the patient breakfast line at the hospital for the criminally insane, he peers at the kitchen staff through pushed in black glasses, grips his tray in both hands, nose sniffing right over its plastic surface, checking to perceive odors and blemishes. He mentally calculates the time distance between himself and the food. “Maybe ninety-eight and a half seconds.”
Eternity of Descent by A. Elizabeth Herting
He promised to keep me safe.
A promise that turned out to be total and complete bullshit. Brent also vowed to be faithful, stick around in sickness and health and a bunch of other things that went by the wayside the moment he decided to tell me about his ridiculous, “mid-life crisis” indiscretion.
Kick-Hench Happy Hour by by Joshua Bealson
I know superhero stories are way over done these days and you are looking for new angles, but please don’t point your camera lens in this direction, I am just that guy’s sidekick. Strictly off the record and never to be quoted. Standing to the periphery, sans a speaking role, smiling and happy the blinding spotlight never shines here. The glint off the bleached and veneered teeth of my rich alcoholic narcissist boss is enough to blind even the most skeptical of fans to his deep narrative flaws. Sure, some might say he’s a vigilante. For others he is The Bad Guy, but aren’t we all sometimes? I’m just happy to help and not bothered by your narrow good to evil spectrum.
The Fire by Nicholas Higginson
The groaning and gibbering column of mourners stood over the small, still warm cat. All wept and shook save three. The old man, leaning slightly harder on his left side, looked only at the boy, his daughter’s son. The boy was silent also, though wore the look of the savaged. The third to keep from buckling to the emotion of the scene was the vet who had administered the barbiturates.
A Dreamt Preface for a Reading at Nahant Library by Tom Sheehan
(“Please come to read for us from your new book.”)
I want to let the audience enter the cubicle where the work came from. This is what I’ll tell them:
