All Stories, General Fiction

Ascension by Nigel Pugh

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Brutal, late May. Wet blankets of hot weather, suffocating. When the midday heat receded, Thomas nixed the novellas (Mattie’s legacy), filled a tall glass with seltzer and ice, and padded into the yard. He sprayed the concrete and his chair, sat on the damp fabric facing east toward the fishtail palm and the privacy fence, looking up at the eaves of the cottages the far side of the street. Old Florida. Wood and stucco. Termites and social security checks. Not yet gentrified.

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Short Fiction

Humpty Dumpty by Scott Taylor

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I was busy wiping the sweat from my brow when Oliver came over.

“It’s still down,” he said.

“I know that, but is it going any lower,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face.  My heart was pounding too hard again and I was out of the meds, I hadn’t had time to get to the drugstore and get more.  I was going to have a heart attack before thirty-five, it was obscene, it was beyond all reason.

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All Stories, Fantasy

In a Flash by Marcus Delmont

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Diane tilted her head back to find the top of the slide, one hand shading her eyes, and thought: that’s very high up for an eight-year-old alone.

“Mom, can I go?”

Her eyes followed the slide’s downward arc, its twists and loops. Bodies zipped through the tube. Muffled cries reverberated outward to the ground. Her chest tightened.

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All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever – Confucius Still Speaks an essay by Dale Williams Barrigar

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The legend about him, or I should say one of the many legends about him, is that he was nine feet tall.

No one now believes that the great Chinese teacher Confucius was really nine feet tall.

Nine is a magic number. That number was chosen for a reason.

Saying that Confucius was nine feet tall meant, and means, that his ideas, and his presence, were nine feet tall.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 601: The Judge Steps In (It)

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My great great great great great grand daughter, Miss Allison, usually tends to the bi-weekly festivities at Literally Stories, but her continuous state of despair has created a temporary state of mental paralysis brought on by the conspicuous consumption of apple jack on an empty stomach, heart and soul. Therefore she beseeched Yours Truly, Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender Spirit, to fill in for her this bi-week.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Specificity by Ryan Scribner

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As I pulled into an almost vacant lot in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with the cars of the few Saturday patrons and library staff parked, I noticed a pale woman wearing a cream-colored dress, its lace browned faintly around the cuffs. Her face possessed the pale stillness of old photographs. Her eyes shifted strangely, as if several people were considering me from behind them at once.

“Good morning,” I said to her.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Cordova, AK 1990

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They always show the birds on TV. Black all over, matted, and unrecognizable. I wonder if the people watching even know what the birds looked like before. Vero used to track the murres around the sound. Their heads were always black, but their feathers were snow white. I told Vero’s kid once that if the fish stopped coming, we’d have to hunt the birds. She cried and cried. Stupid joke. Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead now, the fish, the birds, Vero. They never put Vero on the TV, only the birds.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Wee Florrie by Ian Ibbetson.

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The interview room was sweltering. Flies gathered around the one small window high up on the street-side wall. The Scottish summer heat didn’t seem to bother the old woman in the other chair. Archie’s first thought was how cool she looked. The tweed jacket remained on despite the heat and the pearls sat perfectly against the olive green twinset. Every tight white curl had been marshalled precisely into position. His own shirt had begun sticking to his back an hour ago.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Life Well Lived by Michael Bloor

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When a farmer dies in Scotland, it’s the convention that he gets a big funeral. So, when  auld Jockie Murdoch of Muirside died, it wasn’t just his relatives and his neighbours who turned up for him, but all the other farmers for many miles around, who’d known him from the auction marts and the agricultural shows, plus the contractors who’d shifted his animals, transported his fertiliser and lime, delivered his fenceposts and similar gear, the vet, the bank manager, the insurance agent, the auctioneer, the farmers’ union rep, and so on. There must’ve been more than a hundred of us.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

The Fourteenth Victim by Mark Grace

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Twelve bodies in the last month with the same MO. Each victim had blunt force trauma to the back of the head, indicating a surprise attack. Once stunned, the brutal attack continued. The autopsies showed multiple broken bones, ruptured organs, and, in one case, a heart attack. The bruising on the skin indicated that the same weapon used to hit the head was also used to beat the victims to death. The murder weapon was still unknown after twelve murders. Hoofprints were all over each crime scene, which indicates the killer knows how to handle a horse. In a farming community like this one, that offers almost no help.

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