Week 2 on Literally Stories and no one can say we did not live up to our globe-trotting promise.
Monday witnessed a Welshman, living in South Africa, writing disturbing American based horror.
Tuesday, Swedish funny man Tobias Haglund landed us in Germanville trick-or-treating Nietzche et al.
Wednesday and it was but a short trip to Dover for an Englishman and his Romanian girlfriend.
Thursday saw a return to the USA. More unpleasant goings on in the backwoods with squirrels and…sorry folks, that would be telling.
Friday brought Week 2 to a close with a suspect Russian ‘Product’ which was up for negotiation in an offer you really would want to think twice about.
“Can you imagine someone who knows that he may be living his last year?”
The enquirer was sitting in a wheelchair opposite me – a man in his late forties to early fifties, broad-shouldered, dressed informally, black hair with streaks of silver grey, intense brown eyes, clean shaven.
“How old might he be,” he went on, “and what might be the reason for his imminent departure?”
He eyed me questioningly, an enigmatic smile on his pale, handsome face.
“I believe you’re not referring to yourself,” I smiled back.
He grinned broadly and chortled, “Well, a bit of sarcasm won’t spoil the pleasure of our interaction.” He pressed one of the buttons on the arm of his wheelchair and moved closer. “Are you really sure you want this?
Now, he was staring at me intently, unblinkingly. “Let’s put it this way: Are you adamant in your decision?” Continue reading
Rust-orange scales litter the ground beneath the pine – sign of the squirrel’s search for the sweet seeds found tucked beneath the cone’s thorny lobes. The scales fall like heavy snowflakes, twirling and seesawing to the forest floor. As I raise my eyes to the bushy-tail sitting astride a pine limb, I’m thankful he’s ignorant of my presence and his certain death. He’ll feel no pain, for I don’t miss.
Not anymore. Continue reading
I was sat at a table in a service station café off the M20, on route to Dover, waiting for Angelika to return with the coffee. The seat beneath me was small, with a round foam cushion and flat metal back. Outside, through the window that stretched the length of the cafe, I could see our campervan parked in the rain. In the dim morning light it appeared grey. We’d been on the road since six, as the sun bled into the sky, and had made good time. We were twenty miles from Dover when the temperature gage hit the red and the warning light came on. Continue reading
Hans wandered a street in Eaten-Notthemeatenberg, a small rural city in Germanville, with his sister Gretel. The siblings were about to go trick-or-treating. They came to a house and rang the doorbell. A man, with a prominent mustache, called Friedrich, opened the door.
”Hello, Sir. Trick or treat?”
”What in the name of…”
“God?” Gretel asked suggestively.
“Please… God is dead. We killed him.”
“Did you kill God!? How could you…” Gretel cried out and both of the children ran away from the horrible man.
“No! You have misinterpreted me!” Nietzsche yelled and hoped that no one else would ever do the same. Continue reading
I know you’re watching me.
My eyes don’t work like they did in my twenties but I can still see you pushing up against my kitchen window, gawping. I should’ve pulled the curtain before I sat down but no matter. The glass could do with a lick but you can see the bars through it just like the others. And you can see me clear enough. Continue reading
We said we were going to put our feet up come the weekend. Heave a collective sigh. Have a lie in. Take the dog on a long walk.
We changed our minds. Decided Saturday was an opportune time to say thank you to our readers.
Literally Stories began the week with 8 WordPress followers and a handful of Facebook likes. It finished the week with 31 fellow WordPress folk keeping tabs on us and 56 Facebook ticks and in total 270 story reads.
It is, as they say, a good, solid start. Continue reading