The task of writing Week 13 News fell to someone (me) who has made a habit of late of staring at blank pages. Bereft of inspiration (I tidy up and make tea and send out a load of emails to make myself useful) I’ll leave the wordy stuff to the reader/writers of Literally Stories.
I stood at the bathroom door of The Shield waiting on Francis. It had been a long Friday night like most of them had ended up being. This old place had been standing longer than we had but somewhere along the path between here and the hospital visits it stopped feeling that way. But we were alive. More than can be said for our beloved Shield.
Red ribbons floating on the water. A hand sticking up from the deep. A cold plunge into nothingness. The sky so large, and he so small upon the summer lake. The rise and fall of a voice calling out for help…
The dark descending; too little comfort in the night…
When the willow fell it swept to the surface of the engorged torrent in a graceful swoon. The roots wrenched from the ground flinging mud, pebbles, small boulders and the moss and grass of the bank skywards. The whipping branches flew across the water to be grabbed and hurled downstream till their anchorage on the great trunk stayed them. They streamed in the flood, tempestuous ribbons squirming and writhing in the wild water.
It all started when that fat fucker moaned about having to give me change. I don’t ever say ‘Fat fucker’ as I am a rather large person myself but honestly, ‘Jabba The Fucking Garage’ really annoyed me. ‘Is that all you have got’ he enquired with a sneer and a sarcasm that I just couldn’t ignore. I advised him that I would look further. I exaggerated looking through my pockets and this was also lost on this fuck wit, he
I seldom get invited to poker games as I never carry cards but always sad short stories. Read ’em and weep. Now that we got that awkward first sentence out of the way I can begin summarising the past week.
Sweet Surrender by our Diane focuses on a poor woman with an addiction.
Last Tuesday featured a dystopian story about something which kills off most of humanity. Speaking of a thing which kills, Kill Switch is the name of Nik Eveleigh’s story. It’s bold. Not just because I wrote in bold but the story is also bold.
Following those two stories was a comedy called A Captivating Meeting by crazily Swedish tough guy Tobias. One of those three is not true.
The Thursday story came from Vic Smith. Its speculative theme resonates in modern technology and it’s called The Conscious Coward.
Finishing the week is usually Sunday, but not here at LS. It’s the Friday story (Well technically it’s this news update, but no one reads this). Des Kelly, who will become our most prominent external author, gave us Snow On The Ground. About the complexity of love between two even complexier persons.
The Story of the Week from 9th to 13th February 2015 has been decided. It was close. How close? Like a near-sighted dyslectic would spell clothes. Because he would write very close and also spell it close. The very definition of exciting couldn’t even begin to describe how inspiring and exhilarating this Story of the Week competition was. I guess that is the definition of exciting, so yes the very definition could describe it. It was very dramatic. It started from the stomach and ran all the way up to the throat. It’s a tie. But enough about my attire. The competition was a draw.
Vote for your favourites and stop voting for Tobias. It’s the equivalent of voting for the Beer Party in elections. Go ahead and click on your favourite story.
She said ‘Don’t leave me alone. I can’t cope on my own.’
I promised to stay. We drink tea, converse about nothing. She says she’d like to sleep.
I watch over her.
Professor Tomlinson was a disappointed man. He had recently achieved his life’s ambition, and already he could see it beginning to crumble.
He turned in his seat, and shouted across the laboratory to his assistant. “Hargreaves! Give me those figures again.”
Hargreaves was sitting in front of a luminous screen, looking at a series of diagrams that were filled with information. He was checking through each one in turn, collecting and collating the data. He pushed his spectacles back into place on the bridge of his nose, and repeated exactly the same numbers that he had read out a few minutes earlier.
”… and that’s when I found out he wasn’t my father!”
”Okay. How about dropping the gun?”
“There you go again. Thinking only about yourself. It seems as if you’re not even listening to me…”
“I’m NOT listening to you…”
“…because as I have been talking about very personal things you still go on about your selfish things. I don’t want to threaten you again, but if you keep…”
“I’m not threatened and have never been threatened.” Simon looked into the security camera. “Let the record show that I have never been threatened.”
“Simon.” Billy said and cocked the gun. “Stop focusing on the police or the other hostages and listen to me.”
“You’re looking for some answers. I can understand that. I can relate. Isn’t that what the hippies used to say?”
Joe’s gaze remained flat. He waited for the man to continue.
“Don’t say much do you? I’m guessing you’re all out of empathy as well as words right now but if not, I won’t keep you. Good luck in finding a tree left to hug.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell us why it started.” Continue reading “Kill Switch by Nik Eveleigh”