Santa was back on form this year. He clearly read the message I left him, very carefully unlike last year when some incompetent stand-in or faux Mr. Claus totally f***** up.
Dear Santa I wrote — as you do — I would be most grateful if you could kindly arrange it that your elves assist you in the delivery of a number of…
Now conjure up a long list of ‘literary books’ by the likes of Orwell, Dostoevsky and other suitably heavyweight names including Albert Camus.
NB: To avoid severe embarrassment as once suffered by yours truly, please note that Mr. Camus was born in Algeria (then French Algeria) and his name is pronounced, not unsurprisingly for the French, Al-Bear Ca-Moo.
Not Al-But Ca-Mus.
Any road, as we say round these parts, you can imagine the puzzlement, nay sinking feeling that besieged me, when unwrapping many book-shaped packages I came across The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton and did not subsequently discover The Outsider by said Algerian.
YA fiction is not, as you would no doubt hazard a guess, top of my must-read genre list, but to be fair to S.E.Hinton I read The Outsiders (published 1967), which was written by her when she was still in junior high school, and it is indeed a fine book of its type.
Tradition has it that Monday retains its place as the early pace-setter in the literary week at Literally Stories.
First to feel the breeze through his jockey shorts in 2016 was dm gillis.
In a whimsical little affair that always held an air of menace, The Angel of 1913 saw out the last of 1912 teasing a down-and-out with a Deal or No Deal, deal.
“You a cop?” said the woman.
“I can assure you that I am not,” said The Angel of 1913.
“You want sex?”
“My goodness, no.”
“Because I ain’t for sale.”
dm’s oeuvre grows ever more diverse.
Tuesday manoeuvred its way to the head of the field just in time to witness LS Editor Hugh Cron’s fluffy-meter flat-line somewhere close to zero.
Carrying the longest you-have-been-warned ‘Adult Content’ message in the history of you-have-been-warned warnings Only Business made no concessions towards good taste.
Life really is the shitty end of the stick for some people and Hugh is brave enough to distribute those sticks poop and all.
“And I take it it’ll no be Rick who is chapping his door?”
“Nope. Size tens with a fucking warrant!”
“It’s risky. He’s no’ a dafftie! He kens some scary guys and all of them are fuckin’ mutants.”
Wednesday emerged from the pack midway through the week and got first dibs on the return of Adam Kluger’s alter ego Alfred Klumpner in A Lost Cause Part 2.
Thick-skinned, delusional, self-aggrandising — I must stop slagging off my fellow LS Editors — only jesting, I am of course describing the said Mr. Klumpner as yet again he fails to grasp the message that such literary greats as Olive Garden Explosion and Pushing Down the Daisies will NEVER publish his work… or will they?
Dear Alfred Klupner,
Thank you for submitting to Olive Garden Explosion. We have decided not to publish your piece, “The Rain Washed His Underwear Clean.” Some Editorial Board comments:
“I wanted to like this but was confused throughout… the dirty underwear description was pretty gross and completely unnecessary in my opinion”
“I wasn’t drawn in by the overly-hypenated first paragraph, and the setup didn’t really spark my interest- This feels derivative but not of anything good… ”
Thursday’s dash for the line in the end-of-the-week-stakes is I fear for Irene Allison’s MC (coincidentally also called Irene Allison) in vain, as she does not possess the gait required to out-run Friday.
Feckless nature has capped my magnificence at 4’ 11”. Whenever I must match the lengthy strides of someone of WBC’s stature, I look like a snorting dachshund chugging alongside a sleek, effortless Afghan hound. I hang in there gamely for a while, but I soon lose interest and wander away.
Our Smiley Face of Darkness original insult high-density rating is a thing of joy. Duke Douchenozzle, rat-bastard, Prince Peckerhead and the Supreme Shithead are amongst my favourites.
Friday had its own way as usual coasting over the line unchallenged. Not only that but it bore witness to the first LS début of Twenty-Sixteen!
Nikki Macahon’s Mr. Pascal’s Funeral Parlor defies pigeon-holing though I think you will side with me when I lean towards Post-Industrial Pseudo-Gothic Surrealism.
With the swing of a door I am standing in the kitchen with a hand hooked on the back collar of my gloomies, being guided to a stool and implored to sit. On the stool I sit, picking at the loose lace of my gloves. The Mister turns to the Misuses, none too amused. Her back is to the both of us, a steady hand with a knife mutilating some green gifting the room with a steady tick tick tick.
A wonderfully bizarre offering to round off the week.