Literally Stories – Week 57 – The Facts

typewriter

Did you know that Henry J. Heinz introduced the marketing slogan ’57 varieties’ in 1896 and later claimed that he was inspired by an advertisement he saw while riding an elevated train in New York City for a shoe store boasting ’21 styles of shoe’.

Well there’s a coincidence, one that leads me to a very obvious conclusion: the Illuminati are up to their old tricks again pulling strings and doing other underhand things you can’t actually see, or get anyone to believe in, as they always insist on pouring cold water on the obvious connections you made whilst reading clearly connected articles on Wikipedia.

The facts are the facts plain and simple.

Week 57 on Literally Stories saw the 285th story published on the site. Fact. In the year 285 Diocetian defended the Danube from Sarmatian raids and what do you know, the Danube flows through Germany and that’s where (Bavaria) it all kicked off for those dastardly secret society types who love eating bratwurst with, you’ve guessed it — baked beans. Also fact.

Indisputable truths continued thick and fast on Monday.

1/ William R. Soldan was the first of three newcomers to LS.

2/ His début Portraits of the Dead and Dying was a cracking good read.

3/ We all look forward to seeing more of William’s writing when it’s as good as:

The plane was one of those Cessna puddle jumper deals, looked like the piece-together toys they had over at the discount drugstore where my mom bought her make-up and my old man’s stomach medicine. It came arcing across the sky in a spiraling nosedive. Dwight jammed the pack of smokes into the pocket of his Rustlers and shouted, “Come on!”

Welcome William.

Tuesday’s colourful truth came in many hues when Adam Kluger invited us to eavesdrop all manner of snobbery and prejudice in All Around Town.

For instance there was…

“You know — good teachers and we’re in a pretty solid zone.”

“Ah…  got you. That’s makes all the difference… listen, Hon, I’ve got to scoot. I just realized my Pilates class starts in thirty minutes… you should really try it sometimes. Let me pick this up.”

Alternately…

“It’s all that slick -car salesman- asshole- who has bangin’ Monica Jew-insky’s fault anyway — he totally ignored all the warnings about Osama.”

“Now we got O-bama instead of Osama.”

“Merry Kwaanza Syrian Refugees… ”

Frederick K. Foote has more varieties of story in his literary locker than Mr. Heinz had tinned goods.

Wednesday Fred served up The Hunt. Several breeds of dogs and one black-tailed Jackrabbit made up his largely non-human cast in an action story laced with tragedy.

Dart is on Shaft’s right flank a few yards back.

The rabbit senses something is different in this chase. He jumps to the left running toward the railroad track a hundred yards away.

Shaft takes an angle on the turning jack that cuts the distance between them. The jack sees the error of his ways. The jumping is over. The race is on. The hare can hit forty miles per hour, and he knows this terrain.

Second bow of Week 57 belonged to Thursday’s fiction spinner, H.T. Garton.

Welcome H.T.

The spiders in her exquisitely titled The Noble Shelley and Her Fat Belly definitely originated on Planet Earth not Mars.

The humour/horror mash-up is a tough genre to get right but H.T.Garton did it with something to spare.

Ade took the newspaper from Shelley who’d got up and was scouring the living room. According to the article, this wasn’t a new species but one that has blighted these shores for more than a century.

“Stop panicking Shell! You won’t find one here. They’re in the South West it says. It’s always a degree warmer down there. Shell? Where you going?”

“To turn the heating down.”

Friday saw the final début — with no definite destination in mind for her MC — of the week, when newcomer Sharon Frame Gay sat us down next to a Soldier of Fortune headed for The Great Plains

Welcome Sharon.

Contradictory emotions came to the fore in a poetic road trip that forced cliché off the blacktop and onto the hard shoulder.

Towards dawn, she surfaced from restless sleep, sensing a change in the air around her. She felt the soldier’s hand on her hair, stroking softly. His breath swept the top of her head, gentle as a healer’s touch. She froze, a bird captured beneath his palm, heart beating like frantic wings. Her hair flowed through his hand, again and again, wound round his trigger finger, then uncoiled and set free.

Pull over soon Sharon. Do drop by again William and H.T.

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