According to Wikipedia no-one was born in the year 59. Two people died. They were Roman. Or possibly Greek. I have never heard of them or know anyone who has, therefore I must set aside any attempt to find some common ground, some tenuous link between the 59th week of publishing on Literally Stories and events1957 years ago.
Instead I will announce the forthcoming Author Galleries. They are happening soon. Coming forth. Pages and pages of head-shots of the writers who patronise LS.
If you have sent us a photo you will be there. Alongside another writer. Randomly situated amongst your fellow authors, each picture an alternative portal to the author’s published works on the site.
Opportune to ask anyone who has employed the services of a professional for the purpose of capturing their image, their author-ly avatar, to confirm whether that photograph is subject to copyright and if so to let us know if there is any attribution required to accompany it.
Copyright being what it is we don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.
Monday, and Adam Kluger’s narrator of Out of Place appreciated Shakespeare and the 80’s, both of which are unfathomable to yours truly.
I remember how excited I felt and how alive I was. Even my English teacher at the time complimented me on my reading of Shakespeare in front of the entire class. It was a story of love and suddenly Shakespeare made complete sense.
An education in the Bronx proved to be a mixed blessing in this tale of looking back without rose coloured spectacles.
There’s more meat on the bone than first meets the eye here, mangled metaphors aside.
Tuesday, Frederick K. Foote’s brand of heady horror went from ice cold to red hot and back again when an Afghanistan veteran found himself in backwoods West Virginia running the gauntlet of hill-billy types toting shotguns. It’s touch and go if Fred’s ‘I fear no evil’ protagonist makes it out of there.
The woodlands are thick with Maple, Elm, Oak and Dogwoods. The forest is full of birds, squirrels and flying insects. There’s the hum of forest life until it suddenly stops about two-hundred yards up the rutted, over grown track. I stop. I listen. Slowly the sounds return. A fly bites my hand.
Mourning Becomes Her. Soulful. Sexy. Scary.
Adam Kluger cannily snuck back onto LS midweek to provide Wednesday’s tale, A Walk in the Woods.
His MC had a date paint-balling with old college buddies.
Beer, bourbon, pizza and cards were on the menu.
The stars poked out between the trees.
The talk drifted to sports and family, business and the girls from the past who had shared their favors with some of them.
Boyz in the Wood bantering and then some…?
The first new blood of Week 59 arrived Thursday in the shape of Michael Marino.
If RuPaul Saves the Universe conjures up an image of a 55 year old drag queen travelling back in time to Somewhere Over the Rainbow (in fact, to the MGM offices of Louis. B Mayer) then you have at least an inkling of what craziness you are letting yourself in for reading Michael’s ingenious and funny satire.
“I don’t get this Garland at all,” said Mayer, pacing back and forth with a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. “I mean, just look at her! She’s a goddamn rake! A ten-year-old boy in a skirt for Chrissake. And I know what you’re thinking too. I’m a schmuck, a dirty old kike too damn old to get it up anymore. Sure, my downstairs is shot, but this girl’s image just isn’t doing a thing for my upstairs either, that’s for certain…”
Will RuPaul make it in time?
I GOT TO KNOW!!!!
Naturally The Last First Friday by Donald Baker demanded the final berth of the LS literary week, which also saw another Literary Stories bow.
Grandfather and grandson tales are often delivered in a not-easy-on-the-ear ‘key’ for the liking of the head-honchos of this particular corner of the metaverse, but that was not so in Donald Baker’s case, who found the perfect pitch with some wonderfully observed dialogue.
He looked around the room and brought his eyes at last to meet with Brandt. “OK, get this… ” He paused a few seconds. “I don’t do bud, or buddy, or pal, or champ, or kid, or sport. I won’t call you Old Man and you won’t call me all the cutesy kid things.”
Brandt smiled. “Very impressive. Do you do ‘surly son of a bitch?’”
The kid smiled a little. “It’s better than champ.”
Till next time Adios amigos!