All Stories, General Fiction

Go Time by Josie Myers

 

typewriterFrank tried to flag down his instructor using a beauty queen wave for the fifth time that day.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Airborne.”

A glare radiated beneath the brim of the instructor’s black cap as he led the troops to the open doors of the Curtiss C-46 Commando.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Imaginary Friends by Julianne Carew

 

typewriterAuburn hair and freckles sprinkled across his face, a red hat that he was never without and grubby sneakers that were ripped and torn, I first met Alvin when I was say, three or four. Alvin simply emerged in the middle of the grocery store parking lot that was really a sandbox that only I could see. He tapped on my shoulder as my mom was loading bags into the backseat of the car and from that moment on, from the second I laid eyes on his crooked teeth and goofy half-smile, we were inseparable.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Dead Man’s Last Home by Michael Glazner

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Clint’s sleeping body takes a breath, stretches and rolls over. The large man wearing a white coat scribbles notes on his pad while the dim sunrise light peeks through the window. Clint’s body rolls back to its original position. The white coat checks his watch and then checks off a box on his notepad.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Islands of Bluebell Meadow by Paul Thompson

typewriterWe reach the housing estate by mid-morning.

The site office is closed for business and surrounded by construction vehicles long since abandoned. Buildings hide behind frameworks of scaffold with empty windows and hollow interiors. Here the recession has spoken with confidence. Construction work has ceased and the estate is destined to stand empty and unfinished.

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All Stories

Week 73 Misery And Happiness

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I was at a loss on what to write this week. The sun was shinning and everything was bright and cheerful. I was miserable. I don’t like the sun. I used to suffer from migraines and light annoyed me, so I am left with a lasting hatred of it. Where I stay, if the weather is nice(?) the sun always shines. Well that isn’t true, the sun always shines in my eyes. No matter whether I sit at the front or the back of the house, the light either bounces its way around three parked cars, through the window and straight into my retinas or it just illuminates the back window. To be truthful this is normally only an issue three days a year but it is still annoying. There’s something soothing about the dark. It doesn’t violate your eyes. Life just likes to annoy me at times, that is why I am forced to work with the public.

So, with these thoughts in mind, I began thinking about personal preference. There are so many things that can be good for some and bad for others – The old saying of one man’s poison and all that. So for me, when the sun comes out, it doesn’t just have me squinting like a Shar Pei sooking a lemon, it makes me too damn warm. I can sweat for Scotland in August (The winter) not one of my most attractive traits I might add, but in warm weather I am my own paddling pool. I am never dry. It is disgusting and I actually judge my wife for staying with me. She would have been as well marrying a bloody puddle. So we now have a problem of moisture to add to the light issue. This is nothing, my biggest gripe with the sunshine is all the cheery folk that smell of coconut. They smile too much, laugh too much, enjoy themselves too much and are around me too much. I have a problem with enthusiasm, but enthusiasm when I am blind and wet doesn’t fill me with much joy.

So my wish when it’s sunny and warm, is hatred and hoping that the rain returns. Sure, I would still be wet but at least I could see the misery in everyone else’s eyes!

This segment is becoming quite structured. I don’t normally like structure, it is the sensible parents of boredom but there is no other way for me to do this and sometimes we need to use it!! So as usual, to this weeks cornucopia of topics. We have thoughts of infatuation, greed and need. We not only have deceit, this is tied in with being easily led. Rivalry instigates a bad decision and lastly, something that can be through most stories, acceptance.

As usual, initial comments are attached.

John Henry is a new writer who was published on Monday with his story, ‘Connecting The Dots’. We welcome you John.

‘The MC was a simple soul who was a sucker for a pretty face’

‘The sparse delivery made this convincing.

Tuesday, we were so happy to publish an old friend of ours, Anthony Wobbe gave us ‘Daniel’s Day’. Hopefully he will send us in many more.

‘I was really impressed.’

‘I enjoyed the patois.’

‘The suddenness of the ending worked well.’

We had been recommended to Ed Barkin and we are very pleased that he took us up with his wonderfully titled ‘Guy And The Baby Doll’ which was Wednesday’s posting.

‘This was quite menacing’

‘It was pithy’

‘I loved the lines about the wheels of destiny’

Thursday cometh and we had the absolute pleasure of another of Mr Tom Sheehan’s beautifully worded tales, ‘Catch Of The Day’

‘He really transports you into a story.’

‘A lesson so gently taught that you can only appreciate it afterwards.

The end of the week and we had something so different. Oh I am not talking about Friday, it was still the day in question. I am sure Diane who is editing this will change this bit of fact if it’s wrong. We welcome the youngest member to our site. Luna Moore has sent us something that makes you smile all the way through with ‘Gestalt Girl’.

What a fun, silly, intelligent piece this is.’

‘Layer upon layer of meaning’

‘I believe this girl can write.’

If you couldn’t find something within those wonderful stories to make you laugh or cry or ponder, you have even less emotion than me!!

Now talking about getting emotional, all the editors at Literally Stories become very emotional when we receive a submission as per our guidelines. It is as rare as a phoenix rising from the ashes of a unicorn who has strolled into the fires of the millennium in Brigadoon. We have therefore reviewed our submissions page and tried to make things a little clearer:

We need the word count as we have a limit.

We need the genre as we have restrictions.

We need notification if the story has been submitted elsewhere or if it is a simultaneous submission, this is courtesy to all sites involved.

A few sentences of introduction is also nice.

And structure as requested, that is how we set up.

Have a read of the page.

Please, please when submitting ANYWHERE, do yourself a favour and follow the guidelines, there is a reason for them all.

That’s another week in folks, so please go out in the rain and smile, that will make me miserable! And submit a story following the guidelines, that will make us happy!

 

Hugh

Banner Image:   By charles (Own work (Screenshot)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

All Stories, Fantasy

Gestalt Girl by Luna Moore

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Phila Bristow’s hands had a mind of their own. Every time she broke a rule, they would jump straight off her body to tell her mother. And that was on a good day. Much like humans, hands are susceptible to making poor choices, such as attempting to light a liar’s pants on fire just to be ironic. Which meant that Phila had been to five different schools in the last five years. One time, Phila let a classmate glance at her paper for a fraction of a second, and her hands detached from her body and ripped the paper off her desk. Then, they hopped from desk to desk chanting, “Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” before jumping out the window to run home and tell her mother. The other students, including the ones she’d thought were her friends, screamed and backed away from her. Mrs. Tweedle, Phila’s English teacher, started shrieking and throwing pencils at her. On her less charitable days, Phila liked to imagine Mrs. Tweedle ending up in a small village in Guatemala, teaching the ancient art of throat singing to underprivileged parrots. And then there were times her hands said things Phila didn’t even believe. When Phila was ten her hands started a nasty rumor about her best friend, even though it was Phila’s hands who did the dirty deed. But did anybody believe her? Absolutely not.  After that she started concealing her hands with mittens every time she left the house.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Catch of the Day by Tom Sheehan

typewriterThree of us for dozens of years were tight as a fist. No one could break us up, and a few had tried that on a few futile occasions, even when we gentlemen were fly fishing on one or more of the local streams, dawn afloat, May alive after a harsh winter and a tough early spring. Patterns were set betwixt us, like specialties of the house or garage or personal workshop, toil and turn at obstacles and unfinished tasks were before us who by each one’s choice in life’s work had brought the gifts of ideas and applicable and talented hands to extend those gifts. For each one of us possessed odd and different talents in electrical, mechanical and brute strength applications and peculiar other interests like coin and stamp collecting, scrap book organization and minimal, but touching artwork by a loving touch, family interest passed down from a parent or an older sibling.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Guy and The Baby Doll by Edward S Barkin

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He had lost all interest in the newspaper, even though it was the Sunday edition and contained fourteen sections in all.  When he had bought the paper late that night, he had assumed he would read it from cover to cover; but in actuality he had read only two articles — one about how the stock market had dropped 350 points the previous day and another about how the CIA was pushing for a looser interpretation of the law which prohibited it from engaging in political assassinations.  If he had been either heavily invested or a liberal, one of these articles might have stimulated productive thought in his mind.  As it was, however, the only thoughts which he entertained were homicidal or otherwise insane.  Continue reading “Guy and The Baby Doll by Edward S Barkin”

All Stories, General Fiction

Daniel’s Day by Anthony Wobbe

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Daniel was covered in tattoos and facial piercings; to me he looked clownish, like a painted up fishing lure.  He sat in my office, fidgety and nervous, waiting for the lunch meeting to be over; someone told him I was the person with the authority to approve his lease.  When I got there the receptionist whispered that he’d waited the entire two hours.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Connecting the Dots by Patrick Henry

 

typewriterI came of age in a time of no heroes.  Or, rather, in a time when, because seemingly everyone was a hero, no one was.  At least that was how Mariska explained it to me.  She said that we Americans were so desperate to be saved from terrors both real and imagined that we’d pin a medal on just about anything that moved.

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