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Week 217 – Stories, Requests And A Saturday Special

Here we are at Week 217 and we have a wee treat.

Onto the stories first and then I’ll explain.

We had three new writers this week and two amazing contributors who have a mind blowing 90 stories between them.

Our topics this week include; bar staff, an altercation, permission, elderly hoovering and a son’s thoughts.

As always our initial comments follow.


First up was our first new writer.

We welcome Ximena Escobar.

Her story, ‘The Green Light‘ began the week on Monday.

‘Some astute observations.’

‘Ximena has given us some sophisticated writing.’

‘There are some strong and brave themes within this.’


On Tuesday we had another first timer.

We extend the same welcome and hope that all our new writers have a long association with us.

Andrew Larter’s story ‘One Punch‘ was next up.

‘I like the way that Andrew has caught the confusion.’

‘All the back story and future events are there for us to see without the points being hammered home.’

‘I thought that the construction was very well done and it complimented the story.’


There is no introduction needed for Mr Tom Sheehan.

His usual brilliance was showcased on Wednesday with ‘A Conversation With Jeep Who Said The Moon Loved His Father.’

‘The paragraphs of Jeeps words to his dad was as magical as a kid could give as he was referencing all the things that he loved.

‘Absolutely beautiful.’

‘Vivid! The image of the little wagon with the moonshine is really moving.’


And on Thursday we had another long term supporter of the site with quite the back catalogue.

End Home‘ was Dave Henson’s story for your entertainment.

‘Bonkers, inventive and thought provoking.’

‘Bizarre imagery that certainly holds your interest to the end.’

‘A great story teller with an imagination to be envied.’


We finished off on Friday with our last newbie.

We hope that they all have a long association with us and continue to send us their work.

Kathryne Cherie’s first story was ‘The Female Bukowski.’

‘This had a dark cynical feel to it.’

‘The scenes were very well done.’

‘A superb slice of life story with some social commentary.’


Before I go on to the main part of this posting, just the usual requests.

The Sunday Re-Run is giving us some very good viewing figures, so if you have an older story from the site that you wish to do a spiel or introduction on, please send us one.

And those comments don’t make themselves. Get off of Facebook and find a voice for a poor wee writer who is waiting on some positive critique.


OK, no mucking about this week!

Any regulars of the site will be very familiar with Tom Sheehan’s work.

Tom has been with us since August 2015 and has, up until now contributed an amazing and fingertip aching 74 stories.

We would like to introduce number 75. But it isn’t really a story and that is why we put it onto a Saturday Post.

Again, regulars of the site will know that from time to time we come across work that isn’t a traditional story but we believe that it has so much merit it has to be seen.

This is maybe a bit writer heavy but his subject matter is obviously so much loved by the man himself that we had to give it an airing.

I only knew of one of these writers but when I looked the others up, the quotes that are attributed to them are excellent. (‘Easy reading makes for damn hard writing’ is a cracker!)

We just felt that this would be a tribute to those writers that Tom loves and a nod to them all in their shared resting place.


So here we have Mr Tom Sheehan’s, ‘They Are Still Romancing Us’.



Still Romancing Us by Tom Sheehan

On a resplendent day in July, 2018, leaving our Saugus, MA of the First Iron Works of America barely out my favorite window, my son Jamie drove me to the ancient resting place, Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts, burial site of many authors who right to this day enchant us with their work, who spent their lives in the vicinity and thus their lyrical eternities enjoined. We read that none of them ventured west in those explorative days, busy here at creation, staying put, embracing the charms about them, one and all, to touch us down these centuries, to allow recall of youthful reading on my part bringing back the kind of memories all of us should have, should share.

None of them, I believe, joined with wagon trains or other westward ventures in their years to the growing parts of the country, but empowered their legends here at hand, romancing their neighbors and this east of us, to inspire all of us down the centuries.

Public records, and the stones themselves, advise that Authors Ridge in Concord’s Sleepy Hollow Cemetery shelters the graves of Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, Margaret Sidney, Ephraim Bull, and so many other famous authors and figures of literary glow. I trod there among their heavily-worn stone memorials, my mind being refreshed with couplets, phrases, adages and proverbs used for centuries, often choice bits of custom and manner.

Most of these sleeping giants lived in the 19th century when this nation was still expanding westward, areas becoming territories, territories becoming states, states becoming this grand nation of ours. The long and often plagued wagon trains went west, carrying hopes and dreams and seeds of the future, literally and figuratively. Oh, what they might spin these days if they could reappear, just as the giants interred here might spin from their minds. To stop and think what might have been carried off knocks my mind afoot.

In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery Jamie and I were alone in the midst of towering huge trees, stone memorials across the wide spans out in front of us, beside us, around us, and more along the climb up a steep path. Everything everywhere was in absolute silence, until, as foretold me at the very start of our drive to get here, a distance projected to be about 25 miles, the echoes of old reading began their haunt in my memories, catch-words, phrases, couplets, opening lines or fond adieus. Not whole pieces of their noted work, of course, but relevant statements or clipped pieces bringing parent work to mind, titles coming with soft introductions, whispers from eternal mouths, lessons of favored teachers also returning with like favor. They set me wondering: do they carry yet what they put our way, like the soft tones of a fifth-grade teacher in the Sweetser School reading a few small passages of Louisa May Alcott to be carried out the door and down the walk for 78 additional years. Did my teacher, Miss Chase, once pay attention to my attention? Was that deliberate eye of hers mine alone? Two rows up, two rows over, classmate Eileen turned aside at least twice, as if saying she knew where I was, where I would be later on, no matter the time of day, the whereabouts of my thinking; we had shared like books from the library.

All of this slammed at me as I ambled up the incline, via cane and handrail, slow step after slow step, appreciations finding their own old favorites, to the threshold of authors’ eternities, their echoes afoot in the clutch of enormous trees, some of them as upright as a planted arrow, I swear 200 feet into the air.

With assistance of a cane, son Jamie’s sure hands behind me at the ready, a handrail on the right hand, we climbed Authors Ridge, the sweep of history, of lyrics in their prime, enveloping us, slamming at me from my early reading days, fair echoes at their deeds, the excitement coming with total compass. Their years in those parts of the second century past, the rich and excitable literary marks, were being unveiled for all the centuries hence and thus. Their times were those times when wagon trains made the long and desperate trek across the land from the middle parts of the country to places in the far west, often as distant as Oregon on the Pacific Coast where this favored editor resides.

I feel sure none of these authors, so acclaimed, ever got to Oregon or thereabouts in that wide- open west, never spent long months on the westward trail. I dare think if they had, western stories might have a particular spin on them, at least be influenced.

This is one way to get them to Oregon, all points west, though it is sure that their works have often made the trip, long years ahead of this approach.

So, hail to the east and west.


“We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.”

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)


“To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. But if a man would be alone let him look at the stars.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson (May 25, 1803 – April 27, 1882)


“I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the North Star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.”

Henry David Thoreau (July 12, 1817 – May 6, 1862)


“We all have our own life to pursue, our own kind of dream to be weaving, and we all have the power to make wishes come true, as long as we keep believing.”

Louisa May Alcott (November 29, 1832 – March 6, 1888)



Images: Courtesy of the author and of course a couple of typewriters from


5 thoughts on “Week 217 – Stories, Requests And A Saturday Special”

  1. I think that I asked before, but I’m old so bare with (or bear with if you prefer, either could be weird). I wonder when if / you will do like my other fave English journal FOTW, and do a paper edition of LS.

    I continue to be surprised that people older than I am write. Their brains if not bodies are holding up very well. I’m envious.

    Last and least, I have it on good authority, that there are writers in Oregon.


    1. Hi Doug,
      Thanks as always.
      I do wish I had the opportunity to be part of this thirty years back. It would have been brilliant to see Literally Stories as a publication. But then it would have maybe ended up here on the site anyway. It is so sad to see the demise of newspapers and magazines. I will take no blame for that. I still buy newspapers film magazines and the odd Viz Compilation.


  2. Fine work from Sheehan.
    Herman Wouk wrote a novel at 95…Laura Ingalls didn’t BEGIN to write til she was 65.
    Of course Joyce and Capote were both pickeled and gone before 60… Naturally, I’m sitting in a bar as I write this.


  3. Hi Tom,
    I just wanted to say how interesting I found this.
    It was written with your usual brilliance and was an excellent nod to those featured.


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