So here you are, sitting on the train, reading this book, looking for excitement. The cover caught your attention: some sad hero, sweat pouring down his forehead, eyes desperate with fear. You love to read about poor souls in torment.
I’m Les. That’s right, Les Moore. I know, I know…here lies Les Moore. Killed by four slugs from a 44. No Les. No Moore. Funny. Well, it’s not so funny now. Being dead I mean. It’s my name. Thank my parents for that. But the no Les, no Moore part may happen, and in a matter of minutes. Why? Because I did something stupid and chatty. I talk to people and notice things. I went too far this time. I bargained with the devil’s disciple.
Rain was spattering off the windows like a lunatic’s depiction of the Niagara Falls. Occasionally, the odd drop would be eerily illuminated by a passing headlight. These privileged drops would fade into dull oblivion within seconds, joining the herd of drops that continued to assault the windows like an angry geography teacher with an AK-47.
Removed at the request of the author
Wilma sat down at the table.
“You’re a fisherman for fuck sake.”
“I was, I’m retired.”
“That’s beside the point, you know what it’s like about here, you were a fisherman and you always will be!”
Leila has presented us with another excellent Rerun submission, this time from the pen (well keyboard one suspects) of Gina Yates – this is what she said.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t read novels anymore. I miss them but I think when you read as many shorts as we do, your reading discipline changes. At one time I enjoyed reading forty pages of build up, now I think ‘Get fucking on with it.’
The boy’s father considered there to be two primary aspects to parenting – the importance of time spent with the child and the importance of time spent without the child. One took precedence over the other. Once a month, without fail, the father would take the boy to the barber and they would both get their hair cut the exact same way. The father would have a shave and the boy would envy him while he had it. It was because of this ritual that the boy would forever remember the back of his father’s head.
You wrestle with the blueberry pie as you floss through traffic on the freeway. The lop-sided bundle of pie looks like a monkey got ahold of an aluminum foil roll and tried to wrap a banana. You chuckle; you’ll tell Berry that one.
I remember the very first time I fell in love. It was May 25th, 1977. On break, in the shadows, behind the new San Francisco Century on Market, planet Tatooine, as a moody Luke Skywalker fawned the anarchy of twilight’s double suns.