Two punks sat outside a church, their slouching backs touching the north-facing wall, a few metres from the entrance – so as not to block God’s passage. Neither were religious, in fact they thought it utter shite, but they knew about respect. Respected respect. Their hair was spiky, but there were no spikes on them.
Continue reading “Long Live Carl Mar by Jane Houghton”
The door opens automatically, not how supermarket doors part but rather like a hologram dissipating. Inside, the lights are blinding. Ads swarm the walls, as if overrun with nagware.
A hostess joins us mid-stride, music creeping out from her headset. She doesn’t bother to catch our eye. “Headphones or no headphones?”
I don’t quite grasp the question. Rashida jumps in. “Headphones.”
Continue reading “Nine Minutes into the Future by Jared Cappel”
Maisie wished Goodwill had an anonymous nighttime drop-off. She didn’t want to be judged for her donations or the frequency with which she gave them. In all things, Maisie preferred to be anonymous. She didn’t like to be seen. She was 262lbs and 5’2″. Most of her life, Maisie was petite, her adolescent frame offered her two options: one to keep shopping in the children’s department or two to find a good tailor. Thankfully, her grandma could sew. Grandma Betty made a lot of Maisie’s clothes. Eventually, Maisie hit 100 lbs. Now, the only thing she was lacking was much in the way of boobs. Push-up bras now had something, a little something, to work with even if the ballooned bras were problematic with spontaneous combustion while dancing or laughing.
Continue reading “Food Cowboy by Leah Sackett”
The man was raw-boned, sleek, could skate like the wind that blew out of Canada on days like these around the corner of Appleton and Summer Streets, near cliff faces where the Montreal Tunnel holds forth. His hair was dark, his eyes held stories recessed and reserved, but he wore a magnificent pair of hockey gloves. Great, shiny black elegant things, tools of the trade. If he stood still, you’d swear you could smell the new leather of them.
Continue reading “The Ice of Old Lily Pond by Tom Sheehan”
We have provided coffee and cakes on a tray as Leila continues her treasure hunting in the dungeons of LS towers. She left this piece outside the door:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Soldier of Fortune by Sharon Frame Gay”
Well, we are now at Week 304.
I hope everyone had as good a Christmas as possible.
I do think that today, not the day that I am writing this, but the day that you are reading it, unless it is any other day than the day that it was posted, is the most depressing day of the year. It feels like those depressing Sunday nights where Monday mornings loomed.
Maybe it’s just me and I don’t know why I feel that way. Maybe something happened to me in a past life.
Continue reading “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeelll, (I checked Phonetically) Chic Young Is A Legend And Who Wants A Pasty When You Can Fuck A Sophia Loren?”
It’s been a funny year but we want to thank everyone for their support and their company. There would be no site without you. Whatever you are doing over the next few days, even if it’s nothing very much we wish you joy and peace and of course good health.
All the very best from Literally Stories.
Banner Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
Village Image by Louise Dav from Pixabay
My mother’s cadence on the bike has always been impressive. She can seamlessly glide from first gear to third without breaking her stride. The sound of her chain effortlessly shifting sounds like fingers snapping a melody. We ride together on a winding dirt road. We are going incredibly fast considering her mountain bike is a heavy beast. The tires are wide and fat. But it is a cheerful red color. It is the color of tricycles and little wagons. Though she is only thirty-six, it is odd to see her on something that calls to youth.
Especially since she is dying as we ride.
Continue reading “Always Remember to Shift by Jessica R. Clem”
‘And all of this is replicated across twenty datacenters.’
With a flourish, Davide draws a large rectangle around the messy, sprawling diagram he’s drawn on the whiteboard. He turns around. ‘Any questions?’
Continue reading “Boundless Growth by Simo Tchokni”
He was seeing another woman, a woman who was not his wife, which admittedly was a little disorienting. What was he gaining that wasn’t already given to him by me or the wife (the wife never called him daddy). He hadn’t replied to my texts in three days, and I was about to announce a fake pregnancy. Then she called.
Continue reading “Quarters by Meg Croley”
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