The mirror folds in on itself. Images separate. At seven years of age I was drowning! It was simple as that. Water, water everywhere and not a drop I should drink. Cut the crap, I thought. It’s not funny. It was strange, my mind still working, conjuring images, associations, and the pressures coming to bear.
Continue reading “Rough Immersion by Tom Sheehan”
Leila has chosen a piece by an author who has been with us from the beginning and actually before that in the site where we all met. This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – A Charming Couple by Des Kelly”
And it is now Week 303.
Before I forget I need to let you all know that we are not stopping for Christmas. We will be posting stories all through.
The reason is quite simple, we are around ten weeks in advance and if we had stopped publishing that would have taken us over a three month waiting time which we don’t want. We would like to stay between eight and ten weeks if possible.
The only thing to be aware of is we may not be about as much as normal but if you submit or comment, then we will get around to answering and authorising.
Continue reading “Week 303 – The Leader Of The Rat-Pack, Three Barrels Is Minging And Popeye’s Obvious Love For Power Ballads.”
I didn’t think I would remember you.
I thought when the world changed I would change with it. And on the outside, at least, I did. Here I am, after all, in my Balenciaga coat and Jimmy Choos, striding along past ranks of fresh-built luxury apartments. Queen of the World. Only I made a mistake, top of my long, lifetime list, because inside I stayed the same. I remember how things were before. I remember every day of your life I was part of.
Bethany Frances Tate. My daughter.
Continue reading “Unfinished Business by Rose Banks”
I sterilize an empty room. Wipe away scents of lavender perfume and kisses. Curse kids speeding on golf carts, runners pushing limits, horns blaring.
Continue reading “Limits by Yashar Seyedbagheri”
The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
-Bob Dylan
You are alive to the moment—nothing more. And the moment is not alive to you. The shrunken path you walk, the fogbanks swirling around you, the overgrown forest that slows your stride offer neither cheer nor condolence. Rather they make you feel perishable, as though you have stumbled here in your sleep.
Continue reading “Strutting Hog by James Hanna”
“I want you to go out into the street today, Lionel, and stand there, for maybe an hour or so, then come back and tell me what you’ve seen. I want you to be real descriptive, make it all come alive. Don’t let me down because I’m really getting fed up sitting here, not even able to see a leaf on a tree. You’ve got your problems, but you still have your sight so please treasure it and share it with me.”
Continue reading “Counting Leaves by Tim Frank”
In the whole of Riverside Cemetery this was the one stone that had slipped its mooring, leaned not forward into the new millennium, but backward, into the one passed by mere years ago, as if saying it was tired of all the holding on. In one instant the scribed name was home with me: Dumont Pulsifier, an old pal from my neighborhood, but everybody, including his mother and his dead father while he was here, had called him “Scratch.”
Continue reading “Scratch by Tom Sheehan”
Leila has gone back quite a way with this one and singled out a long time friend of the site. David Henson has stuck with us for a long time and it’s great to see his work getting another moment in the sun. This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – The Bracelet by David Henson”
Well here we are at Week 302.
I find it interesting not just the state of mind that someone is in when they write but actually when they write.
Continue reading “Week 302 – Showaddywaddy, Yes Jesus Loves Me And Everyone Needs Some Bowakawa Pousse, Pousse.”
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