Well here we are at Week 317.
This week is like the old saying about buses. (For all the kids reading this – A bus is not your mum or dad giving you a lift somewhere, it is a big long vehicle that takes loads of you as long as you pay. Paying is when you give your own money to someone in exchange for items or services that you need / want)
I like to teach the youth of today – From a distance that is. I’d hate to do something radical like talk to the wee mutants. To be fair, I don’t think they can hold a conversation without typing it badly. I like to teach the youth of today – From a distance that is. I’d hate to do something radical like talk to the wee mutants. To be fair, I don’t think they can hold a conversation without typing it badly.
Apart from having no respect what-so-ever for snowflakes, royals, royalists, politicians, sensitives, spoilt wee bastards and the daft fuckers that procreated them, I would consider myself mannerable. I’ve been happy to be respectful to folks at work and to use ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam’ when talking to fuckstain customers. I did not call my managers ‘Wankbag-Fuckwits’ whether I thought them to be or not. I open doors mainly because I want the person closest to me to sod off. And I listen intently to people as I really don’t want to talk to them.
All joking aside, I am very mannerable. But the one thing I can’t get right is the standing when a lady enters the room. I always sort of miss-time this and I feel as if the moment has gone. They come in, I pause and then stand up and they think I’m leaving. Since they think that, I don’t want to disappoint so I go. That’s fucked up many a dinner date!
I’d hope that most of us have grown up with manners and when you have, it’s so difficult not to say please or thank you. If someone has really fucked you over and you’re not happy, you need to repeat to yourself, ‘Don’t say thanks, don’t say thanks, don’t say thanks…’
‘There we are sir, I know that you have waited an hour for your soup and yes my thumb is in your food, but don’t worry, it’s too cold to do me any harm.’
(Don’t say thanks, don’t say thanks, don’t say thanks…)
‘Thank you. (BASTARDDDDDD!!!!!!!)
The reason I mention manners is me and Diane had a ‘conversation’ about this the other day regarding submissions and what we expect. There are still some folks out there who don’t do themselves any favours. It’s so sad that in these days, there are still folks who don’t follow simple common courtesy.
And that has nothing to do with an unconscious need to oppress women as some fucking idiot who stated this on Social Media about opening a door for a lady. That guy needs to simply fuck off and spontaneously die. Jesus Christ!! What has the world come to where you can’t even open a door for ANYONE without it being scrutinised as some sort of biased / bigotry or oppression. Give me someone being unconsciously thoughtful instead of an absolute bell-end analysing and coming up with something that is just not there!!
– Oh back to the buses! Like the old saying – ‘You wait for ages and then two come along at the same time’ We have that going on as we have another Saturday Special!!!
I’ll come to that but I’ll get the review done and dusted first.
Onto this week’s stories.
We had three new writers, a fourth timer and a guy who has now become a part of that elite band of writers who are in double figures which means he’s joined the under three percent club.
Our topics this week include; an additive, a group, an icon, control and the craft.
As always our initial comments follow.
First up was Susan De Felice who has graced the site on three previous occasions.
‘Self-Made Grocer‘ was our starter of the week.
‘A bit grim…But there’s nothing wrong with that!’
‘The characters are very visible.’
‘Susan captured the feeling of their lives very well.’
On Tuesday we had Yash who has reached a milestone – Very few writers hit ten or over.
‘Time Enough‘ was next up.
‘This was so well done. You found yourself not liking the narrator.’
‘You did end up with some sympathy for him.’
‘I reckon he’ll end up sad and alone and in a house full of clocks.’
Three newbies in a row.
We welcome them all, hope that they have fun on the site and as always, we want to see more of their work.
‘I liked the idea of this.’
‘I don’t know how folks would feel if this was true.’
‘The idea of him in a pin striped suit in a bar in America is rather interesting.’
Our next new writer was someone who doesn’t seem to have been, if that makes any sense.
Monika R. Martin is one of our busy commentators. Now you are able to see what a skilled writer she is.
‘The Incident With The Knife‘ was her first story for us.
‘I liked where this went. There were no excuses, just acceptances and logical calm reasoning.’
‘Some very accomplished writing!’
And we finished off with our last first timer.
Gail Boling was published on Friday with, ‘One Last Act.’
‘I don’t normally enjoy this type, but I really did enjoy this.’
‘The story enthralled me to the end.’
‘The final scenario was one of many that it could’ve been. This one worked very well.’
That’s us for another week.
Usual reminders folks.
Comments make us smile.
No comments make us sad.
Folks who don’t comment and should make Jesus cry.
Now when asked who would want to make Jesus cry, Hitler said he would. But that was because Jesus had stolen Hitler’s pudding in the unit where they live. The reason that I know this was Napoleon told me so.
…And have a go at The Sunday Re-Run. Just pick an older story that you’ve enjoyed and write a spiel or an introduction. Throw in a few questions for the writer and we’ll publish exactly what you send us.
Okay, onto today’s special.
Anyone who has read this posting over the years will know that every now and then, we find something that we wouldn’t consider a traditional story but there is something in it that we want to share. (Type in Saturday Special on the search bar of the home page and have a look at them all. Every one is so different.)
This happened with ‘My Old Life Of Youth’ by Emily Dinova.
We both felt that this was such a brilliant build up and a wonderful piece of character description that the only fault we could find was that there was no more for us to read.
The quality of the prose is superb and the skill in piquing the readers interest is exceptional.
We would strongly suggest that Emily takes this away and adds to it. This could be easily developed into novel length, such is the strength of the characters.
It gives us great pleasure to introduce today’s Saturday Special:
An Old Life of Youth by Emily Dinova
He was an odd sort of man and she was a strange kind of woman.
Together, their laughter never stopped and screams of delight always struck from her vocal cords anytime he would quirk his brow and say something unfairly witty. She never forgot to wake him up with a hand-rolled joint accompanied by a mug of steaming black coffee. And he would massage her back and kiss her neck every night until falling asleep beneath the stars.
They lived removed, away from the bustle of city life and artificial lights. Both abhorred forced conversation and polite conventions. He was too inappropriate for the general public and her amusement over his antics only fueled the raucous and wild behavior that commenced each and every time they visited the mainland. However, when they were alone, lost amongst the forests of vivid green and rushing waters filled with limestone and life, there was a connection between them that required no words, no jokes. With nothing but peaceful calm and a hand to hold, they would adventure off into the unknown and explore the mystical.
Hardly ever sober, whether in a drug-induced haze of clarity or the fiery passion of hard spirits, they would learn new things about one another. The way she would sunbathe on the rocky banks of a rushing river would bring enlightenment of the artistic to his mind, and he, teaching her the history of the woods, full of secret gullies and echoing caverns.
Some would say the two were out of balance. She was air and he was fire, together their flames could burst open the sun. There was power in their touch, the way they were drawn to each other no matter the circumstance… whether they lay naked on a moonlit beach or dressed in black-tie at the opera, he was always touching her, and her body always leaning into his.
He was rough, rugged, aged by war and tragic loss. His hardness was only subdued by her soft love. She was empathy: emotional to the extreme and unable to feel less even at the expense of her own sanity. His dark humor and impulsive nature were matching of her own. They flowed together, in the dark and light no matter what sort of climb it might be, they grew together—the roots of his old soul and the blooms of her youthful essence blending to turn everything green.
Some thought it was crazy, his being so old and still so young at heart, tattooed and strong like some time-lost Viking, to acquire her, a rare sort of treasure thirty years younger with any man wishing for the chance to experience her free and open thinking.
But there was no other she wanted. There was no other that could compare. Boys had no experience on life matters, they could not compete with the man who gave her such laughter and pleasure and peace.
Hidden away from the world was where they remained, a small island only accessible by boat. Up in the foothills of ancient forests they resided, smoking the days away and finding beauty in every raindrop and heartbeat.
She hardly got dressed which made leaving his arms quite impossible. It was quiet and stormy, always teaming with nature. The air never felt so clean.
It was not their differences that brought them together, but the union of two souls who understood the distinction between what makes a life livable or unforgettable. They chose the latter in one another’s gazes and were reborn into a state of ethereal bliss.
Great post as always Hugh – several points had me laughing aloud but none so much as the idea of you like a jack-in-the-box when women enter the room. When we meet up I do hope the place has a revolving door – I could play for hours!!! dd