All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

Well now – would you look at this. Our Whoever Author has now accumulated a full house. He has been featured in all four Sunday Specials. Who is this wonder you may ask – well I’ll tell you. It is none other than Mick Bloor. Wow Mick – Go you. If you haven’t read his stories – what the heck have you been doing. Go immediately and correct this error. Although, read the interview first!

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What topic(s) would you not take on?

I was going to say that I wouldn’t take on any topic that I knew nothing about: I couldn’t be bothered to do the research. But I realise it’s not quite true. I’ve written a couple of SF stories and a satanism story, each of them with no research at all, but they were just written for the jokes, comic stories not requiring realism or research.

How many friends and family ask how your writing is going?

My partner, Doreen (bless her), not only asks how it’s going, but requires printed and signed copies. Doreen apart, I have half a dozen old friends, all of them of about fifty years standing, who take a strong interest. That’s about it. But I’m sure my old dad would’ve read the stories if he was still alive – he was loyal to a fault.

What in your opinion is the best line you’ve written?

Without a doubt, it’s ‘Conceived in Sin, Born in Pain, a Life of Toil, and Inevitable Death.’ The line isn’t mine, it’s the title of a seventeenth century painting in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. I pinched it as the title of a piece, accepted by an editor (not LS, of course), who asked me very courteously if I’d could see my way to adopting a shorter title. I did.

Would you write what you would consider shite for money?

Only if my pension pot goes belly-up. To be serious, some of our very best authors have churned out shite to keep the wolf from the door, while they mined for the motherlode. I don’t think any the less of Treasure Island, Kidnapped, The Master of Ballantrae, and Weir of Hermiston because poor old Stevenson also churned out Catriona and St Ives. And I read somewhere that Scott Fitzgerald’s book royalties in the last year of his life were a total of $11. He spent his last years as an unsuccessful Hollywood scriptwriter, using most of his salary to pay his wife’s hospital bills, and in his spare time repeatedly re-writing the wonderful, already published but ignored, ‘Tender is the Night.’


Will you ever go Woke with your writing and use pronoun/non-descript characters and explore sensitive issues in an understanding and sensitive way?

Are you calling me insensitive, damn it?
I think pronoun/non-descript characters look a bit clunky on the page, though that may be due to my relative unfamiliarity. I can’t see myself submitting such a woke piece. But I do think a good rule for authors is that the editor is always right. So if an editor gave me a considered argument for making pronoun changes to a piece, I’d seriously consider it.
I write to amuse myself and, if it’s submitted, to entertain others. Can’t see myself exploring sensitivity.

Do you see something different in a mirror that others don’t see when they look at you?

Definitely, I’m now the spitting image of my grandad, who died sixty years ago. It’s a source of secret satisfaction: I was very fond of him.

The future – Bleak or hopeful?

Hopeful, but it looks to me like it’ll get worse before it gets better.

What would you like to like as you hate that you hate it?


Tricky. Please forgive a short digression. I’m not a big fan of Freud, but I reckon that what he wrote about ‘Projection’ was right on the money. In my late teens, I developed a near-murderous hatred for my university tutor. At some point, I realised that my hatred for that poisonous, mean-spirited, hypocritical poseur was so all-consuming that I’d become blithely tolerant of all the other sinners. As Neil Young put it: ‘Even Richard Nixon has got soul.’ The tutor died a couple of years ago, but I find that I can still successfully project my ill-wishes onto his snivelling, sneaking shade.
So, to return to the question, I’m afraid I really like all my hates.

Records? Tapes? Or CDs? And…

I transitioned from records, to tapes, to CDs. And stopped.

Would dogs be horrified to learn that people consider dogs to be their best friends?


Almost certainly they’d be horrified, also puzzled by our inconsistency in not going around sniffing their backsides. But of course we’re not talking about all people here: what about Roy Rogers and his faithful horse, Trigger? And I recall that, as a very small child, I was briefly enamoured of ants.

Thanks a million, LS editors! I was honoured to be asked and tickled pink to respond.

All Stories, General Fiction

Royal visit by Deborah Thwaites

The noise was like a loud noise but much louder. I jolted in my seat, sending a blur of cat scattering from my lap. Big Jemmy stayed put. His ears closed over after the great Stomp riots of ’97. He only hears blue now. His eyes remained fixed on the latest episode of Celebrity Death Camp Warden as the players moved in a grotesque mime.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Penny Loafers by Connor Beck

Crammed like rats, I drove our home, laden with trash, through much of the Midwest. While Mariane dreamt in the passenger seat, scrunching her half-asleep body into the shape of a ‘G.’ I could tell by the subtle way her breath swayed upon each crack in the road, she was dreaming of her.

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All Stories, Fantasy

A Bad Day for Death by Thurman Hart

When I walked into Helen Arbuckle’s room, I knew something was wrong. Her eyes were bright. She was watching television and smiling. She was alive. And I mean that in a way that the nearly-departed are not supposed to be alive. She was dying, for Hell’s sake. The least she could do is have the decency to look the part.

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Short Fiction

The Many Deaths of Neptune Gilderoy by Alex Sinclair

I was seven years old when I first tasted death.

My father Nehemiah had sent me down the pit so he would have some drinking money, and I cut my leg on a jagged sail of rusted metal as I made my way down a tunnel.

It sang its way through my undernourished leg meat and by the time I had finished the day’s work,(my father would not have tolerated me shirking from an honest day’s graft, regardless of severe wounds. He had Guinness to drink) my peeling dealer boot was filled to its sloshing brim with a hot soup of blood.

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Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – Saint Frances Everlasting by Leila Allison.

Our lovely editor Leila has worked incredibly hard at Reruns ever since we introduced the feature. In all that time she has chosen dozens of stories, written the blurb for them and produced interesting and amusing questions. I reckon it is Leila’s turn. Her cannon on the site is huge, and it’s impossible to pick one out as ‘better’ than the rest because they are all excellent. There is a vast range of genre and every one has something unique so this was not an easy task. The stories also come in little groups, each one a comment on a relationship, a gang or group of characters, fictionally fictional or just fictional 😊 (with a nod to Daisy Cloverleaf). As I was trying to choose one, I opened dozens, so I think my best advice would be for anyone reading this to just go to Leila’s pages and stroll through the treasures.

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Short Fiction

WEEK 444: Bug-Bird And Dreams

DREAMING

Many writers are influenced by their dreams and nightmares–or at least that is the claim. I don’t dispute the possibility but if I had to lean on my dreams for material my stuff would be sparse and even stranger. A fine example of such happened just the other night when I experienced a dream I call “Bug-Bird.” My mind was in a white page and just ahead skulked Bug-Bird. Half Moth, half Pigeon and clad in a flasher’s raincoat and wearing a fedora, I could only see Bug-Bird from behind. But I spied antennae through holes in his hat, tail feathers and Pigeon feet. Bug-Bird staggered forward and I was gaining on him (only a guy would dare be Bug-Bird). I recall wanting to tap him on the shoulder and have a look at Bug-Bird but that is when I woke, with the words Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird chanting in my mind by what might be called a “sulfurous chorus” of demon voices. Hardly bestseller material there–and perhaps the only way Bug-Bird can get into print is through something like this.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Jerry’s Last Problem by Jennifer Maloney

The Doctor is cleaning up Jerry’s mess, as usual. With a grunt, he bends, grabs the dead boy beneath the armpits and drags him toward the stairs. While the Doctor works, Jerry hides in an attic bedroom of their mind, eyes closed, fingers in his ears.

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