Well here we go again and by fuck this might be random.
I loved when a kid who I worked with in the hostels used that word in a way that I had never heard.
Continue reading “Week 451 – Marvin / Scott – Which One Deserves The Plaudits, RETIRE!! – JUST FUCKING RETIRE!! And Rickie Bell’s Karaoke Extravaganza!”
The kid had this puffy bee-sting face I wanted to shove into the toilet bowl. I liked him as soon as he came, breathless and sweating, through the door. I liked him more when he offered me a cigarette.
Continue reading “The Clown and The Kid by Ashley Laughlin”
Ms. Almond, our reading teacher, emanated a gaunt pallor and an unfit constitution, and she eschewed the bad breath of old age. She did not seem quite at home in her old woman ways—her shock of gray hair, her stoic and sad eyes, pools of blue that had seen far too much of the world, her permanent wrinkles that spread out like fans from the corners of her eyes and lips. Her etched forehead that told a thousand youthful stories.
Continue reading “The Slow Guiding Drift of Identical Things by J Bradley Minnick[1]”
She keeps her eye on the clock while circling the room to peer over their shoulders. They’re working on collages, gluing items onto black construction paper—magazine clippings, pompoms, scraps of tissue paper and string.
Continue reading “Worthy by Sara Weiss”
The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues.
Our class lines up at the end of the court. The 20 meter pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. It’s that time of the year, again. I passed the stretching test handily––I like to tie my shoes standing up. Chin-ups and pull-ups I flunked, but it doesn’t matter. These results are for the state, not for a grade.
Continue reading “When Every Breath is a Blade”
After much madness here, poor vision, medical visits, bulb switching and light removal/replacements, securing the slanted rays of sun over my shoulder allowing those uses to spill across “Miles‘” pages, and a mind that neither attends reading for long stretches as it used to nor retains what it once was capable of, I have finally finished the reading of a fascinating book. “Mile’s” captivated me, the characters, the language, the new arc of a different story, another story and drama between people, but an arc having the same beginning and the same ending as many other arcs of my reading … life, lives, loves on the very planet, and resounding in daily sight.
Continue reading “Bill Adam’s Book, “Miles” (With Shan’t” (Shall not) by Tom Sheehan”
I had never heard of John Fante until I saw an interview taped with poet Charles Bukowki in the 1970s. Bukowski had enough ego to support a planet, and when asked his favorite writers he spoke his own name three times. But he then thought about it for a moment before delivering energetic and obviously heartfelt praise for author John Fante. The man he said was his only influence.
Continue reading “Auld Author John Fante by Leila”
The Caramel Apple Orchard
Although I will probably have another Saturday post closer to Halloween, it is on my mind now. And since all my other current ideas have the charm of razor bladed apples, I will go with the cheerier topic.
When I was growing up Halloween was mainly for kids, but over the years it has been taken over by The Failure to Launch Generation. I was one of those children who put next to no effort into a costume. I was goods oriented; people were giving out candy no matter how shoddy I looked. So I’d get one of those cheap witch masks (the kind that always got sweaty and smelled like a runny nose after about a half hour of wearing), don a dark blanket for a cape and carry a whisk broom, which inevitably went missing early. The sack was the important thing. And I took the biggest one I could find–usually a pillow case.
Continue reading “Week 450: Halloween Memories and Horror Heroes”
“Your mother’s batshit crazy,” said Sister Loretta
“Madam’s not from the Valley, poor dear,” explained Sister Carmel. “That’s the problem. Your mother’s not grounded like we are. My family has lived here forever.”
Sister Carmel selected a cupcake from my tray. She pointed the cupcake at an ancient and rudimentary clock, one of a dozen in the room where the sisters were awaiting their assignations with that evening’s clients.
Continue reading “Stopped Watch by Scott Pomfret”
And I’ve swallowed the pill only to have my friends bail and so I walk the streets alone.
I am a streetwalker.
I come across a hostel bar … backpackers, ‘Fuck it,’ I think ‘They’ll be up for a yarn.’
There is a staircase leading upward and so I climb and enter a bar full of chatter in a multitude of accents.
Continue reading “At My Feet by Michael Tyler”
literally stories 