Jennifer finished the last slice of defrosted quiche she’d bought from the freezer shop on Monday. She switched off the gas fire. In the kitchen she rinsed off the plate under the tap, pastry crumbs, and slotted it on the drying rack. She put on her coat, shoes, unlocked the back door, stepped outside, locked it, and walked the five minutes to the bus stop nearest her house.
Continue reading “The Circle Route by Paul Kimm”
Darla pulled into the alley behind the bar and parked under the streetlight. Before she undid her seatbelt she sat in silence for a moment. She adjusted her rearview mirror and looked at her bloodshot eyes, the rims rubbed red from blotting tears. Over the two weeks since Joe Harrington dropped dead, Darla struggled as much with the prospect of her own future as much as her loss. The same thoughts ran over and over thumping her mind like a shoe in a dryer. I’m 64, I have no retirement savings, no real family. I need to keep working but my knees hurt all the time. How long can I keep this up? Her tiny self-chosen family had just lost their most stable member; she had lost her best friend and former lover. She took a make-up bag from her purse and went to work on her eyes.
Continue reading “Joe Harrington’s Wake by JD Clapp”
Jimmy shut his curtains.
“That’s the Polis. Bitch must’ve got mail.”
“Whit?”
“Think about it Al, the only way that staff come near the rooms at this time is if they’re handing out our letters!
…I bet you it was shite too! They fuckin’ found her cause of some shite letter.”
Continue reading “Bonus by Hugh Cron (Warning – Adult Content.)”
After about seven months of being alone, Beth began to see the ghost of her son. Or so she thought. The audience knew better, but she didn’t.
The experiment had always been designed for Beth. It’s not everyday that a colleague’s child dies mysteriously, creating a rare opportunity for “Science.” She, of course, didn’t know this. She believed she had volunteered and won the opportunity fair and square. The opportunity? To stay in isolation for one year in a submarine on the ocean floor to test the viability of long-term survival in similar crafts. That’s how it was sold to her by the scientists, anyway.
Continue reading “What You See Is What You Get by Scott C. Thompson”
“Jimmy!” Grant whispered. He grabbed his sleeping brother’s shoulder and shook him. “Jimmy, wake up!”
Continue reading “Something’s Wrong with Mom by Warren Benedetto”
here we are just past October, or, Rocktober, as some of us like to call it. There’s something wonderfully reflective about that month (perhaps enhanced with an abundance of mini Three Musketeer Bars); and in such a mood I go all the way back to the Summer of 2016 for this Rocktober‘s rerun.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – When Planet’s Miss by Doug Hawley”
I did the Scottish translation thing a few weeks back and I had forgot to add in a certain phrase.
With these, some have some logic. For example,
‘Did you bring a piece’
Some of our friends in America would probably think we were asking if you had brought a gun, but no. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You see ‘A piece’ is actually a packed-lunch or a sandwich. The logic part is it comes from ‘A piece of bread and butter / cheese / jam / cheese and jam (A hidden delight I have mentioned before. It must be a red jam and it is even more delicious if the bread is toasted.)
Continue reading “Week 453 – FIENDALS (The spelling is for you Gwen), Eric Is A Legend And I Should Have Mentioned A Tattie Scone.”
Every bone in her body warned Ellie Snyder to turn Bertha Miller away at the door; still, she took the haggard woman in and brewed the tea, fragrant as a Balsam fir in December. Clay Miller’d already saddled her with five kids, and one more might just put Bertha in her grave. Only problem with saving the wretch was Bertha’s need to make confession—it was religion that’d trip her up. The woman was a walking apology, a sinner perpetually pleading for redemption. Ellie hoped to hell she’d confess to somebody other than her damn husband.
Continue reading “Tansy by Nancy Smith Harris”
The clap of sandals as I lick my fingers, chocolate gelato leaking onto my wrists. Should I Google heatstroke symptoms? A young woman lies topless on the rocks below, her stomach chalky with dried salt. I take a swig of lager, the bitter foam spilling onto my beard.
Continue reading “The American by Ata Zargarof”
Billy Bootle had loved music for as long as he could remember. He loved to sing along with tunes on the radio. He loved to sing with Grandma Bootle while she was baking, and whistle with Grandpa Bootle while he chopped wood. At school, Billy was the only child in his class who loved recorder lessons. Because of this, the other boys hated him. They hated him because he loved singing. They hated him because he loved books. They hated him because of his name, which they changed to Bootiful Bootle and scrawled in chalk on the playground walls with a drawing of a cross-eyed, buck-toothed, knock-kneed boy. Their hatred increased after the teacher, Miss Snafferty, asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. Billy told her he was going to be a singer. He was going to be a Rock Star. He was going to be famous.
Continue reading “Billy Best’s Mighty Metal by Sandra Arnold”
literally stories 