Time wastes the paint on our faces and ornaments. It roughens the once-smooth stone we were carved from. Yet behind the crumbling stone, we shine.
Our voices blend as we step from the wall, magic infusing our limbs and lighting our smiles. We sing the songs of ancient apsaras before us.
Continue reading “Apsaras’ Dance by Kelly Matsuura”
The congregation came to him in the merest tendrils of the dawn’s earliest and sickest light, the sky’s face the same faded blue of an overdose.
They came to him like faces in a fever dream, seeking answers as they always did. The preacher didn’t have them. He was looking for answers of his own. He was dope-sick after all, the slow crawl of heroin fidgeting in his collapsing veins as it made its retreat, making the marrow of his bones ache. His body was already begging for more liquid forgiveness, and there was the other issue that he needed to attend to, the issue that made his need all the more desperate, the issue that had marooned the preacher in the sleepless raft of his stiff bed with nothing but his anxious thoughts to sustain him.
Continue reading “Spite by Alex Sinclair”
One of the great benefits of the rerun feature is that it can keep a story alive. We often have a story as a rerun more than once–with a year or so between minimum. Such is the way it is with Four Bars by Hugh Cron. It is one of his very best and it is extremely intricate and personal and always worth visiting.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – 4 Bars by Hugh Cron”
Week 497 – Well who would have thought it!
Probably anyone who read last week’s Number 496!
Before I begin, I need to send some well deserved plaudits to our very own Leila. You see, the holy grail of the comments world is getting over thirty. A writer a while back managed thirty three. I wish I could remember what story it was Nik wrote that gave him a thirty odd. As far as I can remember, these are the only two who had managed to achieve this. But with Leila’s brilliant post last week, she has, up until now, amassed a mind-blowing forty four comments. (Probably more by the time this is published!) Between Leila and Tom Sheehan, they hold most site records.
Continue reading “Week 497 – Another For Leila, Like, Like…Like! And Plenty More Came.”
Ivan Mikhailovich Izbyakov stood statue still at the window overlooking the Motlawa River, his face a mask of benign tranquility. A ray of late afternoon sunshine cut through the parted blinds and bathed the small studio in a sultry golden light. He leaned against the windowsill and watched a flock of gulls hovering over the river, rising and falling in the wind as if on strings.
Continue reading “Swans of the Baltic by Conor Christofferson”
It’s dusk and Gail’s probably pitching a bitch by now anyway, so Carl stops down the street from their walk-up and takes a moment to examine his new sunburn in the lighted courtesy mirror. He can’t help smiling.
He’s poking his forehead with a finger after parking in the lot when Gail calls out through the bedroom window.
Continue reading “Did You Hear Me? By Mick Bennett”
I remember my niece best as a child: red hair, faded blue eyes, skinny arms and legs; her movements so fast and agile that I called her Rabbit. She was a rare soul. This became apparent when, at four years old, she entertained her parents by gently guiding their old cat, Charlie, towards their neighbor’s timid puppy. Her small hands coaxed them closer until they sniffed each other tentatively, her face brightening with a hopeful smile. But after that greeting, the cat lashed out with a paw, leaving behind a bloody cut and a whimpering dog.
Continue reading “Book of Condolences by Evan Parker”
The bubble gum is a large wad in my mouth. I chew it until it is soft and then produce a limp bubble between my lips. I suck it back in and start again, chewing and molding the gum between my teeth hoping for better results.
Continue reading “Good Girls and Goddesses by Rachel Sievers”
I only eat meat, what the kids nowadays call a carnivore diet. Out back of the house, I got a garden, but that’s for the wife and kids. I haven’t had a vegetable since I was thirteen years old, and for that, I blame my pops. Blame my mama for other things, like why I save every dollar I earn for booze and smokes and complain about the lights being left on in rooms nobody’s in. They’re the reason my two boys are running around with ripped jeans and holes in their shoes, why I got a woodstove instead of a furnace, and why I don’t allow pets under my roof, no matter how much the kids beg me.
Continue reading “This Sorrowful Home by Devin James Leonard”
A slightly different take on the auld author recommendation from Tom Sheehan who has written about a personal experience as a connection with this poet
Continue reading “Auld Author”
literally stories 