Welcome to 2025
In the technical sense, last week, at the conclusion of the Hellworld Hellweek run (by our six lovely writers), was Week 513. So, as we open this brave year of 2025, we will keep pace with ever fleet time the best we can. Thus, here we are at the end of week 514. A Happy New Year to All–and now on with the usual show.
Honesty
I am not an expert on anything, nor have I been educated much past high school (unless a few community college courses taken during the cocaine fueled 80’s account for anything). But I do and have read a wide variety of quality material and from doing so I’ve developed an Honesty Meter (aka, Horseshit Detector, for the franker, earthier element). Mainly a little voice will speak up when it has decided whether what I am reading is meant or not.
I’m for crummiest spelled, grammatically incorrect messes if they are honest; the foul ups can be corrected and are usually due to the newness of the writer. Slick, beautifully turned out Horseshit, however, as in insincere product aimed at a specific target with the Weasley pink paws of the politician all over it, cannot be fixed. Such things are odious and insulting.
A lot of this is a result of how honest you are willing to be about yourself in a public forum. For instance, whenever I’m feeling too happy for no good reason at all (which doesn’t happen much, but has), something from my past will drop by and ruin the moment and not go away until I thrash myself with a scourge made of shame. And I’m never at quits with this sort of thing because, as we all know, blackmailers always come back for more.
One recent visit involved a shitty memory about Mrs Estelle Holman, who lived in our building when I was a kid. She was born on New Year’s Eve 1899–the last day of the 1800’s–which means something that I will get to in a moment.
I was not a main character in the Estelle Holman Story. To me she was always Mrs. Holman and I’m not certain if she ever called me by name (or even knew it) during the four, maybe five years we lived in the same building. Mrs. Holman had only one star in her life–a son named Leon, who was born when she was well past forty. There had been a Mr. Holman, and maybe he was pleased that he finally was going to be a father after more than twenty years of marriage. But I doubt that he was much in the mood for passing out cigars when he learned that his son was a “Mongoloid.”
Mr. Holman was history long before I came along (“in heaven” claimed Leon); Mrs Holman was well into her sixties, which meant Leon had to be something like twenty–but as it goes with his affliction (if that is the right word), he was essentially ageless.
When I was young Mongolism was the scientific name for Down Syndrome. You can go on and on about the racism and rottenness there, but, really, proper names and gentle euphemisms– those verbal stool softeners–don’t change anything. No matter what label you applied, it still meant that Leon would never marry, have kids or live on his own. Although he was not at fault, those things and many more were swept off the table in utero. And in Leon’s case there was the undeniable fact that one aging life was all that stood between him and institutionalization. But for me, that sort of thinking was for late at night, on the ephemeral plane betwixt awareness and dreams–that philosophical place where windblown moonbeams coaxed the poet out of my ruthless soul. In the pitiless light of day, however, Leon was merely someone kids had to be nice to or else.
My rotten memory, the one that keeps coming back to extort more shame, does not involve being mean to Leon; but he’s in this story because the circumstance adds a further dimension of shame felt only by me. I was always nice to Leon even though I usually remembered business I had across the street if I saw him and his mother coming before they saw me.
Remember the thing about Mrs. Holman being born on New Year’s Eve 1899? Well, she was very proud of that. And she never passed up a chance to tell you about it. In retrospect I guess it was the only thing she had to call her own that didn’t involve the round the clock caring for her son. Anyway, I got mad at her once and muttered “So?” after she had shared her prize for at least the twentieth time (for some reason Leon was not around)–the hurt expression on her face made me angry, and instead of apologizing, I piled on–told her how she always said it and that nobody cared. I was thirteen, but I knew better, and for over fifty years I’ve wished I could somehow take it back. Alas, shitty little Lady MacBeth moments are impossible to wash off.
People should feel bad about the stuff we get wrong and leave that way. But forever is a bit extreme.
The old axiom write what you know should replace what with “how.” I grew up in a turbulent world in which my mother’s various boyfriends and husbands (of which she had six–two at the same time for about a week) said stuff like Hi, I’m a friend of your mom‘s–hope we can be friends too. That looks creepier in print than it was meant. Nothing evil came from it. Mom liked harmless older men. None of them had that low and mean light in their eyes. But they were “overlooked” people; victims of loneliness, poverty, and (almost always) alcoholism. My experience causes my Horseshit detector to ring loud and long when I meet another stereotypical Bad Dad in submissions. I have complained about Bad Dad before and always will. He’s a drunken, strappy-tee wearing lout who smells like Denison’s chili and bare-ass Camels; an insensitive bully with an NRA (nowadays MAGA) sticker on the bumper of his rusty pick-up. I know that there are people who look like that, but that’s the surface. Below lie causes and possibly even a human being who sometimes surfaces, confused by a world he still can not understand. Then again, tragic figures are what tragic figures do, and unless they have green eyes, they appear to be a dime a gross. Still, I believe that an honest writer should treat her/his creations with respect, even the black hats.
Honesty includes the low, yet it must have a sense of humor–even the darkest worlds have funny stuff in them–albeit these things are usually of the ironic flavor (on the day of Mom’s fifth marriage she was running behind. I told her not to worry about getting to the courthouse late, that like a bus, her next husband would be along in fifteen minutes. Not bad for a twelve year old. Instead of getting mad, she laughed and stole the joke ). Downbeat writers, who are at best fifty fifty to get through the day without threatening to pull a Sylvia Plath, tend to display no sense of humor. But as there are no completely good or bad people, a constant black tone defies logic.
And although it is a bit deep in the game, I close by wishing a Happy 125th Birthday to and for Estelle Holman, forever “Leon’s mother.” You were a decent person–even if it was forced on you. You really should have told me to fuck off.
The Change of the Guard
This week we closed out 2024 and opened 2025 with six fine bits of work. Six again, because Michael Bloor appeared on Sunday with A Deserted Painting. Mick’s work, whether it be fiction or reportage, is always top shelf–and in this one he offers the reader a chance to weigh in on a mystery that probably has no solution.
John Cunningham made his site debut on Monday, with Elvis is Alive and Well But…As we approach the King’s ninetieth birthday, we still have a decade of possibilities here. The National Enquirer gave up on Hitler still being around in South America when he was a hundred, so one thinks that Elvis will last even longer. John’s story is an intricate thing that winds up with a strange but satisfying conclusion.
Our second newcomer, Danielle Rhodes, located a common melancholy that is keenly felt by those of us who have lived extremely structured lives built around work and arrival/departure schedules–despite the occasional intrusion of blood. A Day Like Any Other closed out 2024 with the human touch. It remains inside all of us, no matter how much we are herded and robbed of our freedom to explore; even a random horror can feel “scheduled.”
Creatures For Meat by our third and final new contributor, Albert Rodriguez opened 2025 with a highly effective flash that grabs your attention and leaves you wanting more upon its conclusion. That is a highly desired result, and Albert won it easily. It was nice to open on a positive note.
Ted Gross returned with Alumni on Thursday. And although plenty of it is Ameri-centric, Ted’s wonderful flow invites readers from all over into this well built piece of work. It is hectic, amusing and well observed.
A true mix of sadness and joy arrived on Friday. Ed N White passed away late last year, but not before landing several stories with us; he has more to come this month, which will contribute to his ongoing legacy. Slither is indicative of Ed’s range, and proof that good writers do live on.
May that be said for us all.
Let’s have a hand for this week’s performers! Moreover, we encourage you to check out our Sunday features, which the likes of Dale W. Barrigar and Mick still contribute to with brilliance and scholarship. Maybe they will inspire you to try your hand at something other than fiction.
Now for the first list of the new year.
Confessions
I turned 66 yesterday; so I figured since this post is about honesty and all, I will confess to some sins and maybe get off various hooks–or at least enough to make a list. So, in no particular order (which means I will write them as I recall them), I hereby confess sins of varying quality.
1.) 1966: To my brother–Remember when you took the heat for breaking that window? Well, I not only broke it but set you up to take the fall. Actually, I still don’t feel bad about it, considering all the crap you pulled on me.
2.) 1968-69 school year: The smartest kid in my class used to sit beside me, one row to my right–within copying distance. Susan Sunderland. I copied her test answers at every possible opportunity; I knew that our teacher knew but was too hungover to give a rip. Don’t regret that one either–Still find math boring.
3.) 1970: Whacked a kid across the face with a willow switch. Dropped like he had been shot. All’s fair in kid fighting, but, sometimes, I went a bit far.
4.) 1972-74: Brief era of my shoplifting career. But rest assured, I only stole things I did not need.
5.) 1959-present: Actually I didn’t begin cussing until 1963 or so, but I’ve been a constant blasphemer since day one. Got busted saying Jesus H. Christ in kindergarten.
6.) 2010-ish: Got real tired of hearing about Sully Sullenberger’s heroics. Figures he’d be portrayed by Tom Hanks.
7.) 1985: Got mad at a friend who was a bit chubby and sensitive about it. Told her “You’re so jolly” after she had insulted me. Sort of regret it, but naaaaw, I really don’t
8.) 1989: I called out “Too mad” to come to work. Honesty is not always the best policy when it comes to keeping certain jobs.
9.) 1970 or 80-something: Once when I was out of stamps and too lazy to go to the post office (a constant circumstance), I sent a letter across town without a stamp. I placed the address I wanted it to go to as the return address. Old dodge, which saved me something like seventeen cents. But it worked. Defrauding the government isn’t as scary as it sounds.
10.) Recently: Told everyone at work that I will miss them upon my upcoming retirement.
Ah, confession is good for the soul, but it’s sweeter once the statute of limitations has passed.
Leila
literally stories 
Well, in my book that beats many posts on New Years Rosolutions – perhaps that’s the way to go – Old Crime Admissions. I can see how it could be good for the soul to get them out there. I’ll bet Mrs Holman mumbled evil thoughts about you and then completely forgot what you’d said. She had her pot well and truly filled with trials it seems to me. Thank heavens the attitudes and conclusions regarding people who have extra chromosones have changed but we live in the world we are in while we are there and can’t be blamed for that I don’t think. I was pretty wishy washy as a younger person – probably still am but there comes a time when you really don’t care. another great post – thank you and a Happy New Year, Happy Birthday and a very happy retirement when it arrives. dd
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Thank you Diane
One thing that does improve is our understanding of the way people are is a result of nature and not a heavenly judgment. I still recall alcoholism being a lack of character, homosexuality was considered mental illness and people such as Leon (fortunately not him specifically) were “sent away” to institutions that were likely underfunded hells. We show some hope in that regard, but I still revel in pinning the long ago broken shed window on my big brother.
Thank you again!
Leila
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Okay – okay – yes I’ve got a broken window story accompanied by a wee ‘untruth’ It was worse because the ‘bloke’ I blamed it on had a crush on me so he didn’t snitch. Sigh – sorry Mr mechanic from the garage next door.
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See, confession is good for the soul. But much better when you can put some years between you and the deed. I’m sure he understood 🙄
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Leila,
Happy B-day! Wow! This totally hooked me. From the “mongoloid” to this misdeed? Unfortunately, I have a few maggots wiggling back there too (maybe an entire dead ground hog on the road) to spoil any beautiful day. I once had a neighbor who was six foot ten. Sounds like a guy that’s also bullet proof, but he wasn’t. “M” was “retarded.” He took his share of the vicious small town abuse. And like the giant A-hole that I guess I may still really be, and trying not to be. I joined in with the other kids (usually my cousin) and ridiculed him, until M’s face would turn crimson and he would chase after us in a rage. I remember his gargantuan-size 16 Chuck Taylor’s slapping the street. I’m not sure we even realized we were in mortal danger or the true harm we caused. I can still hear those feet chasing me all these years later.
On another finer note: M won a gold medal in basketball in the Special Olympics and he got to stand eye to eye with Larry Bird. I was always impressed by this.
I like what you said about humor in writing a dark tale. I think that is so true even in the worst of times there’s a spot of irony and without it, those times would be unbearable. Maybe a story becomes the same without a “for your safety, there’s no standing” as the jetliner takes a header.
Christopher
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Hi Christopher
There’s nothing meaner than little kids. Still it is normal.
I am glad M got a great thing out of life.
I recall many, maybe all the parents of “slow” children, basically cramming Religion into the child’s mind. I guess that is okay as long as you remember that nothing creates harder to answer questions than the innocent mind.
Thank you again for your excellent comments. Oh and thank you for the happy birthday.
Leila
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Wonderful ♥️
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I find out Leila is just a kid. My grandparents, of whom I knew three maybe four were all born in the 1800s which is still the last century to this old man.
Leila’s life is much more exciting than mine. I can’t write about her kind of background because it would be so false. My family was much more Nelson than Manson, but there may have been recurrent depression among all of us of which I am the last survivor – Sister social worker sometime novelist died earlier this year.
With US politics what they are I’ll probably be playing “Staying Alive” a bunch this year.
Enough blubbering – Happy New Writing and Reading LS gang.
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Hi Doug
Most of my friends came from traditional homes. Funny thing, as soon as the kids left they would divorce. Happened a lot.
Wonder how Ward and June worked out?
Thank you as always!
Leila
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Hi Leila…
Me: Laughing hysterically. We share so many parallels. Same age, weirdly similar upbringings, shared locales, and now the Mongolism thang. My confession: I was about 14-ish. Our landlord’s son was one such, a sweet kid but loud as hell. One day the kid was bellowing on the sidewalk beneath our apartment. I gave an answering bellow, perfect in tone and tenor. My dad and his wife were horrified. Oh well. Maybe I felt bad about it at the time, but I doubt it. I was a fairly rotten kid.
All the best,
Marco
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Hi Marco
Something about that era and area created unique behavior. I love your “Dad and his wife.” It was the reverse here, hard to take “steps” seriously. What you did was funny until you get caught or grow up. I was a semi-rotten kid. My brother was too goody goody. Someone had to balance the ledger.
Thank you!
Leila
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Dear Leila
Your essay-post for today is so profound and human, it actually brought a tear to my eye at the end, before the confessions, and when you tell Mrs. Holman that she should have told you to F off. For some reason, this essay reminds me of two of the greatest Beatles songs: “Eleanor Rigby,” and “Let It Be.”
The humor and humanity in all your writing are both, truly, truly profound, literally at a Russian Chekhov, Dostoevsky, and-or Tolstoy level! I also love how your essays and fictions do not separate writing and life, life and writing. The best writing, even if it’s the most “removed” on the surface, comes from the writer’s soul, or it is less than nothing, or at least not the best by a long shot. And the more that the rest of the world continues to believe that computers and robots can and should do the writing for the human species (I recently saw an ad that said: “Let your AI companion help you write your emails”), the more the real, true, and human writers among us will become vastly important. You are a trail-blazer and a keeper of the light in that regard. That’s True Religion, the kind Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen spoke of, and Bob Dylan and Emmylou Harris still do speak of, far beyond all the churches, congregations, and creeds.
The Lady Macbeth reference was also brilliant, a fantastic bit of characterization as well as a universal commentary on the human species!
I also wish to be so bold as to put in a plug for Saragun Springs, your solo fiction-writing site. The brilliance continues over there as it does here on/in LS. It will come as no surprise to anyone who understands your work that its brilliance spills over into many avenues and channels.
Happy B-Day Leila!
Dale
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Hi Dale
Thanks for the plug!
My trouble with hurting people’s feelings came from my rough all out verbal knock down and drag outs with my mother. We both had the same edge and we didn’t let words hurt us. We were brutal.
An example:
Mom: ” If I knew you’d be like this I woulda had an abortion. ”
Me: “If I knew you were my mother I would have reached out and grabbed the nearest coat hanger.”
Despite the ugly nature of our words, we never got sensitive on each other. I tended to overlook the fact that most people had a lower tolerance for an acid tongue.
Thank you again!
Leila
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Leila
That is a hilarious sample of your and mom’s back and forth!! And I know what you mean, as the acid tongue runs in my blood (and family) as well.
Johnny Depp once said about HST that he could “reduce you to dust” in a few seconds, verbally. I think this kind of thing comes with the Territory we inhabit being born writers! And I know what it’s like to obsess about feeling guilty for tearing someone to shreds and leaving them in your wake as if they were dust. On the other hand, I know many who richly deserved what they got, and if I’m wrong about that it has already or will some day come back on me in Instant Karma fashion just like John Lennon said, so I’ll get mine when it’s time. (And one time I did get mine when the arresting officers placed me in handcuffs and then in a Cook County jail cell for 24 hours. The charge was Drunk and Disorderly and Noise Disturbance, and the tunes were Zeppelin and Neil Young if I remember correctly.)
Jesus had it right when he told his disciples, If they don’t listen to you, shake the dust off your feet and get the hell out of town!
D.
PS, For anyone who missed it the first time, I highly recommend your Saragun Springs site, another brilliant creation of the Shakespearean/Dickensian Authoress Leila Allison.
PPS,
I was just writing to Ananias about how good Tobias Wolff and Raymond Carver are, and they are both very, very good. You’re better than both of them combined, and that’s zero exaggeration. Your part of Washington State is a crowning cultural treasure trove for the US, and the world, and you are one of its gems. Another one was Theodore Roethke when he was there teaching the likes of Tess Gallagher, James Wright, Richard Hugo, and many others.
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Hi Dale
You are too good for my ego! But I happily accept it.
Looking forward to your post tomorrow morning!
Leila
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Oops forgot
I hope everyone drops in tomorrow for Dale’s latest Sunday essay. It’s another winner!
Leila
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Leila
Also wanted to add what a great idea the list of confessions is. All writers should be forced to make such lists on a regular basis and yours is a brave (and hilarious) example!
Dale
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A poignant post. A fine combination of hearfeltedness (is that a thing?) and humor. Long ago, I was going to write a short piece about “tiny failures.” But by the time I recalled several, they seemed to have the weight of one Big One, so I abandoned the project. I imagine most of us judge ourselves more harshly than others do. At least I hope so.
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Hi David
You are right and should write that. The silver lining about having guilty memories is that it means you are not a sociopath. I imagine that most politicians feel spotless about their pasts.
Happy 2025!
Leila
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Congratulations, Leila, on your birthday, your fine Saturday post, and your upcoming retirement. A pension is a wonderful, wonderful thing – you’ll have a ball. There’s a tradition in my family that, when I was a toddler, I was asked that standard question: ‘What are you going to do when you grow up?’ Apparently, I answered that that I’m going to be an Old Age Pensioner. Amazing perspicacity in one so young.
You post was a cracker in many ways. I laughed out-loud at your wit as a 12-year-old on your Mom’s wedding day. And the sadness of the Mrs Holman story demonstrated so well that nothing lasts longer than regret. (Though, you’re right that confession is good for the soul). And thanks for sharing that fantastic dodge on how to send a letter without a stamp – brilliant!
Mick
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Hi Mick
I love the term pensioner. Retiree sounds, I dunno, clinical. But pensioner has a ring of class.
I think my aptitude test should have recommended it. You knew what you liked early-I admire that!
Leila
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Leila
Honestly!
Was it Hemmingway said to start with one true sentence? I was at a conference once featuring Elizabeth Stroud, who said that she couldn’t define a true sentence, but knew one when she wrote one.
I also knew a writer who was told by an editor that he couldn’t publish her story, unless she put a ghost in it,. Which she did! Definitely an untrue story. Now, when in trouble, her protagonists fly like the wind and her characters perceive the future clairvoyantly when necessary.
Perhaps she is being true. You would have to ask her. — Gerry
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Hi Gerry
I bet her ghost was not that of a strappy-tee wearing Bad Dad with yellow teeth and the unmistakable reek of feet. A ghost drawn from experience and observations.
I believe that “This too shall pass” –according to Honest Abe, won the true sentence award, despite its evasive intent.
Thank you for coming by!
Leila
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Hi Leila,
Excellent as usual!!
Honesty in writing – I totally agree. We can all spot a misery by numbers!
Unfamiliar plots / circumstances etc, are a wee bit different. On occasions we have all mentioned that something is feasible and believable and whether or not the circumstances are correct is actually beside the point. The writer has done a cracking job in putting it across. They have researched until the cows have came home, checked out as many points of view as they could, never let their own thoughts bleed into the work and most importantly, listened to those who knew.
Any twat who writes about the most harrowing situations, the darkest of ‘humanity’, desperation and suffering needs to go where it takes them.
Dialogue such as,’Jolly Jeepers, we’re in a pickle.’ should cause the person who wrote it to have their fucking hands cut off. It’s dishonest and insulting.
Know your character. Know their circumstance and accept the outcome!
Ahh the old positive names for afflictions or should I say capabilities!!!
This reminds me how much I hate the word ‘poo’. You can wrap whatever you want in whatever way that you want but it won’t be anymore pleasant.
I think instead of overthinking all these terms and conditions, when we have no business doing so, we should simply call the person by their name!! What they want to categorise or ignore is completely up to them!!
Re – The lady and 1899 – I worked with a guy who answered the much used statement, ‘I’m ninety ??, you know.’ with, ‘Aye you look it. It won’t be long now!’
What age do we get to when it is a must for us to tell folks our specific age.
(Also what age does a man get to when he decides it’s a cracking idea to wear mustard coloured trousers??)
I volunteered to help folks with literacy, reading and numeracy. A cracking exercise was for them to write down something that they knew or were involved in. That way we could work on their own words that they were familiar with. I did advise however, for them never to sign the bottom unless they had stated that this was a work of fiction. It is to your advantage if you can separate story from confession!!
…So no confessions from me!!
Brilliant Leila and as always you have instigated a lot of fun.
Hugh
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Thank you Hugh
You make excellent further points on what does and does not work. Some people try to hide behind the literal meaning of “truth” because they do not know the value of truth as it pertains to creating stuff. The honest POV can be in anything, no matter how silly, but not always in factual stuff.
Thank you again!
Leila
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Superb. Funny & poignant. And Happy Birthday Leila – if (again) belatedly.
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Thank you Geraint!
Arrggg, now in the age of serious looking numbers. Used to be highly unlikely numbers given my various addictions, which I continue to do nothing about. I call it the Keith Richard Effect. No matter the gender or vice(s), some sinners live on and on and on to the vexation of medicine and the church.
Thanks again
Leila
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They do, Leila, yes. The postmortem carried out on 74 year old Thomas De Quincey revealed that, among other things, his “organs (had) received no damage from his prolonged opium eating – indeed being exceptionally sound”. Many worthies, saddened by news of his death, were made even sadder on hearing that. Very off-message.
Looking forward to further instalments.
Geraint
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Thank you Geraint
Must be something in the poppy that will prolong you as long as you do not OD. William Burroughs went well past 80 on enough methadone a day to drop an Ox and Alistair Crowley lived well beyond the mortal age of his time on tougher stuff. Mark Twain (according to him, of course) claimed that his dentist told him that tobacco was an excellent sealant for teeth (whatever that meant), but over cigars, of course. But I do believe that TB and alcoholism have not worked nearly so well for countless others.
Thank you!
Leila
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A really thought-provoking post Leila. For me too honesty is important in writing – not necessarily truth, but honesty, and I think what I mean is that honesty and genuineness should be in the writing itself and not only in the story. Of course, everyone has their own way of writing this, but for me, as long as it’s there, then that 99.99% of the time means good writing.
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Thank you Paul!
Yes honesty over truth–or belief in what’s true. Many smart and honest people used to believe the sun goes round the Earth. Arriving at the truth requires an honest journey.
Leila
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