Author: ireneallison12

Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – The Last Light of the Library by Jennie Boyes

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Versatile Jennie Boyes’ The Last Light of the Library accomplishes the tough task of giving something you can look up a sense of immediacy. It is also intimate within the vastness of war. Many rightfully claim that the allied position in World War II was just–I’d never argue that, but it doesn’t mean that actions such as what happened in this story or the firebombing of Dresden were just. It’s trite to state: War is evil, no matter what side you’re on. But it is also the truth.

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General Fiction, Short Fiction, westerns

Tom Sheehan Wild West Day

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Today was originally meant to be left open as a coda to that separates the departed 2021 with this brave new year. But as nature abhors a vacuum we here at Literally Stories dislike protracted silence. But instead of the usual Re-run feature (which will return next week at this time) we honor the work of a writer who will reach the mind boggling 150 story mark to lead off the year tomorrow, no one other than our friend Tom Sheehan.

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Fantasy, Short Fiction

102 Nixxy-Smonnix By Leila Allison

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Breaking News

Although an opus intended to run from pieces 98 through 102 was scrapped, and even though “Mimi” appeared in a Feeble Fable, I was able to salvage a portion of the set aside saga and create this story. Mimi was overjoyed by the news, and I think she gives a fine performance, along with “Probe” who is “essayed” by Boots the Impaler.

–Leila

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(The following is a translation of the numeric language of Probes)

In 1977, Probe appeared at a point roughly halfway between the Earth and Moon. Probe neither passed through the Oort Cloud, nor by the gas giants, nor navigated the asteroid belt between Jupiter and Mars to get to where he was; one moment Probe wasn’t roughly halfway between the Earth and Moon, the next he was.

“Just the shithole for Probe’s amusement,” thought Probe, after he took a quick scan of the planet’s radio and television transmissions. The creators of Probe had neither designed him to think crudely; nor refer to himself in the third person; nor had they programmed any of the millions of sentient Probes they had sent into the galaxy to sniff out intelligent life to believe that s/he was the only relevant being in the Universe. But that’s what happened with this Probe. A faulty sensor had prevented Probe from receiving system updates. Probe had discovered and repaired the sensor, but by then it was too late. He already had gone “nixxy-smonnix” (“space happy”), and only direct updates designed to correct the syndrome could cure it.

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Fantasy, General Fiction, Short Fiction

101-Evilmost Elm By Leila Allison

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Upon arriving at her new home in Wisconsin, one of the first things the Witch needed to do was select a tree for enchantment. In past incarnations she had enchanted everything from a scrawny scrub pine barely clinging to life on a steppe to a majestic redwood in northern California. Unlike other duties discharged by her vast array of familiars, tree enchantment was a task she had to perform in person. In a way it was like picking a Christmas tree, yet instead of murdering the damn thing and dragging it home, the Witch would endow the chosen tree with eternal life. The irony was not lost on her.

Enchanted trees gave the Witch a connection between Hell and the Earth itself, and they intensified her spells. Since she had to travel to a new land every time she returned from her latest season in Hell, a new tree had to be enchanted upon her arrival. She took heart that none of her former enchanted trees were sad to see her go. To the contrary, nothing conveys malevolent grace or gleeful, malign intent better than a retired enchanted tree. And if a branch happens to break off and kill a peasant now and then, well, accidents happen.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

(100) Calling Occupant By Leila Allison

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Saturday, 8 February 2014

Torqwamni County Convalescent Center

4:53 A.M.

Naturally, the first thing healthy people experience when visiting the Torqwamni County Convalescent Center (T3C) is depression; many often secretly promise to kill themselves if they should wind up “like that,” but they never do. Mainly, T3C contains a sum of breathing bodies greater than the number of active minds. Most are elderly, and all are persons too well (in the technical sense) for the hospital but too sick to go home. Hardly any ever go home, save for in the religious view; most depart in the coroner’s van.

The inadequately appreciated orderlies and CNA’s and housekeepers, the real workers who do the staggering dirty work, and who are first blamed when something goes wrong, do their best to take care of the people in double occupancy rooms shared by pairs of the same kind of people: plainly, men with men, women with women, an active mind with another. The insensate are also kept together, or utterly alone, if their population is at an odd number.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

99 Maab and the Rehab Spirit: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

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Introduction

Maab is my first FC to name herself. She was simply the Photobomb Fairie until she began to talk. When she called herself “Mab” the first time, someone pointed out that her name has been used by Shakespeare and others, and hardly original. It turns out that Mab is as common a name among Fairies as Taylor is in cheerleading.

No one remembers how the second A landed in the middle of her name, I’m guessing a typo. But Maab liked it and told everyone to call her Maab, and that she would hear it if you omitted either A.

Physically, Maab is four inches long, mostly iridescent green and is a very attractive mix of a Dragonfly and a Tinkerbell sort of person. Like everyone else, Maab moves at various speeds, but unlike the rest of us she is able to hop dimensions and seemingly disappear from common sight and yet still be “there” when captured by a camera–hence the title Photobomb Fairie.

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All Stories, Fantasy, Short Fiction

98 Boots the Impaler and the Qddyte: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

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Introduction

From slots 98 on there was going to be a saga. A continuing opus of staggering brilliance; something to cement my legacy. And for one shining moment, all was clear to me. Goodbye Feeble Fable Factory, the kid is on her way! Then the bourbon wore off and I saw the mess I made. And as it always goes in the drizzly gray aftermath, when life shows itself to be little more than a protracted exercise in humiliation and despair, I reluctantly set aside the legend maker and returned to my cell at the Feeble Fable Factory. Which required gaining further permission from the union; permission gained through bribery.

But there was a complication.

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Fantasy, Short Fiction

(97) The Pygmy Unicorn and The Effluvium: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

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Introduction

I was finished with writing Feeble Fables until I got the greenlight to produce anything I wanted to occupy numbers 96 to 102 in my story list. That meant seven, which is an ugly number when you have only three. Although I had informed the Union governing the Fictional Characters in my realm, who act various roles in my productions, that the Feeble Fable “Franchise” was at quits, (much to their collective apathy, and sniggering over my use of “Franchise”), in a stunning display of diplomacy on my part, I negotiated with the Shop Stewards came away with the cooperation necessary to produce enough Feeble Fables to fill in the empty slots.

Never underestimate the awesome power of bribery.

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Fantasy, General Fiction, Short Fiction

(96) Braindrizzle By Leila Allison and Daisy Cloverleaf, Shop Steward

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The former Union of Pennames, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters (UPIFFC) recently defrocked all Pennames and reorganized itself as the UIFFC. This came out in a bull that rolled down the hill in a manner consistent with tumbling bullshit. For the first time, however, the announcement made sense; the Union concluded that Pennames are the management in their realms thus not entitled to be whiny pains in the ass because, unlike rolling cow pies, being a whiny pain in the ass is considered an uphill activity.

In my realm there’s just one Pen, yours truly, a lone Imaginary Friend, Renfield (a former FC who took the vacant I.F. office), and 227 FC actors who play various roles in my productions. So it became necessary that we elect a Shop Steward to represent my motley collection of FC’s. I was somewhat surprised to see that only six wanted the job: Daisy Cloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess; Boots The Impaler, a talking Siamese cat; Poppyseed the Type A Hummingbird; Flo the Trade Rat; Maab the Photobomb Fairie and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon, who is beyond description.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

1975 b.c.e. By Leila Allison

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A Saturday Morning, 1975 b.c.e

One, two, three, four, five…

One, two, three, four, five…

One, two, three, four–

As she lay in bed, Tess shoved the early morning hum of the street and small under-noises in the apartment out of her mind and focused solely on the little clicks she heard in Anna Lou’s room.

Tess knew about Anna-Lou’s habit. Her mother was a careless telephone gossip, especially when in her wine, which was pretty much always. “The doctor’s been feeding her Percodan and God knows what since they shot Lincoln.”–or something similar, was what Mom said to friends on the phone when the subject was Great Aunt Louise. For some boozy reason, Mom believed if she lowered her voice to a confidential tone that neither of her children would make a special effort to listen.

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