A black and green lamppost, tall with chipped paint, across from Bryant Park, in front of a classic brown and gold twelve storied building, the wind reeking of the park’s dead yellow grass, cigarette smoke, automobile exhaust and blood. Hanging from the lamppost is a half-skinned, large white male wearing only trousers, supported by ropes about his torso, legs and arms. In agony, still alive but barely. New York City is some kind of town these days. He will be dead in less than a day.
Ah, Saugus, the town I took to Korea many years ago, savored, brought back! Images strike here, deadly accurate in their mark. Metaphors, booted and buckled and loaded for bear, ride horseback through my town, holding forever in place. At times they ride roughshod or, taking a breath, saunter a bit, smelling new-cut hay over hill, or marsh grass caught up in light appreciation of salt about the air, all Atlantic talking.
Realization comes too. Times there were when our river was like an old man trying to get into bed, slow climb at banking, belt or pajamas astray, slight failures. Some springs, it would be caught up in flume’s rush.
Water talks, the sea, the river, the pond.
The town talks. It is heard.
Continue reading “The Story of My Hometown, Saugus, Massachusetts by Tom Sheehan”
“—As you know, the program uses a combination of advanced geometry and quantum computing to respond quickly to market shifts and improve the firm’s pricing of derivatives. It’s also been enormously helpful in the area of risk analysis—”
Sitting at his desk, listening to the young programmer speak, Matt shook his head slowly. As usual, he had no idea what the lanky quant was trying to tell him.
Leila has been doing some detective work this time, she knew what she wanted but not where it was stored. Nothing daunted she has found it and here is what she said.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Garuka – Please come back by Ogunyemi, Ernest O”
She looked at the baby, and wondered – is there something wrong with me?
She took in its ten little fingers and toes, the soft folds of fat around its upper legs, its arms, its wrists. The perfect little mouth. She had never known such softness. And she wondered – what kind of monster am I?
One more try. She widened her mouth, lifting the corners in the same way that they did, but it still didn’t look right. Something was off, she just couldn’t figure out what; the teeth perhaps? She closed her lips, but that just looked worse.
(Oh well, no time to perfect it now.)
She moved away from the mirror, put on her new coat (bought especially for the occasion) and squirmed. The shop attendant had claimed it was a perfect fit, but it felt tight and restrictive. The sleeves were itchy too. She took it off, put her old one on, and checked the address again before setting off.
“Step right up step right over, behind this curtain is the most fascinating farm animal you’ve ever witnessed.”
I didn’t buy it. Every carnie on the fairgrounds regurgitated that same hook, pointing around with their canes and blinding us with their red striped suits.
Continue reading “Bertha the Accordion Cow by Taylor Martin”
But First, A Word From “That” Noted Supernaturalist, Miss Renfield Stoker-Belle
Unlike you “real” guys, I, as a Fictional Character, am able to speak directly to my “Creator” (aka, the nom de plume called “Leila Allison”). There ain’t no praying involved, nor are there a bunch of “mysterious ways” to incorrectly interpret. No, my Creator isn’t the type of deity whose image might be gleaned from the strewn innards of a calzone. To put it plainly, we meet and I tell her how it’s going to be whenever she wants something from me. Such happened when Allison came around and muttered something about having me take over the Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical introductions on account of my having actually written a Feeble Fable and appearing as a “Supernaturalist” in past stories.
At long last Stardom! Right?
Today we have a story by our most prolific author. Regular readers will be fully aware of Mr Sheehan’s work he is also a gentleman, wonderful to work with and just an all round legend. This is what Leila had to say:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Beau Geste Murtaugh, Veteran of Wars by Tom Sheehan”
I maneuvre my Schwinn Ten-Speed Racer around all the established potholes, black ice and rotted roadkill that lay in my path. A mass of gray stony sky looms above, mirroring the stretch of road that lies before me. I have become too familiar with these two miles or so of bleak service road that connects North Edison to South, and more importantly, connects me to Durham Road and The Galaxy Diner. As I make my descent down the sloping asphalt, my bike begins to pick up startling speed, making the twenty-something air temperature feel more like forty-fucking below. I sit rigid and hyper-alert, letting the winds pound against me. Tears run down my cheeks and solidify into a salty paste that sting like hot wax on my skin. I tighten the drawstring of my hoodie and button the top button of my fleece-lined Lee corduroy jacket, momentarily navigating the bike with my knees. As I cruise through the turnpike underpass, I let out a strategically timed scream to hear the sound of my voice echo into the abyss, as if convincing myself and anything else with ears that I am, for the moment, still very much alive.
