Tommy let his head rest back against the sand. It was hard, cold and wet. He knew that in the dunes further up it was softer but he couldn’t be bothered with the climb for the moment. The others seemed to have gone on without him, never mind, he could catch them later. He’d take a couple of minutes to rest here, nobody would mind surely and then he’d get back on the job.
My parents probably spoke Spanish to each other when they lived together. I don’t remember. Dad never learned English, and Mom stopped speaking Spanish after they separated. On the weekends with my dad, I only needed two words. Sí, Papi. I know he said terrible things about my mother. I couldn’t understand him, but I was sure that they were “bitch,” “whore,” and, when my future stepfather came along “gold digger.” When he would pause and look my way. I’d say the only Spanish I knew, Sí, Papi. When I was a kid, I said this to appease him. When I was a teenager, it was because I agreed.
I am reminded
That the pheno
That is NaNoWriMo
Gets under way shortly.
Right across the globe tens of thousands of fifty thousand-word novels, technically novellas — but let’s not quibble about terminology — will be written during the month of November.
For all those (Diane Dickson I mean you!) of a mathematically averse nature, look away now…
Convert those 50K words into Literally Stories short story fiction and that weighs in at the equivalent of at least 30 short stories or one short story per day.
Give or take a Drabble.
For someone who averages 500 words a week this is a tall order indeed therefore I am seeking an extension to the deadline from 30 November to 31 December.
2017.
Plan B is to give NaNoWriMo a miss this year and stick to casting my eye over the week’s goings-on here at LS; trying not to malign the accepted or natural order of days of the week according to the classical planets of Hellenistic astrology.
“Did you remember to leave water for Samson?”
My wife is like a teacher in the movies, the ones who make important announcements right when the bell has gone and kids are already mentally unplugged from the class and pushing through the doorway. She will tell me to turn right after we have passed the exit, or ask about the dog’s water when we are a mile from home.
“Yes, a giant bowl beside his little round bed.”
He understood how people could disappear, people had legs, people could run! But the house, the swimming pool, the Vergogna Phryne in marble and bronze…
He closed his eyes and was back.
He strolled out, past the variegated beds, past the vast sycamore and on down to the wooden jetty cut between river birch.
He stood at the water’s edge, breathing in breeze scented like warm skin. From the kitchen he could hear Sharon singing and mixing Long Island teas.
When he opened his eyes what he saw seemed less real.
John Burns, teacher of English for more than half a century at Saugus High School, close to a dozen miles north of Boston, stood in the near silence of a splendid morning beside his home atop the high ledge, looking down on the pond he had helped save. That other morning from early in his career came back as crisp as a knock at the door. He could hear the door opening. Into yesteryear he stepped:
“How many ways can you say it?”
John Burns pointed out the words he had printed in block letters on the blackboard for his sophomore English class. Central and Winter Street traffic was light at the edge of hearing, the sun did a mote dance on the windowsill. Outside, Saugus breathed the deep breaths of spring.
Continue reading “John and Andrew, Philanthropists by Tom Sheehan”
In a wee corner of the multiverse known only to the high command of the Illuminati and former cast members of ‘Allo ‘Allo, an errant ‘server’ has been playing havoc with the day-to-day behind-the-scenes running of Literally Stories.
Nothing to do with WordPress, we should add, which runs as smooth as a very smooth thing (apart from a faulty Facebook widget that needs the kiss of life.)
I digress.
Such old-fashioned methods of communication as carrier pigeon, cup and string and even email have been brought back into service. Nevertheless, the bandwagon rolls on and Week 45 is but a beautiful faded memory as Week 46 wins fresh admirers and so on and so forth…bringing us to Monday.
“Call to order – case number five hundred and thirty three.”
“Good morning, please state your name.”
Good morning, and welcome to Volume 12 of The Petrichor Instructional Film Set.
Today, we are going to discuss the subject of commerce. Do you know what commerce is? Have you ever used commerce before? Well, let’s find out together.
Jimmy is nine and three-quarters. He will be ten next January. Then he will be all grown up, but for now he is still happy to help Mother weed the plants, fetch Father his glass of lemonade at the end of the day, and play with his sister, Sally. Say “hello,” Jimmy. Say “hello,” Sally. Jimmy and Sally both say, “Hello.”
Continue reading “Commerce and You: A Petrichor Instructional Film by Daniel Finkel”
[The contentious and jealous Goddesses and Gods have not perished or retreated to on high or sunk into the depths. I see them hidden in the faces and places I call home.]
Don’t shake dat thing like dat. You give an old man a heart attack. You make a good man go bad. You widen a brother’s eyes, open his nose, scramble his brains and put steel in his dick. You just keep that jelly rolling. Yes, you do. May the Goddess have mercy and the Gods save my sorry soul.
literally stories 