This spot is usually done very professionally. There have been clever references, puns and a wonderful summary of the week’s stories. That won’t happen here. Not because the stories aren’t wonderful, of course they are…Well Thursday’s was a bit dodgy but there you go. It is just that Mr Saturday has taken some time off. After he reads this, it might only be for a week!!
It was a tiny spot really, just a smear of grease. Possibly it was the remains of a little squashed fly, snuffed out in the middle of its existence, hmm, maybe. I tried to ignore it, I turned away but each time I passed it was there and it called to me, mocking me. Huh – you think you’re perfect well look you left a smear, you left the innards of a tiny creature daubed across the glass, spread over the shiny, newly cleaned window.
Transcript from Session 04 of 9/22/10
Patient: Mr. Gregory Wright
Age: 25
Sex: Male
Race: White
Condition: Severely distressed, recently involved in a traumatic event (accidental homicide)
Session Conducted by Dr. Harold Hill
Time Start: 2:59 PM
Shaken to the core, foundation rattled; defenses breached, exposed, weakened, bloodied. He did it. Him walking away.
That colored boy did it. He got her new 1962 Buick out of a tight spot. Assistance not requested or desired. Walked away on her thank you. Turned his back on her. Turned back to her. Yelled, “Hey!” and she turned, faced him. He took her face in his hands, not gently, and smashed his lips against hers, rough lips, chapped and hard; bruised her lips against her teeth. Drew blood and walked away.
Continue reading “True Love At Last by Frederick K. Foote – Adult Content”
I didn’t know, I had no idea, if I’d known I would never have opened the inbox.
I was just checking the emails, sorting out the junk, the ads and the spam, click, click, click. That was when I saw it, for the first time, the first message.
I am listening to Icelandic Electronica/House giants GusGus 2011 album Arabian Horse.
It makes me wonder.
About all sorts.
But nothing to do with Week 48 at Literally Stories, I hear you say?
Not literally hear. And no Arabian Horse doesn’t have anything to do with Week 48. And yes I concede musical references are an unimaginative standby for producing out of thin air suitable talking points by which to segue seamlessly into this, that or the other. And no I shouldn’t make a habit of beginning my sentences with conjunctions lest I be hauled into custody by the Grammar Police.
Which leads me to the weakest of weak links: serial grammar felony is not an accusation you could level at any of Week 48’s authors.
“At the end, all that’s left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never been able to throw anything away…” –Nicole Krauss.
~
“Don, you have to help me. I’m desperate. Isn’t there some drug I can take, or a therapy?”
Don’s longtime friend, a successful accountant named Avraham “Avi” Goldstein, asked the question of Donald E. Cashdollar, M.D., Ph.D., an eminent physician and researcher at the Brookline Center for Neurological Research. Cashdollar put his hand to his chin as though to reinforce his thinking in response to the question. As he did so, Cashdollar shifted ever so slightly, sinking deeper into Goldstein’s living room easy chair. “Careful, Don—“
This was before we all started worrying about skin cancer. If you got burnt early doors the rest of the holiday you’d slowly turn brown. It was a holiday rite of passage, something to anticipate and dread.
There’d been talk of a bloom of jellyfish what with the warmer waters. Colin was standing in the sea up to his knees poking at them with the sharp end of his metal spade. It’s easy to say with hindsight that there was something vindictive about the boy. You read people backwards, fill in the gaps, squeeze the facts to fit what the present throws up. I can’t help recalling what I saw in the boy, seeing him with a magnifying glass burning ants in the sunshine. He’d capture crane flies in a jam jar, seal the lid and watch them flap frantically against the glass before collapsing still and exhausted. Only then would he lift the lid and slowly pull off their wings and legs before rolling the body into a ball between his thumb and forefinger. Jim says that lots of kids did that sort of thing but you still wonder.
Continue reading “Before We Started Worrying by Martyn Clayton”
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.
