‘I’ve read your tales of India,’ he said, as he sat in my study at Rottingdean, ‘so I thought you might like to hear my story.’
I’d answered a knock at my front door just as my study clock struck midday, and found the man standing on the doorstep. He had looked cold, and oddly distracted.
‘Can I help you?’ I’d asked.
‘My name is Jabez Carter,’ he’d told me. ‘I’ve come a long way to see you.’
Continue reading “The Visitor’s Tale (a ghost story, after Rudyard Kipling) by Robert V. Stapleton”
The air in Detective Dane Lloyd’s former office hung warm and heavy, like something already used. He glanced at the broken air-conditioner near the tiled ceiling and sighed. His headache was half from the heat and half the beer from last night’s celebrations. His own retirement party for crying out loud, but here he was again, all hands on deck since they called him in at five a.m.
Pearce soon came to realise sleeping on the beach was not as romantic as it seemed, especially when a chill breeze swept in off the sea. The moon above remained bright, piercing the unshielded eye. There was the roar of waves to contend with; the whipping wind that sent a spiral of sand into his face and the ever-present danger of discovery or robbery. A young man out at night presents a tempting target for those aiming to do harm. Not that Pearce encountered any; he was simply paranoid about the possibilities.
Once again Literally Stories was delighted to welcome three newcomers to the site this week.
Charles W. Bigelow, Frederick K Foote and Paul Griley.
Before I get to this week’s clutch of writers a small mention for tomorrow’s ‘In conversation with…’ slot, the second of which is entitled Tobias Haglund in conversation with Nik Eveleigh. A certain Mr. S. Crow puts in a guest appearance, too. Storming!
She had initially thought him a good enough guy, someone she could see dating, perhaps with long-term potential. Sure, they had drank too much and had sex on their first date, but it wasn’t like he drank too much and then masturbated while she watched in horror. No, she was a willing, although inebriated, partner in the act. An adult capable of her own decisions. And she thought his reply to her question of what is left if we have sex on the first night was incredible. Everything, he had said. Of course, later, when he had moved into her apartment four months into their relationship, that seemed a little fast in retrospect. But she hadn’t said no, and the decision had made at least financial sense. The rent at her apartment was a fraction of what he had been paying. Now they would be splitting her fraction. A bed monkey, and cheaper rent. She could overlook small issues, focusing instead on the big picture. Besides, she loved him. They were both adults, and could make their own adult decisions. And, importantly, he had two kids from his previous marriage, so he would understand her struggles raising her own son as a single parent. Then there was the fact that he had an actual career, a teacher in fact, he drove a new truck, and, she thought, they made a nice fit.
I live up off Sorrel Creek road in Gusty Hills. Its eighty acres of good pasture land on rolling hills with majestic Blue Oaks and plebeian scrub brush residing on gentle swells like green clad bosoms in the spring and tanned brown breasts in the fall.
I live in the house that my grandfather, father and I were born in. A solid Oak and Sugar Pine structure with redwood shingles and two stone fireplaces.
It is dark here, the floor is wet and the smell is dreadful. The window is barred and I can’t reach it to see out. There is nothing in this stone room, nothing except me and Alia.
The bars of the cage sparkled. Each morning the cleaning detail scrubbed them from outside the building using long handled brushes. A clean cage kept life threatening germs away from the inmates, the same germs that caused the near extinction of the human race.
Three new authors graced Literally Stories with their literary talent this week: Patty Somlo, dm gillis and Alex Rezdan.
Patty kicked things off on Monday with Dead, a wryly observed tale from beyond the grave. Richard Ardus commented: “I enjoyed reading this thought provoking piece. The Magic Realism twist makes it one to remember.”
On Tuesday Tobias Haglund’s tragic love story Before Hitting the Ground had June Griffin remarking: “It may be a sad story, Tobias, but it’s also beautiful, moving and memorable.”
Off the wall – anarchic – satirical or just plain funny – take your pick from any of those or read what Vic Smith had to say about Wireless by another LS newcomer, dm gillis: “Funny, witty, disturbing; this is great stuff. I love it.”
What I am about to tell you should come as no surprise; yet again Hugh Cron is worthy of his ‘dirty realism’ tag with this story of an apparently reformed alcoholic, in Revelation. Vic Smith agrees no doubt when he says: “Quality, not quantity. Not a bad idea. Who wants to live forever?”
Friday saw the third and final newcomer of the week to Literally Stories, Alex Rezdan. Alex might have won the prize for longest story title of the week with A New Perspective or That Time I was Allergic to Wussing Out but he will have to wait to this time next week to see if he has won the much-coveted accolade of Story of the Week. Diane Dickson seems keen on Alex chances as she says: “Very nicely constructed. An entertaining story with a perfect mix of humour and horror.”
A Dave who did poll well this week is Dave Louden. Not a soap box in sight in this week’s Story of the Week, Ultra-Belfast.
Super.
If you missed that contest never fear here’s another one.
There’s nothing like almost killing yourself to put things into perspective. The slow, dull lull of life seeping out of your body one drop at a time, and you, rushing to say all you need to say before it’s all over. And by you, I mean me, of course.
Continue reading “A New Perspective or That Time I Was Allergic to Wussing Out by Alex Rezdan”
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