She gave me the grandest name. Bardonneche. Lovely isn’t it. Didn’t suit me at all. Or not so’s you could see. Would suit me even less now, pruned up bag of bones that I am. But I wasn’t pretty even then. Mind you, neither was she. Pretty we were not.
She was Cleanthes, I was Bardonneche. We became a team.
Continue reading “Dimps by Geraint Jonathan”
I knew I shouldn’t have come to the tip on a Sunday, the queues are always massive. I should have come in the week, but I couldn’t be arsed. Yet another mistake I’ve made. Petrol is nearly empty as well, that’s another job I’ll have to do. Never fucking ends, does it?
Continue reading “Tip Run by Alex Kellet”
The dimness of the room was perfect for them both. That was how she loved it; the gentle light covered up the years that had become ingrained in her skin and the weariness in her eyes. He never asked for more light. Every Tuesday, he would drop by, say nothing, and leave a wad of money on the dresser.
Continue reading “The Silence by Rehanul Hoque”
Our boy is in trouble again. Belvin has done something. This time it is all over the news. The red drag of stoplights. “Why are we even going?” says Genie.
Continue reading “The Footnotes by Christopher Ananias”
My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
Continue reading “Where the Dead Live by Jennifer Maloney”
What is immoral is simply what we don’t want people to do. If anything is expeditious to us, of benefit, if it accords with our own plan, we will not only sanction but applaud what would otherwise outrage us.
Continue reading “Katrina by Richard Krause”
In the low light of early evening, Micki Gehl strolled along the path that ran from her house to the first of her three chicken coops, tossing scratch feed to her hens. Chickens were the love of her life. Their attention provided all the affection she needed and their eggs, along with the apples from her orchard, provided all the income she needed. An extensive garden supplied most of her food. She smiled a bit to herself; she truly enjoyed her life.
Continue reading “Good for the Garden by T.G. Roettiger”
“Why, oh, why Negro niece, do you sit there on the steps and cry?”
“Oh, woe is upon me and ruthlessly rides me because my father, your brother, my mother’s husband, has died. And our weeping is without end.”
“Ah, but your father was 80 and 10. It was about time for the old Negro’s story to end.”
“True, true, but he will be gone, his voice and presence will be missed, his words will be longed for, and his absence will leave a great emptiness.”
Continue reading “Immortality By Frederick K Foote”
This piece is a bit different and as we have come to expect from Dale it is fascinating and well informed. I had never heard of this piece of music but my instant reaction after reading this was to find it on Youtube and I can see exactly what the writer was saying. So here we have:
Moanin’ at Midnight Dale Williams Barrigar
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Moanin’ at Midnight Dale Williams Barrigar”
“Mama said the feathers are my psychosis,” Ava says. Her gaze drifts away from me, down toward the red and blue dancing lights. I edge closer along the ledge. “Your ambulance looks like a toy from up here.” She picks at scabs covering her arms, with blood-encrusted fingernails.
Continue reading “Fledgling by Tammy Komoff”
literally stories 