Author: literallystories2014

All Stories, General Fiction

The Butcher by Brandon Sharp

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The Damascus steel, fresh off eight sets of eight strokes at fifteen degrees against the diamond rod, meets no resistance when you turn it on yourself by accident.  Across the web of skin that spans forefinger and thumb, a line of blood appears and lengthens until the bright sting of pain arrives.  You place the boning knife to the side of your butcher block with a gasp that you hope the other cooks don’t hear.  You hold the cut to your mouth and when you remove it from between your lips, you pretend what you see is a gash in someone else’s flesh.

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All Stories, Short Fiction, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever: Tweedy on Reed an essay from Dale Williams Barrigar.

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“The dead don’t die.” – Jeff Tweedy

Whoever believes that a 58-year-old man can’t rock out any more hasn’t heard (or has heard and hasn’t understood) Jeff Tweedy’s new song “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter” from his 2025 triple album Twilight Override.

The symbolic title of this song alone is worth volumes as it encapsulates an American way of life, for good and ill, in five words.

Anything with Lou in it has to be great, or near-great, to justify the use of his name and this song is.

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All Stories, Historical

Manorial Roll by Ann Tlusty

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In Which are recorded Arguments and Misunderstandings among Neighbors and Subjects in the Village of Gebsattel in Middle Franconia during my Tenure as Bailiff, and how the Same were Adjudicated and Settled, as well as Other Matters requiring Punishment in the Stocks.

Beginning in the Year of Our Lord Christ’s Birth,

Anno 1574.

Erhard Wolffhardt, Bailiff in Gebsattel

(Excerpts)

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All Stories, General Fiction

Five Millimetres from the Rim by  Charlotte L. Sworn

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Maggie walked into the kitchen and flinched. Bert was in the kitchen. In her spot.

The clock chimed. Seven minutes before the day started. She teetered forward, shielding her eyes as the jumble of papers and pens on the kitchen table leapt out at her.

She gasped, hot tears stinging her eyes. Bert had desecrated her workspace.

“Good morning, darling,” Bert said, turning his head. “Tea will be ready in a minute.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

(Sleep)Walking London by Akio Lê

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For two months of Summer, I spent my midnights wandering the streets of London with a sleepwalking girl. It wasn’t voluntary, to be honest. I was on my way home one night after my shift as a street cleaner: the pavement was empty of pedestrians, roads empty of cars; the night shift staff stirred the dim lighting of the dining rooms with their exhausted silhouettes; tumbleweeds of Gregg’s wrappers flew past my peripheral; pigeons strolled mindlessly over the large tiles of Trafalgar Square pecking for bits of croissant between the cracks; rats drunk on Aperol spritz bin-hopped in a chorus of squeaks; waltzing flies cast flecks of shadows beneath a streetlamp.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Mr. Terrence by Rick Moss

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“Sorry?” The young man looks up from his reading.

“That a mystery?” the visitor says again. Odd for a July night, the tweed overcoat. It’s fraying at the cuffs, and stains, smudges on the one shoulder, soot all down that side, the extra long scarf rounding the throat then across his chest, wrapped like a royal sash, and beneath it a t-shirt, yellowed at the belly.

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All Stories, Fantasy

The Soul Counter  by Charles Sutphin

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The cross looked small from the back of the nave. Flanked by emblems of the Alpha and Omega, the Celtic Cross, called the Cross of Iona by the church fathers, appeared disfigured in the stained-glass light. Holling Krannert, statistician of the Second Presbyterian Church for more than fifty years, had a decision to make.  Having spent the night in a pew, meditating upon the sins of the world, he would decide the fate of the church—whether the building he loved and served so faithfully should live or die in flame.

                                                          

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All Stories, General Fiction

Boots and Cats by John Tregoning

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The music thumped up the stairs towards him in the queue. I’m way too old for this he thought, edging forwards. Much had changed since last time he had been to a night club; more remained the same. Ticket checked on his phone, driver’s license scanned. Why? No one in their right mind could possibly think he was 18, his age telling in the wrinkles on his face, the receding, greying hair, the middle-aged spread. But also in invisible ways: twinges, aches, sadness.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Short Fiction

Cup of Flour by Tim Boiteau

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Woke up to frosted window panes and frozen pipes. Marta and I made do with the gas stove, lighting it old school with matches against the hissing invisible stream. Water supply was low, but would last us a few days. The driveway had vanished beneath the white, with only the stitch of barbed wire fence to mark road from field. While I was attaching the snowplow blade to the truck, Marta called out from the house that Pam, our neighbor, wasn’t answering her phone.

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