“Put ’em on t’ side,” Grandad croaked. He must have heard the kitchen door click open and shut.
He’d sent me to Mrs Byrne’s on the corner of Wightman Street for twenty Senior Service. “You can earn yer tea,” he said. “But mind I want change.” He gave me two half crowns. “Should be a bob.” He jabbed the stem of his briar at my face. “Think on.”
Continue reading “Sixty a Day Man by Andy Larter”
My friends had always been transparently envious of Molly, even if they weren’t verbalising this. But it was obvious.
Continue reading “My Unimaginary Friend by George Oliver”
Saudade: (n.) a nostalgic longing to be near to something or someone that is distant; the desire to be near again to what has been loved and then lost, “the love that remains.”
Continue reading “Just Give It Time by Matthew J. McKee”
This week our most published writer, Tom Sheehan presents a little thing that is not exactly a short story but is wonderful it its own right. Tom is a master of the craft and language and we hope you take the time this Sunday to let him speak to you.
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The Lady and the Lumberjack
Lottie Littlejohn had worked the lone general store in Clint Falls, Montana, by herself after her husband fell across the counter and died from a heart attack, no family near enough to help her, now approaching five long years at the task. And she never looked at a man out of the corners of her eyes, not with hope, interest or hunger of the tricky sort, two ways of getting together, her to him or him to her.
It all popped loose one day when a lumberjack, a regular monthly customer, Daniel Ranford, brawny across his shoulders, forearms and wrists carrying near-emblems of his trade, took an extra look at the lady behind the counter.
If ignition was ever spontaneous, this did the errand at hand, cracked open another door as though it came loose of hinges, or the last swing of an ax sharpened for the deed.
In a manual world, lamp lonely lit when necessary for late hours or the darkest of days, it was singular, open, a notion or an idea on the run and delivered as such. For a woodsman whose life and success were explosions of energy, the drop of a tree was not the final act of the deed but there came endless splitting of logs and succeeding piles of stove wood or construction lumber in a daily mix. Destination went in every direction, sundry routes, defined needs as demands chased his energies.
Ranford fired all barrels of his attention, and managed to slip in an extra visit to the store to move the concentration, Lottie wondering if he had lost a brace of supplies or let sourness make an extra invasion.
Lottie began to pay attention to her appearance, stayed with an attractive hair-do, changed her clothes as often as she could, do a last-minute fix when she saw him coming or figured he was due for a visit; all possibilities checked and doublechecked to her satisfaction, and, hopefully, his.
Both ends made improvements, the way they would look at each other, without saying a word out of sync, like love warming up to a noble task for a lumberjack or a store clerk. She marked one minor problem with gout on one of his knuckles, and the other was an ear for soft country music in an occasional recording he purchased, as if every other visit had worn the records out, down to the nub, or, if possible, down to the last lonely tear in his eyes. the soft music finding a soft heart. And Lottie noting changes and impacts from her observation on the one man now attracting her attention.
When Ranford spun loose a soft country song from memory, “When Love Makes the Mountain Taller,” Lottie was home with a new energy, herself near drawn down over the counter, her heart now wide open with remembrance of a known love that carried her for lovely years, wrapped her in its hunger, let the topic rush the richness of old thoughts, new advantages for old souls.
Life on the upswing; nothing else like it, for storekeeper free of the counter, lumberjack free of the forest. The world can turn around in the smallest sphere; love and hunger make the drawing, the pairing.
The Forest. 1995-Nov-07. Prince George, BC. 1805 hours.
Mom taught me the stories of our people, from the moon goddess, whose light enchanted the night, to the banshee, whose scream was an omen of death. She practiced the paganism and witchcraft she’d learned from Nana, who’d long since gone to be with Donn—Lord of the Dead.
Continue reading “Donn and the Mourning Moon by Brandon Nadeau”
The man carried the three-year-old boy on his shoulders hurriedly pointing out to him as they made their slow and winding way through a crowd of smiling faces, the large bonfire, nearly as tall as a church tower. They stood and watched with amazement a firework display burn and spark into a myriad of colours, exploding with a roar above their raised heads. A man, meanwhile, had shinned his way like a tailless monkey to the top of the bonfire and setting it ablaze shinned back down again. The fire crackled, building up like a silent volcano and sputtering sprouted high into the firmament with a sudden bright flash, prompting a round of applause from the enthusiastic audience gathered in the cobbled street. High up on his father’s shoulders, the oohs and aahs of the cheering crowd made the young boy feel uneasy and he stopped his ears, peering upwards at the blue sky now becoming home to rampant streamers of black smoke, blotting the soft colours of the landscape, and the growing flames frightened him.
Continue reading “Picture The Dead by John Cantwell”
After piling the paper bills from his last passenger and placing the square photograph of his wife on top of the money, the ferryman lights a match. He lowers it slowly, shaking. But just then a breeze blows out the flame, leaving nothing behind but a thin waft of smoke. There are no more matches, unfortunately. Now his hut—earthy, with a cot, a bucket, and a small shrine inside—feels emptier than ever.
Continue reading “Karass by Iván Brave”
Things really pick up at the fifteen-minute mark. Lionel Bottom, lead singer, is belting the chorus of “Baby Without Bottle.” He’s suffused in steamy shades of red and purple, highlighting the angularity of his spiky hair and turning his pasty skin pink. He holds the microphone like he’s choking it when he sings, “We are men we need no coddle / We’re like baby without bottle.” It’s a glorious crescendo, really marvelous, powerful stuff, exactly what The Scrum is all about. A crowd of five thousand worships the trio with bacchanalian ardor, yelling, dancing.
Continue reading “How I Made the Greatest Concert Movie of All Time by Adam Kaz”
I call my boss, whose texts I’ve been ignoring for days, and tell him I’m returning to work. He says not to bother. Serves me right. I’ve let everything go to hell since Arlene left. I vow to pull myself together. Tomorrow. I take a few diazepam and go to bed.
Continue reading “The Man Who Pulled Himself Together by David Henson”
Snow happens quietly in many places, often overnight, without drama. Pull back the curtains before sunrise and under the streetlamps a sulphur tinted fondant drapes over everything – the rows of Victorian terraced houses on either side of the street, the pavement, cars, wheelie bins, everything. Garden hedges and shrubs sit undisturbed, revealing dots of evergreen just visible through layers of cotton. Higher up, tree branches, recently bare and springy, now sag wearily as bits of fine powder dust off intermittently in the breeze.
Continue reading “Snow Happens by Eileen Emmanuel”
literally stories 