In the summer of 1997, when most men of his age were discovering the quiet dignity of cholesterol, Gopal Banerjee decided to make a perfume that would outlive death itself. Not metaphorically, he meant it quite literally. “Eternity,” he called it, though Calvin Klein had already used the name. Gopal didn’t mind; he believed trademarks were for those who lacked vision.
Continue reading “The Scent of Eternity by Susmita Mukherjee”
In a war-torn region of the Balkans. Esma weaved around the fly-blown corpse, hand-flipped out. Like she was a model on the runway. The other hand carried a bouquet of blue and yellow wildflowers held up to her face. She breathed in the fragrance like perfumed death.
Continue reading “Flowers for Esma by Christopher Ananias”
Andy put down the phone on his sister, though she was still sobbing intermittently. They’d already been talking for half an hour; he realised that there was no more comfort he could offer, til he saw her tomorrow at the undertakers. And he needed a break to process her news of their father’s death. So, booted and rain-proofed, he headed out the door for a familiar walk beside the river.
Continue reading “Beside the Dying Ash Tree by Michael Bloor”
Harry Pembroke, 67, a retired PE teacher came to London from Gobowen. It took him five hours to reach the capital; he had missed one of his connections. He felt really clever though when he arrived to his destination. He had paid for his tickets three months ago, used his National Railcard, and was able to save quite a lot of money with his advance booking: instead of £317 one way which he would have paid had he bought the tickets right before his trip at the station he had only paid £143 return. These numbers kept him warm and happy when he walked out of the train terminal into the cold November drizzle.
Continue reading “Happy Point by Sergey Bolmat”
She’s in the middle of the street – a blur, a twirl, of color, this woman with a boombox. She’s not safe behind barricades or idling in a car as the rest of us are. She wears no coat, no makeup, shielded only by her floral dress.
Continue reading “The Dancing Woman by Bradley J. Collins”
(An excerpt from Lights Out Lizzie)
Author’s Note
After joining Women of Wrestling, Gertie McDowell, a naïve Kentucky girl with a talent for misadventure, has been crowned the “champion of the world.” She acquired this title after taking on former “world champion,” Samoa Moa, and knocking her out with a head butt. Gertie did not do this out of malice but because Moa, a bitter behemoth of a woman, was wrestling too aggressively and has a history of injuring her opponents.
Leo Hawke, director and pitchman for World Wrestling Productions, is so impressed by Gertie’s “triumph” that he stages a rematch in Afghanistan for the entertainment of American troops. Prior to the match, Gertie and Moa are bunked in the women’s barracks where they attract new fans.
Continue reading “Fresh from Slaughtering Kittens by James Hanna”
Sounds burrow in, fill Walsh’s craving mind. The bus door opens, like a hospital emergency room. He lunges on board, his orange sash of the Buddhist colours close to his cheek, hiding the scratches and whiskers on his face. The bus driver doesn’t even flinch, hits the accelerator. “Their Union tells them don’t get involved,” Walsh thinks.
“This will be my healing ride. Over the bridge to the other side.”
Continue reading “The Orange Sash by Harrison Kim”
“No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.”
– Antonin Artaud, Van Gogh, the Man Suicided by Society
“We are all of us alone.” – Harold Bloom
“As long as I’m learning something, I figure I’m OK.”
– Hunter S. Thompson
“Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” – Harold Pinter
“NO EASY WAY TO BE FREE.” – The Who, “Slip Kid”
Warning to the Reader: The following essay will sometimes appear to jump and leap from thing to thing with no apparent reason. As in life, there is a reason, even if it isn’t apparent. While under the influence, the author believes this discontinuous form is a part of the modern condition. Thank you. – D.W.B.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – A True Tale of Stories Literally by Dale Wiliams Barrigar”
“I hate this fucking job!” Rob, the disgruntled night security guard, muttered to himself as he did his rounds in the empty department store.
Continue reading “Seasonal Angst: High Drama in the Diorama by Bud Pharo”
The sun is sunny—not thoroughly unpleasant—but not a sun for picnics with Mary Lou down on the Potomac. Mary Lou is dead and buried by some Godless creek in Kansas. Her cross will rot away. A weak hastily made thing of silver birch branches and binder twine. In a year, a month, a week? She will have no marker unless I can find it again. Find her under the creeks torrents of land-grabbing muddy currents and sulking floods. Find her under the black silt and plants rotting white and stinking. Carp flopping on her grave. Then the water washes over again- recedes- and pulls the entire bank and her into it. Best to leave the past in the past.
Continue reading “A Thousand Vultures by Christopher Ananias”
literally stories 