Author: literallystories2014

All Stories, General Fiction

Remainders, Reminders by Bruce D Snyder

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Lyssum presses her fingers into her forehead, tries to push back the frown lines she can feel gathered like pleats behind her black round glasses. She scowls at the mail, grimaces at the news on her phone.  E-mail is worse, except for a funny note from her sister in Atlanta.  Catches herself, I’m the woman fed up with everything, she thinks. She drops her packages on the kitchen counter, a large garlic bulb rolls toward the sink; the green sheaf of parsley peeks damply from a sack. Lyssum sees herself reflected in the window: black hair pulled back severely and restrained with bands and clips, long dark clothes in layers set off by silver earrings and a pin. I look like a nun she thinks and pulls things loose so she can breathe.  

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All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

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Jane Houghton has been with the site for a long time now. Her work is always a delight and beautifully written. If you haven’t seen any of her stuff up to now just type her name into the search field and anything you choose will be a treat. her first piece – Walk on By will lead you to others in her catalogue.

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Short Fiction

Running on Snow by Bruce Snyder

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I trudged into the kitchen, pulled my socks up over my long johns, and grabbed the parka we keep by the door for outhouse trips in the middle of the night. When you’re freezing, half asleep, and unable to hold it anymore you don’t want to hunt around for a coat and boots. The weathered Sorels sat under the coat hooks, rubber soles peeling back from the leather uppers, the thick flannel inserts compressed and frayed from years of use. I tugged them on and braced for the cold.  

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All Stories, General Fiction

Also Henry by Tom Sheehan

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Jim Hedgerow was the boss of Riverbank Cemetery’s burial crew, and this morning he was scratching to make sure he had enough help to “open up” a few places for “quick deposit.” At 7:30 the sun had jumped overhead, birds had their choirs in practice, and he had seen hard evidence of overnight guests in among the trees and full foliage at the edge of the cemetery along Fiske Brook.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Reflection by Mason Yates

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—other news, after multiple years of delay, a final date is set for the first manned mission to Mars.  This October, seven astronauts will embark to the distant red planet in a great scientific journey, a monumental achievement to welcome society’s next great leap forward.  A better era—

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Short Fiction

Collar by Meg Woodward

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The water shivers as it splits open, winding from the west. The boat is cold, a cast iron carcass, sleeving through the deep-down weeds and choking fish and ash-sugar surface without a sound. The only sound is the slick of the horse’s tail, filched up by flies. Mist sits on the water like a layer of fat. The water smells of underground, of church stones.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Night the River Sang by Claire Massey

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Prelude: Native American legend has it that the Pascagoula tribe preferred death by drowning to lives of enslavement by their enemies. According to one “mist of time” story, men, women, and children were heard chanting to their ancestors while walking en masse into this Mississippi coastal river. Receptive listeners, recreating on these waters, have long reported phantom music. In 1985, historians successfully lobbied for a name change, from the Pascagoula to the Singing River.

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All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

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Okay, strap in. Today is the turn of our beloved editor. Hugh Cron. Hugh is a founder member of the site and has worked incredibly hard over the years keeping it together in spite of personal and professional challenges. His Saturday posts are legendary and his cannon of writing extensive and diverse. So, who is Hugh:

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General Fiction

That Time When Cole Almost Kissed Jane by August Miller

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“Alright alright, I gotta tell you about this time Cole almost kissed Jane. Cole’s a good guy, a bit of a fucking nerd if you ask me, but a good guy, an accountant at this firm, just a little one downtown. Doesn’t look like a whole lotta money flows through it. Cole usually parks like a half a block down. Sometimes, it’s really nice out, then I think he walks the whole way to work, something like 7 blocks maybe, but it’s got that shit intersection off State.”

“Right, hate that fucking intersection.”

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All Stories, Horror

Corbin Harrows Moroccan Rug by Reese Alexander

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I am bleeding out on Corbin Harrow’s million-dollar, Moroccan, cream-colored rug because he raped a child in 1983. The blood rushing out of the hole just above my right hip-bone runs down my leg and pools at the rug’s edge. The spirit of my mother suddenly possesses me then, and I turn my head to Corbin, frozen only feet from me—still holding the fire poker he’s just pulled out of my side—to tell him that if he acts now, he can still get the stain out. After all, it’s only on one corner.

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