Author: literallystories2014

Short Fiction

Swing by A. Elizabeth Herting

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Be Aware this story has content that some readers may find upsetting

The swing squeaks and bucks high up into the sky, its ancient chains straining against the pull of gravity. The boy shoots his legs out violently, pumping them up as far as he possibly can before falling back hard onto the seat, enjoying the thrill of his body leaving the earth. Rusted metal poles rise up from the ground, wood chips and random debris scattering with every pass he makes. He can’t go any higher, yet keeps on trying, constantly testing his boundaries.

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Short Fiction

The Girl and the Crowd by Rania Hellal

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She wasn’t made for parties.

She hated crowded places as much as one hated death.

She just hated the idea of being surrounded by foreign bodies and stared at with a billion wandering pairs of eyes.

She could already hardly stand going to her work every morning and meeting her colleagues, who were far more talkative than she desired. She wished they weren’t.  She wasn’t one for small talk. She wished they had a clue. But of course, it wouldn’t be polite if she said something about it so she didn’t.

She usually got her way out of unnecessary conversations with brief smiles and nods until her interlocutors grew bored and let her be.

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Short Fiction

The Entrepreneur of Chaos by Harrison Kim      

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“All hail the long-dead coal baron and builder of our city!” Mayor Giovanni announced at the erection of Captain Rumsby Calvin’s fibreglass statue back in 1973, at the 100th anniversary of the mining development that changed our farming town of Satilano into an industrialized and prosperous mid-sized urban area.

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Short Fiction

Leaves by August Miller

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The spiced cool air blowing through the car vents comes laced with wood smoke. It is a scent that weaved its way into the fabric of childhood alongside that indoor fireplace, which had been a burning city, or a burning home, or a burning bridge, or any burning spectacle I felt should be extinguished during games of heroism in the autumn and winter months.

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Short Fiction

Open Window by Tim Frank

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Edmund’s wife, Wendy, had been unconscious in hospital for weeks, but no doctor could diagnose her illness so they discharged her to recover at home, with Edmund as her sole carer.

As Wendy lay still as a mannequin in her queen-sized bed, drawing in short imperceptible breaths, summer flooded in from the streets outside. Sun splashed through their bedroom window, as leaves on trees glowed a robust green, and birds danced on the tips of trembling boughs.

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Short Fiction

Beside Kam Salem by Adédoyin Àjàyí

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I had been dining in Ma Mabel’s bar for three months before I saw Bimpe. But nobody spoke about her. They all spoke about Ma Mabel. Yet it seemed no one knew her. Her bar was on Moloney Street, near the police academy. It wasn’t too far from my workplace in Marina. Everyone came to Old Ma Mabel’s bar. Different people, from various walks of life, Lagosians troubled with Lagosian problems – financial worries, overbearing bosses and cheating spouses, not to mention the long lines of traffic that lined Third Mainland Bridge every other day. No one knew Ma Mabel. Her bar had been near Kam Salem for longer than I remembered. Some of the patrons said she had died, others said she was an old woman confined to a wheelchair, and only came out of her house at night. She was elusive, a poor imitation to Fitzgerald’s Gatsby. I doubt she had Gatsby’s boundless charm though.

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Short Fiction

A Pebble at Dawn by J Bradley Minnick

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What most disturbed Ben Sykes about his present situation was how it had crept up on him: Ben had lost his home, his wife, and he had thrown away his job. He wasn’t able to say which one thing brought him to this—the world was certainly a more complex and complicated place than placing blame on one thing. If it wasn’t for his ex-mother-in-law, Mrs. Edna Ferbish, allowing Ben to stay with her, well.

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Short Fiction

As Ever, the Nun by Antony Osgood

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To some, hindsight proves a faithful if fashionably late companion. Though it often offers questionable advice, reflexion is more tolerant than people, each of whom seems keen to speak of subtle feelings Chas rarely recognises. His, ‘I’m just angry’ stock response fails to satisfy those in search of his finer feelings.

‘Sad–’

‘No space for sadness when you’re angry.’

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Short Fiction

Storm Clouds by James Bates

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I’ve had a problem controlling my temper my entire life. It started when I was young. If I didn’t get my way there’d be hell to pay. I used to get into a lot of fights. A few times I even ended up in the hospital. And that all happened before I got out of grade school. Fortunately, over time, I was able to change. What happened? I wish I could say that I had a simple answer or a magic formula, but it really just came down to wanting to do more with my life than spending it being a pugilistic jerk who settled his arguments with his fists. At least I never used a gun.

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