Author: literallystories2014

Short Fiction

Caves of the Gods, Heart of the Mountain by Tom Sheehan

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Puma-Dog, heavily burdened yet bound in belief, wondered about the inside of the mountain he was climbing, and the trail so old in the making that he could not begin to measure its age. Even the old chief and man of wisdom, One-Wing-Gone, told him the mountain was as old as the gods themselves. “They came as one before they became many,” he explained to Puma-Dog on the 13th celebration of all his moons. “One becomes many, to serve, to light the path, to push against darkness, to fill tribal history with heroes all going back to where they came from, from the Heart-of-the-Mountain, and to be served.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Flowers for a Wedding by Victoria Mei-ling Kerrigan

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One month after my mother’s funeral, Darian and I are buying flowers again. My brother Lloyd is getting married tomorrow. I lead us through Madison Square Park to Belle Amie, the flower shop my family frequents.

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General Fiction, Short Fiction

 Black Flowers by Michael Ventimiglia

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Being home hurts. It’s a subtle sort of pain that isn’t always obvious, but it’s always there just the same. The aching starts the moment I cross the state line and it won’t stop ’til I cross it back over. I guess that’s just the price of having a past, having to live with it.

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Short Fiction

The Magician of Sixth Avenue by Sam Mueller

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There are two types of nurses: the ones who believe in ghosts, and the ones who are lying.

We don’t talk about it much, especially now that the war is over. You can feel it more than see it when we’re together—a collective haunting, invisible guests at the dinner table. The conversations lulls and our gazes drift and we stare at strangers we’ve seen somewhere before. Was it the operating table? A hospital bed? The morgue?

You do this kind of thing for years and eventually everyone becomes a ghost of someone, somewhere. We don’t talk about it much.

But sometimes we get drunk.

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Short Fiction

No boy, no Tie by  R. P. Singletary

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Three months later and back into my routine, I returned to church. I noticed all the families at early service. Little girls with exquisite ribbons, little boys all about their first ties. My father couldn’t teach me how to tie a tie. He was dyslexic. I was left-handed. Charming, the pair of us. Unsuccess greeted us at every skinned knee of childhood. Laces. Did it matter whether on new or old shoes, no. Scouting badges for all kinds of knots and things? Well, we attempted all that! Every sport imaginable involving foot or paw, naw. The neck tie was the worst. Eventually, I’d give up or stammer off. Or he would. Often crying throughout. He’d stopped cursing at some point. Sometimes, I would start cussin’ at another point. Only for Mom to intervene. She said she had to pray: “No boy, no tie, no boy.” I promise I remember that prayer.

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Short Fiction

Sunday Whatever – An essay by Michel Bloor

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A Strange Stone with a Strange History. An Essay by Michael Bloor

One of the most striking exhibits in the National Museum of Scotland is an eight foot, two ton, twelve hundred year-old, intricately carved slab of sandstone – the Hilton of Cadboll Stone, a Pictish standing stone originally from Easter Ross, in the north of Scotland. The Picts left many such standing stones dotted across Scotland and, despite generations of scholarship, they remain in many respects a mysterious people.

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Short Fiction

Horse-collared by Tom Sheehan

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The great storm of 1822 hit greater Boston with swirling winds while Harriet Grant and her three children had left hours earlier to visit her sister in Lynnfield. The route she chose was through a wooded section with few houses en route. Edgar Grant didn’t begin to worry until the storm did not abate, its fury continuing with the wild winds laden with thick, heavy snow building up in a hurry.

If he went out there on his own, it would do little good if he too was caught asunder, unable to penetrate the thick fall, lose himself in such a massive undertaking. He knew he was caught between the good, the bad, and the actual horror of loss every which way he could imagine.

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Short Fiction

The Fall and Rise of Uncle Albert by David Rudd

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This is the strange story of my uncle, the writer Albert Palmerson, who died peacefully over fifteen years ago. I should put “peacefully” in scare quotes because Uncle Albert maintained that he died for the first time twelve years prior to this, and far less calmly.

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Short Fiction

The Hive by Rania Hellal

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When you read this, I will most likely be dead.

The night is biting and cold against my naked skin. The rope is impossibly tight around my ankles, set on digging its way down to the bone.

I am not sure anymore, what will kill me first;  The cold , the starved predators of the forest or my own people.

Now, before I tell you my story, I want you to know, that I am nothing like the terrible things  you might have heard about me.

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Short Fiction

The Unknown Writer by Douglas Robbins

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His studio apartment sits downtown. It’s late morning. He puts on blue jeans, a black T-shirt and sits in his writing chair, his only chair. With no socks on, he looks down at his yellowed toenails. He prints out his three completed manuscripts. He walks over and clears off the mahogany wood table he picked up cheap. It has served him for writing, eating, and mail. His futon mattress is only a few feet away. He moves the table into the center of the room scraping it along the floor.

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