Category: All Stories

All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever – The Killer -An Essay by Dale Willliam Barrigar

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          “Honey don’t walk out – I’m too drunk to follow.” – Tom Petty

Written on October 31, 2022, and later recovered from the files:

Jack Kerouac, from his position as a marginalized, criticized, and rejected American prophet, wrote about the “big American night, redder and darker all the time.” He noted that the night was “closing in,” and concluded that “there is no home.” In his song “The Waiting,” Tom Petty sings, or screams, at least four times, “Don’t let them get to you,” and, “Don’t let it get to you.” The prophetic shout of American rock and roll came to early and lasting perfection in one of Petty’s greatest heroes, Jerry Lee Lewis, “The Killer,” the best of them all.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Florian Is Totally Fine With This by Courtney Jean Day

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*Adult content*

‘Where did you say Mum is this weekend?’

Florian is stretched out on the sitting room sofa, feet up on the coffee table, laptop in its customary position. Affecting nonchalance, he keeps his eyes on the screen.

‘She’s off for a spa retreat, sweetheart.’

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All Stories, General Fiction

Days Off by Dylan Ng

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Do you ever feel stuck? Asleep at the wheel of your own life? Each day a motion, repeated to the point of mental RSI, a means to an end? You must surely know the feeling. The same papers passed over your desk. The same documents read on a dusty laptop screen. The same dull drum playing on the surface of your temples. And you think to yourself: surely this ends soon?

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All Stories, Fantasy

Wailing Guitar by Steve Sibra 

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I was barely thirteen when my big brother Jimmy came home from school with a wailing guitar.  We were two kids caught up in an ongoing dispute between our parents over things we could not really understand, and we feared they were going to split up and we would become casualties of a broken home.   As a byproduct of this trauma the two of us had bonded over a budding and mutual love of rock music.  Somehow our mutual interest in rock guitar music had given us something to hang onto as our parents became more and more involved in petty bickering and outright bursts of anger.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Like Lightning by Evangeline Golden

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It’s a fine day for a game. Though the sky is dreary– columns of smoke rise from the building above– the weather is just chilly enough to motivate us to stay moving, focused. We arrived at Mauthausen earlier this afternoon. One of the men had been waiting for us at the station. Our walk to the field was short, the town small but warm– comfortable. The people are nice here. The fuẞballfield is conveniently placed at the end of the main street– the bottom of the hill.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Rescue by Michelle Stoll

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I got the idea to resurrect Paul because eleven years had passed since we’d spoken, including the year he’d been dead, and I wanted to tie up loose ends. I never liked the way things with us ended. Exploded is a better term. I blamed him, even changed details of our story to make myself feel better when I told it. Now, I wanted to do better and set things straight.

When I say bring Paul back, I mean in a loving way. “Jesus wept,” is the shortest verse in the Bible. It’s just before he calls his friend, Lazarus, out of the tomb. Nobody called Lazarus a zombie that I know of. I think he was happy to be back. Maybe a little disoriented, but happy to see his friends and family. Although my history with the church was no love affair, I had a fondness for things like compassion and hope. Lazarus was a hopeful story, and I believe in second chances.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Sister’s Promise by Grace Lee

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The night before, my sister sobbed a waterfall into the sleeve of my silk pajamas. My own eyes are bone dry like the wooden roof we lay under. Rain hasn’t come in weeks and the tomato plants outside are decaying like autumn leaves crumbling to dust underfoot. The market was shut down weeks ago by Japanese men with eyes painted with malice.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Just Tired by Wayne Exton

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The port had the kind of heat that clung. It didn’t shine so much as settle — in the pavement cracks, the seams of café terraces, the folds of collars, behind the knees.

The air quivered above the cobbles like it was trying to rise but couldn’t find the strength.

From inside the arcade, David watched the light outside bleach everything to the same soft-edged white. Sunhats. Pigeons. The bone-pale wall of the farmacia.

The smell was a mix of sugar, oil, and the sea — sweet one second, briny the next. Somewhere nearby, a slushie machine whirred like it was dying slowly.

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