Category: All Stories

All Stories, Editor Picks, Short Fiction

Week 362: A Brief History of Criticism and the Glorious Girl Groups of My Unsteady Jukebox

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Brief Introduction

Hugh graciously gave me three weeks off from this task. His latest inspired me to create today’s post .

A Brief History of Art Criticism

According to an ancient scroll in my possession, a splintered human-like skull of an ungodly age, found in a French cave, was none other than that of the art world’s first critic, Ug-Pierre. Ug-Pierre had shared his thoughts on the quality of Ug-Jean Luc’s (he being the first temperamental artiste) cave painting Mob, Antelope and Spears. In the challenged lingo of the prehistoric French, Ug-Pierre had opined that Ug-Jean’s effort made no use of the prehensile thumb, lacked proto-humanity and that the last hunter looked more like a pile of mammoth dung than a cave dweller. Since murder was still legal at that time, one has to wonder if Ug-Pierre was suicidal or just an uncommonly stupid cave dweller.

Fast forward several millennia, and we meet Arduth Rameses-Bey, who went to Pharaoh and claimed he could secure his highness’ legacy by building a bigger, better Sphinx. After emptying the treasury and relieving the population of thousands of its strongest members, the project was accomplished twenty years later. Unfortunately, at the grand opening, the most favored of the hundreds of Mrs. Pharaohs said, loudly, and to anyone who’d listen, that it looked more like a sphincter* than a Sphinx–and the only way to fix that was through a human sacrifice. Well, of course, someone had to die, and since that particular Mrs. Pharaoh was better connected, old Arduth Rameses-Bey (whom the aging Pharaoh owed money) was selected for the honor. Sadly, a small comet appeared and detonated over the crowd and the bigger, better Sphinx, obliterating all from history, save for the account in the ancient scroll in my possession.

(*Why yes, the ancient Egyption word was the same as ours. Hardly a coincidence on the level of the sun and moon appearing the same size because the sun is four-hundred times larger, yet four-hundred times farther away–but it rates.)

You’d be amazed by the stuff I have on my desk. Right now the only surviving entry from the hitherto unknown Shakespeare diary lies next to my Chromebook.

23 April 1601

“Dark regret hath cast a shadow on mine soul. Out offending whimsy! that caused me to teach Second Best Anne to read: ‘Wot is this “to be nor not to be” tripe, Will. Why can’t you be plain spoken like that Ben Jonson?’”

The cliche is true: “Everyone’s a critic.” But critics don’t need to be trolls. And yet some are downright nasty. The late Harold Bloom was a well respected literary critic, but the way he went to town on Stephen King after King’s inclusion in a secret writer society of some fancy stripe was flat out vicious. I used to never think much about critics, because I’ve never been the object of such in print. But nowadays, I realize the awful power of being in a place (however humble) where my word counts for something, as a yay or nay regarding the works of others. I’ve also discovered that the only thing worse than getting a rejection is sending one. I feel like I enter a room, uninvited, where someone is whistling and smiling, while I tick off the seconds before the person sees me and I say something that ends all innocent happiness.

Then again it might either concern you or confirm a suspicion to know that this so-called evaluator of other writers’ work just lit the wrong end of her cigarette and is struggling to drink coffee due to the recent installation of a device in her mouth designed to ease TMJ. Oh, no, with me submissions are not evaluated in a paneled study like those you see in movies–in this case think of a dimly lit room where the cats take turns yarking on the carpet. Still, I am certain that things are classier at both my colleagues’ work spaces.

A Brief Epiphany of the Soul

Wow! That feels better! Confession, however insincere, is good for the soul! Now I can get on with rejecting folks with the spotless heart of a sociopath! Thank you for listening!

Now For the Object of the Post

Yet it remains better to salute hard won success than it is to dwell on our own little personality issues, or say shitty stuff about the work of other people in public; so let us get on with this week’s recap of top notch tales.

This week’s authorship has a combined total of five site appearances. Yes, all the writers this week made his/her LS debut.

Victor Kreuiter opened the week with Family and Friends. This is as fine a story set on Death Row as I’ve ever read. The focus of the piece is brilliant; it proves there is much of the unexpected to still be expressed in the time honored tale of a condemned soul.

Natasha Dalley made her site debut with Suffocating Half Truths. We see a lot of pieces that attempt what Natasha accomplished beautifully. Stories that present a possibly imagined person that intrudes on a “real” person’s mind; a shadow personality who is real enough for the one who experiences, in this case, her.

Tripp Watson’s ironically titled The Devil in Detail is most definitely a case of OCD gone awry–to put it gently. What happens in the basement stays in the basement until the coast is clear. Evil fun.

Thursday saw the first appearance of Grace Larson on the site. Three Headed Monster is something that anyone who has a soul can relate to. It is the right way to present the affection we have for those much loved creatures in our lives who have horribly short life spans. Grace is young and talented, and a much better writer at her age than I was. I should hate her a little for that–instead I am grateful that the future of storytelling is in good hands.

Dead Socks Do Count by Salini Vineeth closed the classy week. This is a knowing look into the minds of children. Not all writers are able to carry the actual perceptions of childhood into adulthood. Most usually relate the current feelings they have toward an old situation–yet Salini nailed the way kids really are. Quirky and funny, I hope that everyone reading has had a peek under the lid–so to speak.

There we are, our five new authors. Let’s give each one the praise that is well earned. For maybe that will encourage each one to come back as well and often.

I close on yet another musical note, inspired by Hugh’s latest wrap, courtesy of my Unsteady Jukebox. My grandmother was a big fan of girl groups of the sixties. The recent passings of Ronnie Spector and Rosa Lee Hawkins of the Dixie Cups has put me in a nostalgic mood for those melodic ladies of yore. In closing I present my top nine girl group songs of a time that managed to get along without me. Naturally, a tenth spot is left open for suggestions.

  • Soldier Boy Shirelles
  • Walking in the Rain Ronettes
  • People Say Dixie Cups
  • My Boyfriend’s Back Angels
  • The Happening Supremes
  • He’s So Fine Chiffons
  • Heat Wave Martha and the Vandellas
  • Foolish Little Girl Shirelles
  • Be My Baby Ronettes

Leila

All Stories, General Fiction

Dead Socks Do Count by Salini Vineeth

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Chuk and Gek were fizzing with so much life that they soon got bored of their ‘dead uncle Nabokov.’ Neither the gilded mahogany casket nor the sombre people in black could hold their interest for long. Death wasn’t as exciting as they thought it would be. All uncle Nabokov did was just lay there, frowned upon by the people.

The previous morning, their Mama had woken up the twins from an entangled slumber. ‘Uncle Nabokov is dead!’ She announced, her face shimmering with happiness. Or was it just the morning sun? The whole day Mama had been in one of her good moods. She incessantly talked on the phone and didn’t smoke a single cigarette.

Whoever this ‘uncle Nabokov’ is, him dying is a good thing. Chuk and Gek thought to themselves. Being inseparable twins, they couldn’t often separate their conversations and collective thoughts.

The next day, they flew in an airplane (Chuk and Gek almost killing each other for the view). Just in an hour, they were at uncle Nabokov’s wake (whatever ‘wake’ meant). It puzzled them how Mama’s smile changed into tears as soon as they entered the funeral parlor. She stood staring into the half-open casket, dabbing her tears. They stood close to Mama, trying to ‘behave’ as she had instructed. Soon, they got distracted by the huge arrangement of carnations in a copper vase by the foot of the casket. Chuck counted the flowers, and Gek blabbered rubbish to get his numbers wrong. Chuck elbowed Gek, and Gek pinched him back. They finally managed to topple the vase with a clap of thunder. Everyone at the wake woke from their phones. Even uncle Nabokov stirred in his casket.

‘Go, sit on the chairs, and be quiet.’ Mama banished them from the receiving line.  The twins plodded towards the array of chairs at the back of the hall. Their mere walk was quite a show. In their oversized suits, they resembled circus clowns. The hem of Chuck’s shirt was hanging haphazardly outside his trousers, and Gek’s tie was almost undone. It was the first time they were wearing so much clothing, let alone suits. They didn’t care a dime about carrying themselves gracefully.

‘Let’s count the socks. If you count all the black socks, I will give you my bullet,’ Gek announced after being silent for two-minutes – the longest he had ever been after he started to speak. Chuk readily agreed. He began prowling between the rows of chairs, gently lifting the edge of people’s trousers. Hardly anyone noticed except when Chuck pulled too hard or tickled someone.

Mama didn’t notice their little adventure. She was too busy sobbing on the receiving line. She was taking a mental account of the riches her brother had left for her.

‘Thirty-six black socks,’ Chuck whispered to Gek.

‘No! Wrong. You won’t get my bullet,’

‘Cheating. cheating!’ Chuk jumped up, toppling a wooden chair.

‘No. You didn’t count uncle Nabokov’s socks,’ Gek declared.

‘He is dead,’

‘So what? Dead socks do count,’

‘How do you know?’ Chuck asked, his ears now growing red.

‘Because I am older,’ Gek said. That infuriated Chuck. How dare he say that! He pinched Gek’s plump forearm. It was something they always fought about. No one, including their Mama, knew which of them came out first. Chuck claimed it was him, and so did Gek.

‘Go, see what color socks he’s wearing,’ Gek flashed the metal casing of the bullet. He had managed to steal from a hunter who was Mama’s friend once (who made loud noises from the other room).

‘Count uncle Nabokov’s socks, or lose,’ Gek threatened. Mumbling, Chuck reluctantly walked over to the casket. He ignored Mama’s glaring eyes as he climbed onto a small wooden stool to get a better view of Uncle Nabokov. The casket lid was half-open, revealing uncle Nabokov’s made-to-order suit and a silk tie. He saw the rope marks around uncle Nabokov’s neck. The thick layer of foundation wasn’t doing a good job hiding it. Chuk stood next to the casket, pretending to be looking at uncle Nabokov’s face. His eyes scanned the lock on the lower half of the casket. The shiny golden lock seemed to be not too difficult to open. But people kept coming. They peeped into the casket in disgust.

No one really likes uncle Nabokov! Chuck realized. He found it sad. Death suddenly dawned upon him as a reality. Will Mama die? Will Gek die too? He heard that peculiar low whistle. It was a signal from Gek to hurry up. Chuk visualized the bullet and its shiny casing. He stood next to the casket, looking for the perfect opportunity. After a few minutes, he managed it. He flicked open the lower half of the casket. Standing on his toes, he glanced at uncle Nabokov’s legs – they weren’t there.

“No legs, no legs!” Still standing on the stool, Chuk announced. Mama let out a loud ‘huh.’ Everyone sprang up from their chairs and rushed to the casket. They crammed their heads into the lower half of it. There it was, uncle Nabokov’s six-foot-seven-inch frame, sans both legs. They were cut-off at the knee. Much to Chuck’s disappointment, Mama instantly fainted and stole the show.

‘Uncle Nabokov has no legs and no socks. The bullet, NOW!’ Chuck waded through the people and reached Gek.

‘Okay, you win,’ Gek brooded and handed over the bullet. If he knew that uncle Nabokov’s severed legs were really there, tucked away neatly under the lining of the casket, he wouldn’t have given up his prized procession.

The manager had arrived, pale like a paper. We couldn’t find a fitting casket for this giant of a man. We tried to bend his legs and but they were too stiff. Finally, we had to cut off the legs. But don’t worry, it’s all in there!

Chuck and Gek were pleased – death wasn’t a boring affair after all.

Salini Vineeth

Image: – Pixabay.com

All Stories, General Fiction

Three Headed Monster by Grace Larson

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Waking up is really a dreadful affair.

I think most people would agree, but allow me to elaborate. Waking up is really not so bad when you know you are coming awake, but you also know you are allowed to do it slowly. You turn over a few times, gradually renewing the sluggish flow of your veins. You yawn, your eyes still clinging to semi-darkness, and relish the delicious emptiness of your mind. There is nothing to clog it up yet. Then, after a time, you might decide to let your eyelids crack all the way open. This accomplished, you are pleasantly surprised to realize that it is warm, and sunny, and reasonably late. You lie on your side for a moment, watching the faint flutter of the curtain and the golden pool of light beneath it. You think you might roll over and go back to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge of a beautiful day outside, when you are suddenly forced upright, your nose quivering with the acuteness of a bloodhound.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

The Devil in Detail by Tripp Watson

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Robert Dunman held the final tile above mortar, and with a bead of sweat at his brow, pushed it in. The lines were clean and straight and the tiles were pristine. He rose with a grunt; one hand rested in the arch of his back. He remembered a recent review posted on his website.

Simply the best. No detail left unconsidered.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Suffocating Half Truths by Natasha Dalley

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Even with blurry eyes Kate could see it was just past six in the morning. She squeezed them shut, feeling hazy and warm like she did 134 days ago after her last briny vodka martini. Her stomach roiled as she smelled lilies. A few months ago, her husband, JJ, started with the flowers. He was up to at least three bouquets a week. Lovely at first, then morbid. She knew the lilies were white again even though he knew she preferred pink flowers and that she hated lilies. She slid her hand across the nightstand feeling around for her glasses, but they weren’t there. She laid her head on the pillow after she flipped it cool side up. She was alone.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Family and Friends by Victor Kreuiter

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When Hartmann asked for a cigarette the two guards sitting with him turned away. He laughed. “What the hell, you worryin’ about my health … today?” He kept his eyes on them, craning his neck just a bit, toying with them. He’d promised himself no fireworks. Nothing physical. Be a man. He’d always been a man … when he was eight, getting beat up by bullies … when he was twelve, getting slapped around by one of his mother’s boyfriends … when he was sixteen, getting punched by the guy who said he was his father. Why didn’t he get praise for being a man?

“Where’s Moody?” he asked.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Like Swatting a Fly  by Jon Beight

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I watch her as she gets out of her car carrying a plastic grocery bag. She heads to the back door off the kitchen. Entering quietly, she walks with a sort of weird mechanical stride to the kitchen table and sits down, never acknowledging I am there. She fishes out the pack of cigarettes she just bought along with milk and a scratcher.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Bit of Storytime by Shoshauna Shy – TRIGGER WARNING – Disturbing Adult Content

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Linny moves in upstairs to apartment 2B, so finally, Nadine, my wife’s kid has a buddy for first grade. I put out Coca Cola and Oreos when Linny comes down to watch cartoons with Nadine. Cook them bacon for supper when the wife goes to sisters in Paloma, leaving me in charge.  Nothing sweeter than the smell of Linny’s nape – like peppermint Chiclets, fabric softener and perspiration all rolled into one.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction, Short Fiction, Writing

Just Dad by Hugh Cron – Adult Content.

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“I’m no a bad guy.”

“I know.”

“But this. I need to do this?”

“What can I say?”

“And it’ll be you?”

“Yes.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Sketcher by Townsend Walker

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Jean-Claude loved women. He loved to draw them. At certain times, in certain places. He would position himself in a café at the bottom of a long flight of steps, say those leading down from Sacre Coeur. A location such as this was most promising in spring and summer. The way women’s skirts swayed at their knees. He remembered with great fondness the summer when fashion dictated women wear pleated skirts. His joy seeing the motion of the skirt against the statuary of the descending legs.

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