There were some things that Aliyah learned to live with, Neha’s death was one of them. She hadn’t shared it – the dying – with anyone else. She led everyone to believe that her death had been instant and painless. Especially the parents. Some consolation in the tragedy.
Continue reading “Blueberry Fields Forever by Anuradha Prasad”
It was the third cup of coffee that was to blame.
Here son, Haggis Supper.
“Cheers.”
“I want a kebab.”
Well fuck off to the kebab shop, I’ve told you, we only do suppers.
“Some fucking shop this is.”
Do you want anything else?
“Give me a packet of Gypsy Creams.”
I’ve ran out.
“Fuck this I’m going for a Chinky!”
Well off you fuck!
Continue reading “Scenes From An Ayrshire Chip Shop by Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
The Bannions, from every direction and for as many reasons, pushed things their way, until all targets or causes fit the one corridor of family wishes. The power and might of their numbers, of their attitudes and abilities, made them a most pernicious band of unity tight as closed fists already past the knock-out punch and on for the kill, no matter the added punishment often unneeded.
Leila admits that she found this piece a bit ‘gross’ but that it was also amusing and that made it worth a second look – have a read and see what you think:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – The Last Time I Saw Grampaw by Matthew Lyons”
Well here we are at Week 264.
First off I need to thank Diane for her excellent post of last week. She did a grand job. And you may not know this, but she removed three thousand and forty two profanities from her original draft. I thank her on behalf of all you sensitive souls.
‘Creep, my love, why don’t you photograph me?’
Creep took many photos. Creep had seen a lot of bodies. They were always scarred and twisted because all bodies, excepting those of new-born babies, are scarred and twisted. His models were dirty. Creep liked bohemian grit, the real, as he called it. He liked the street-rats best. He savoured dirt.
Continue reading “Arthur Rimbaud in New York by Cathleen Davies”
I’m on break when I get the call from Gram. I listen and nod along, pretending my heart isn’t seizing in my chest. “Keep me posted,” I tell her, and she sighs in exasperation.
As the town announced itself with quick clutter, Greg Mulraney downshifted the Taurus saying it was on its last legs. The floorboards were full of soft threats beneath his feet, metal edges outside and below catching air like a sword causes a draft, a whine, the engine hum hesitant as an offbeat tenor. He saw Pete Leon standing in front of the public house, drink in hand as usual, and thought, Pete looks the same, leathered, liquored, lean, handsome as the long day.
Near where I grew up there’s an abandoned quarry. For over a century bluestone was mined there. A deep open pit cut into the earth; steep walls of dark basalt criss-crossed by fine veins of quartz, caverns and sink holes and shelves of hard rock. Forty years ago the quarry stopped being profitable, so the mine owners turned off the pumps, removed the equipment that still worked, and let the ground water rise. Within a few months the quarry had turned into a lake. The rising tide submerged the void, and what was left behind was forgotten and drowned beneath the surface. The mining company planted some trees, put up a few picnic tables and walked away. Because of the height of the quarry walls on one side, the lake stood sheltered from the wind that whipped over the land, the skin of the water still and inviting, a dark blue pearl in an amphitheatre of stone.
literally stories 