Well here we are at Week 265.
I looked back to see if there was anything interesting historically that had happened.
I saw that the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor died in 2011.
Ronnie Raygun also initiated ‘The Star Wars’ program.
And the first use of the abbreviation OK was used in America.
They were still breathing in small gasps. Sandra rolled over and squeezed his arm, perhaps a little more firmly than would normally be necessary.
“I go running in the morning at 4:30.” she said, “You might like to take off then.”
Her young acquaintance, eyes fixed on the ceiling, sighed.
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.
literally stories 