Another one from Leila Allison and this time it is by lovely Tobias . This is what she said:
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Category: All Stories
A Hipster Apocalypse by Spoonage
I was looking out the window of my 3rd story deluxe apartment, the ceiling high windows the selling point of the hip, modern home. All the people below looked so different, yet eerily similar. Long hair, man buns, side shaves, and bright awful color streaks through their hair to match the dull plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Random Acts by Sarah Bolmarcich
Mr. Blake was very excited. His performance review was today, and he was looking forward to it. Whistling, he knotted his tie and inspected himself in the mirror. He thought he looked good. Solid, mature, but with a twinkle in his eye—a guy you’d like to have a beer with, because he seemed like he knew how to kick back.
A Poet’s Conversation by Tom Sheehan
This conversation is with old red wine that brings you, brother, out of surging daylight to fill the doorway like a mailman with a bad letter or telegram. Specters leap out of this old mixture, the blood of grape, the fine chalk it paints teeth with, a whole day of sunlight collared in a tumbler, a red sunset too far away to tell where. You went off to that sunset once, around the corner of the barn tipping toward its knees and Sam Parker’s garden paving the ripe earth all way to the Lovett house sitting white as a pepper-mint down the lane.
Evil is Afoot by Frederick K Foote
“Your limbs grow weary, and the inn’s still far. Rest here. No need to punish your faithful and pleading flesh. Rest a moment, only a moment, and then proceed with new vigor and greater speed.”
“Foul specter, hush, quiet your insinuations and temptations. The inn’s fifteen easy minutes on a good road, and dusk stirs; the sun lowers, and your kind will be about soon. Still, still, it’s too soon to vacate your gloomy tomb.”
Goods from the Far East by Christopher Eirkson
Potosí, Charcas, New Spain
1587
They call it Silver Mountain, but it has only brought misery to my people.
My head hurts. Kneeling, I plunge both arms into the pool of gray sludge, feeling for another lump of stone. My fingers close around a rock and I haul it out. A piece the size of an infant’s head. I know from overhearing the Spanish azoguero that after the bonding process with mercury, the silver in this rock is worth a small crate of porcelain. But I don’t know what porcelain is, except that it is some kind of platterware.
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Literally Reruns – Rounds by Hugh Cron
Leila Allison is indefatigable in her search for suggested re-runs and she has chosen a story by our editor Hugh for this week. This is what she said:
Week 228 – Shite Vampires, Brilliant Vampires And For All Politicians To Be ‘Finger Lickin’ Good!’
This is it guys, the big 228. It doesn’t mean much but I thought I would build it up!
I was inspired by Leila who commented on last Saturday’s posting.
Ghost Hats by Marco Etheridge
Grace Walsh stood on the platform of the train station, imagining the dead. The tracks and platforms of the Bahnhof were cut into a hillside. On the far side of the tracks, the earth was held back by a concrete wall fronted with rough concrete pillars. The wall was the height of two Irish women, more or less. A graveyard crowded the brink of the wall, almost spilling over onto the tracks below. Above the concrete edge, Grace could see headstones adorned with bright splotches of flowers. The Viennese tended their dead well. At least you could say that much for them.
The Novella of Jason Bendix by Penny Faircloth
Jason Bendix had finished writing his new novella the evening before. It was the first mature work that he had written. For nearly three years he had been trying to find his voice and to whet all artifice from his sentences. Thirteen, fourteen stories had been his apprentice work. First, he had written stories of two or three thousand words each. Then, he had managed a few five-thousand-word beasts of burden. The three ten-thousand worders had been monstrosities which cost him dearly.
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