Mamaw don’t want to lock you in a cage, but I got no choice,” she apologized to her wailing granddaughter as she extricated herself from the overwrought child, both covered in spittle, snot, and tears, an ectoplasm of bodily fluids. The child desperately reached for her, arms stretched, fingers twitching, head thrusting.
Continue reading “Caged by R H Nicholson”
Jimmy Comerton and I were given the task of tidying up the big shed at the back of the yard. It was a wet autumn day, ideal for the job. After the frenzy of the harvest, the shed was in a mess. Bales of hay and straw had been thrown higgledy-piggledly everywhere, some bursting out of their bindings in an untidy sprawl. Machinery and tools had been lackadaisically discarded in unlikely places. We had also been commissioned to prepare a makeshift pen for the lambing season – my father always tended to think ahead.
Continue reading “How the Captain Got his Garter by Ian Douglas Robertson”
“I’ll need his name, something of his, and payment upfront, of course,” I say. The young brunette sitting across from me forces a half smile.
“Of course,” she replies. “His name is,” She pauses and her lower lip trembles slightly. “His name was Theodore,” she corrects herself. She reaches into her Dior purse and pulls out a pair of cufflinks. She then pulls out a matching wallet and pauses. “You said cash only, right?” She inquires. She slides her Gucci sunglasses off to see better in the dim lighting. Even from across the table, her eyes look red and puffy, presumably from crying.
Continue reading “Swindled by Seth Bleuer”
That year, swan-operators were in short supply.
The work of a swan-operator is hard and unrewarding, apart from the admiration and praise, like other professions I shall refrain from mentioning. There’d been a falling off in applicants in the year before the great day. Recruitment was difficult. Working conditions are somewhat cramped and the hours are long. There are risks. It’s understandable.
Swans are designed, as isn’t obvious from their behaviour, primarily for flight. Air is, in fact, their best medium. Well, you’ve seen them in the air, right? Magnificent.
Continue reading “Three Swans by Alex Faulkner”
Alan had a presentiment of a Nelson Rockefeller Moment in Dorothy’s shower, so he chose the healthy granola option for breakfast, rather than a bacon roll. It was a rare, cold, bright, windless, January day. After he’d loaded the dishwasher, he decided to take a walk down to the shore.
Continue reading “Alan’s Lost Domain by Michael Bloor”
This was one of those pieces that we knew we should publish but it crossed a couple of genres. Fiction, essay and translation. So where better than a special Sunday spot. Ladies and Gents – we give you :-
The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – The Shoes Made of Soil by Georgia Xanthopoulou”
In the days after the accident, William was haunted by fragments of that morning: the screech of tires, the screams and sirens, Robby’s crumpled bike on the pavement.
Continue reading “The Haunting of William T. Jacobs by David Henson”
It was close to midnight and the diner was empty of customers when headlights swung into the parking lot. They whipped in fast, off the county highway and Dana heard the squeal of brakes on the gravel out front. She looked up from behind the counter and peered through the window. A man and a woman climbed out of a dark sedan. They looked to be in their mid to late forties and were bundled up in winter coats and mufflers, the woman carrying a big fancy leather purse.
Continue reading “To The Bone by John Whitehouse”
There’s a right clattering in the yard. Hold my breath and stand stock still. Then I turn round, put my eye to a crack in the door and I see a black van. One of them with sliding doors. And there’s that gold lettering. Swinford’s Tea and Coffee: Pure and Robust. My mouth’s sticky with thirst. Haven’t even thought of a drink of water, let alone tea. And there’s some bloke in a grey coat clambering out of it. Same colour as them clouds. Could be camouflage on a day like this. He’s a a tall bloke. One of them that stoops his neck when he walks. Takes his cap off. Looks like he’s lost. He has shiny, rusty coloured hair. Brylcreemed. Wipes his nose with back of his hand. I step out the door.
Continue reading “Spade by Andy Larter”
Like all great story-telling, John Lee Hooker’s “House Rent Boogie” can make you feel much better about yourself, if you’re willing to meet Hooker half way. In a country filled more and more with what Noam Chomsky calls the “precariat,” or economically disadvantaged folks who live paycheck to paycheck, dwelling to dwelling, meal to meal, buzz to buzz, never knowing, as Henry Miller put it, when the chair will be yanked out from under their rear ends, and they will be tossed out into the street again, Hooker’s “House Rent Boogie,” also known as “House Rent Blues,” can offer solace and encouragement to many of us. This kind of story-telling shows what story-telling is really for, which is helping the human species to make its way in this world while we struggle to survive our allotment of days here on the rapidly warming earth.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – House Rent Boogie – An essay by Dale Williams Barrigar”
literally stories 