Every woman was best dressed, shining, and swanlike in elegance when Wayne married Lydia in April. The men wore linen shirts with canvas texture, and high-waisted pants, giving the appearance of something strong, something of the fighter or the ballroom dancer. George wore trainers and loose slacks in a vain hope of comfort.
Continue reading “Shame by Mechant Deaux”
Phineas Ford was an astronomer of remarkable skill and vision. He was also a bachelor with meticulous habits from which he never wavered. For breakfast, he always ate a soft-boiled egg and two pieces of lightly-buttered toast. For lunch, he routinely devoured a cucumber sandwich and six potato chips. At precisely three p.m. each afternoon, he took his exercise, which consisted of a three-lap stroll around a local park—never more nor less. His dinner always consisted of corned beef and cabbage with bread pudding for dessert, and on Sunday he permitted himself a single glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. At precisely six p.m. each evening, he watched two episodes of Downton Abbey, and when he had finished the series, he watched it over again. At exactly ten p.m., Phineas retired to his bed, but not before reading a chapter of Anna Karenina while puffing on his pipe. He had read Anna Karenina fifty times because he never read anything else, and the book was so worn from handling that the pages were falling out. When his housekeeper one day asked him why he never changed his routine, he said, “You can’t improve on perfection, kiddo, so why would I bother to try?”
Continue reading “Putting the Galaxies in Their Place by James Hanna”
(Editors’ note: Happy Easter to everyone. And we thank Daniel for forgiving us (me) for misplacing his accepted story, which we are pleased to run today–LA)
The funeral is held in a large generation-spanning cemetery, with manicured lawns and polished granite headstones for the average, marble for the more-than-so, and pieces of nondescript rock hastily and carelessly inscribed for those who thought someone important enough for a marker, but not enough to break the bank.
Continue reading ” Eulogy by Daniel R. Snyder”
Crossing the city for a night shift was the last thing Luna wanted to do. The temperature was dropping, and a biting wind whipped through the dark streets, driving a fierce snowstorm, turning pavements white. Luna huddled in the broken shelter, but the bus- always late- was nowhere in sight.
Continue reading “Lions in Winter by Neil James”
‘Andrew, we need to talk.’
Andrew pauses for a moment, glaring at the torn Skinny Puppy poster he has taped to the inside of his locker. He feels like complete and total ass. He’d been up much too late the night before, doing bong hit after bong hit alone in his room, studying The Anarchist’s Cookbook in confused fascination. Just think of it – kablooe! He’d set it off in the Headley-Royce parking lot where the school royalty congregates, sitting on the hoods of their sixteenth-birthday Mercedes, sneering down at him as he trudges up the hill from the bus stop.
Continue reading “The Accident by Courtney Jean Day”
The kid sneaks in here every day, which is crazy because I’ve done my best to keep him out of my store. It wouldn’t be the first time a guitar, fiddle or banjo walked off. Kid likes to slide in while I’m with a customer talking trade or repair, head straight for the vintage instruments in the back room, get down the 1924 Gibson A-4 and start messing around.
Continue reading “McKenzie and Sons by Ed Davis”
An autumn evening, 1950
Along the Grand River, Ontario, Canada
Yes, sir, she’s a mighty fine mansion. And an unusual style for this neck of the woods. Looks a bit like a bank to me with that porch and pillars. The first owner built her back in 1845. She doesn’t get the attention she deserves these days. You can see that by the peeling paint and the boarded-up window. The brothers don’t live here full time now, but they do come down on occasion. Separately, always. That’s why they have the wife and me looking after the place as caretakers. We live in the house and keep an eye on things. The two brothers don’t speak to each other anymore. They send messages through me. They haven’t talked since the blowup they had over the repairs to the roof.
Continue reading “Not For Sale by Guylaine Spencer”
What happened was, I died.
Daddy ripped out my heart, despite Mama telling him not to. They even sent me away, buried me somewhere else.
Then Papa Nos found me.
Continue reading “Papa Nos by Debbie Paterson”
This interview was conducted via email between Bremerton, Washington, USA, across from Seattle, and Berwyn, Illinois, USA, next to Chicago. The interview occurred on twenty consecutive days in the winter of 2025, starting in January and stretching into February. Leila Allison, the subject of the interview, was never given any heads-up on what the question for the day would be ahead of time.
Continue reading “Sunday Whoever – The Art of Leila Allison or The Inimitable Authoress by Dale Williams Barrigar”
Naming Stuff
I like interesting titles. Now, these are not items to be confused with lying “clickbait” nonsense, but titles of books, movies and songs that stray from the norm. Often, as is the case of the cheap 60’s Spaghetti Western God Forgives, I Don’t, the item fails to live up to the title (but, to be fair, it is an interesting little film regardless). And sometimes certain interesting titles almost guarantee a good picture. The two Sergio Leone “Once Upon a Time…” films are classics, as is Quinton Tarantino’s exceptional Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. There is also one called Once Upon a Time in Mexico that I’ve heard good things about (starring Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz, both excellent performers), yet I’ve somehow yet to see it (I hope to fix that someday soon).
Continue reading “Week 528: What’s in a Title; The Votes Are In and Genre Overkill”
literally stories 