Here we are folks at the end of another seven days and the usual Saturday round-up for Week 91.
Before I begin, I need to thank Adam Kluger for giving me my inspiration for this week. I was commenting on one of his many excellent stories and ‘Team building’ was mentioned. I felt a cringe, a growing anger and a prayer that this abomination / humiliation / waste-of time, pile of nonsense, will one day, cease to exist.
Continue reading “Week 91 – Team Building, Genitalia And A Plea.”
“You nearly beat me that time William.”
“You’re very good Sir.”
“Sir…I like that…Tell me why you’re here?”
“I’m not sure Sir. I love this place. It’s just that, after you came to my house that night, I knew that I wanted to be with you. And I thought that you felt the same way.”
My body had been dead for two days. I could hear my brother monks chanting the Mantra of the Dead the whole time: “Go to the Light. Do not be distracted by the demons of the Bardo…” If this was the Bardo, it certainly was not what I was expecting.
Ethan and Renfield Stoker-Belle have been married six months. Although the future is always uncertain, one should think that the Stoker-Belles have the ingredients necessary for an eighty-year marriage. Of course the future seems easy, Early On, when both parties are fresh and pretty and full of happy surprises; before the erosive winds of time blow in and expose the true sizes of the “little things.” So far, however, Ethan hasn’t found Renfield’s verbal catchall “Right?” anything less than charming; and Renfield has yet to detect sarcasm in Ethan’s “Aye-aye, you’re the captain” whenever she’s driving. Only 1/160th into the mortal portion of forever and ever, optimism is high with the newlyweds. So high, that they have decided to test the strength of their vows via the insane act of buying a house.
Continue reading “Seekers of the Wow Signal Emoji by Leila Allison”
Charlie locked his bedroom door. There was no need, Mum was down stairs watching her television and she never came in without knocking. He had managed to train her in that at last. Anyway, turning the key and dropping it into his pocket was all part of the experience, part of the build up.
Continue reading “Memories are Made of This by Diane M Dickson”
The creature’s head punched round, leathery scales abrading his skin. Bomaru held tight, the sinews of his arms corded like autumn branches, slowly forcing the winged reptile’s head to the ground. Teeth sharp as spear-points snapped, close enough for the clash to shiver through his straining grip, and the stench of the creature’s foul breath to taint his nostrils. It was no ordinary strength that maintained his grip. He knew sweet Farlaine would die if he failed, and the knowledge lent him the force of ten. Bomaru twisted with a desperate might. With a sickening crack, the dragon’s body gave one last twitch and was still.
Continue reading “Bomaru’s Quest, Part IV by Neil MacDonald”
I have been using all my writing skills this weeks folks. I have been creative, sparse with the truth, fantasised and down-right lied. Nope I have not been writing a novel or a new short, I have applied for a job.
It is always a difficult balance to get right. You do need to write yourself up but you don’t want to come across as an opera singer twat. (ME, ME, ME!!) However I think being the twat actually works when I look at some of the folks I have worked with over the years!
Continue reading “Week 90 – Interviews, Scripts And Unrelated Diplomas”
“Goddam, son-of-a-bitch, get the hell away from me. Buzzin in my ears like a damn mosquito, trying to drop ticks and vermin down my collar or in my boots. Damn you, to hell.”
The earplugs are workin, but I need earmuffs too. I feel like a damn astronaut, duct tape around my pant legs and boots and gloves and coat sleeves, dust mask over my mouth and nose, muffler around my neck, goggles strapped to my face and this heavy jacket, two pairs of pants and my wool watch cap. I can barely walk. Continue reading “East Wind by Frederick K Foote”
Bernie wheezed his way into the pub. He looked over and saw his pal Jamsie sitting at a table in the corner with a half drunk pint of lager. A full pint awaited him. He walked over, slumped down and gulped his drink.
Continue reading “The Girl Of My Best Friend by Hugh Cron – Strong Adult Content”
He was the houseman and smoked cigars thick as Baby Ruth bars, short as he was, and always wore green pants and red socks so people could laugh at him a little bit on the side. He’d pocket change while the laughter moved around The Rathole. We always knew something special was ringing in him, some other call or cause. There were times he would lend a guy a buck who had missed a great shot at billiards or One-Ball and was almost there, getting his dough back, and he never charged but a buck for a buck. He could listen as good as a bartender, talk like a barber, remember to the minute the start of each game at each table. He answered only to Smiledge, never to his Christian name, never to hey you or houseman or you over there by a newcomer. Smiledge, he’d say. Smiledge it was. It seemed to us that it was Smiledge forever. Then one day he was gone, but that’s ahead of me.
literally stories 