The last time we stayed at Popo’s house, I was five years old, still in the cradle of memory when truth and story become mixed up in an inseparable mosaic. It’s hard to say what I remember and what has been spun to me as a family tale, more real than my own hazy recollection. Maybe if I had been older I would have more to tell. Or maybe it would be all the more clear how much of Popo’s life had slipped through the cracks of my young, distracted mind.
Continue reading “Fisheye by Jade Lacy”
‘Above the spume!’ Dr Gerasimos Evangelatos chants as he presses his disputed sandal to the pedal. Cephalus, his family’s latest ‘stray’—though what is a stray cat but an unmet friend?—gingerly stares from the front basket. ‘Above the foam of the sea!’
Continue reading “Nothing Else That I Would Ask by Antony Osgood”
What an induction day that was!
Unemployment had been high for years, and so the surprise arrival of Dutch company ‘Bananenbuigerij’ had been greeted with much enthusiasm in town. Like most of my friends, I’d sent in my application, and was one of those fortunate enough to be offered an interview.
Continue reading “Bananenbuigerij by Michael Smith”
Muriel McGregor had her champions, but they were far outnumbered by her enemies. Both agreed that the university president had made a mistake when he selected Muriel to be dean of the Humanities College. The tenured faculty were noisy or ominously quiet when discussing Muriel. The untenured professors were discreet. They hugged their fears and were vaguely positive.
Continue reading “Death to the Dean by Linda P. Rose”
It’s raining and fog lays a smoky screen over the distant hill dotted with houses that twinkle like fireflies at sunset. I stare out, feeling some guilt about watching Rick James videos on YouTube. I told Cheri and she went: “You know all he sang about was ‘bitches and hoes,’ right? Disgusting. And all he did was free base coke and have orgies! What’s your problem, have you sunk so low?”
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Channeling Rick James by Susan DeFelice”
In the morning, the sun had long since risen above the horizon, casting stark, foreboding shadows over the Yampa River. We stood at the edge of the water, my wooden boat bobbing gently on the surface. The wind whispered secrets through the cottonwoods and I felt the weight of my history bearing down upon us. We had married, and this handsome kind man had promised to spend the rest of his life with me, knowing I was doomed to run this river every two weeks for all time.
We pushed off from the shore.
Continue reading “Hell’s Half Acre by Danyl A Doyle”
AJ slows his pace, hesitant to interrupt Lu as she tosses crusts to a pair of pigeons. When he crunches gravel, she doesn’t look up, just asks, “Why you back?”
Wanted to see this hellhole one more time.” He takes a few steps toward her. “And you, Lu.”
She stiffens. “Been a long time.”
Continue reading “Trespassing by Liz deBeer”
I love the smell of antiseptic in the O.R. as the cool, dry air penetrates my mask. Even the acrid odor of cauterized flesh is tolerable after thirty years of incisions and excisions. However, this morning the room is foreboding.
Continue reading “Asimov in the Operating Room by Barry Yedvobnick”
Klib placed the bag on the counter and took out a sandwich. And now you have read the most boring sentence to begin a story ever. The bag, the counter, the sandwich, even Klib: nothing even remotely interesting.
Continue reading “The Chicken Sandwich by T.A. Young”
Several months after her daughter turned herself into a cat, Ahmya’s mother grew sufficiently brave to begin the onerous task of cleaning and tidying Ahmya’s bedroom, in readiness of her girl’s discharge from hospital. Amongst the usual debris of a Japanese teenager’s room, Ahmya’s mother discovered, between the pages of a diary she was loath to read, a fairytale written more than a year before. The girl’s mother had begun to return the diary to its drawer when the lose leaves fell to the floor; in that moment the mother believed she would never forget the gentle slap against her ankles—it felt like a scream, it reminded her of her daughter’s many subtle hints concerning what she was experiencing. Ahmya had shown her mother the fairytale, She’d been obliged to read it while her daughter watchfully waited—but she had not understood, had given back the story and poured a gin. And so she paused her tidying to read the story with more care. Later, as Ahmya’s mother took the train to the hospital, a sea of tears pooled in her head and she feared she would drown—she did not wish to swim. She reddened in shame. Second readings are devastating in two ways. First there is recognising yourself as a shallow reader—how could you have not understood before what is on second reading so obvious? Secondly, you must admit to your own callousness for relying on platitudes rather than taking seriously what the writer is trying to say. Ahmya’s fairytale was more than a fable; the story was a wish for her mother to understand the things her daughter was otherwise unable to express.
Continue reading “Second Reading by Antony Osgood”
literally stories 