All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whoever

Now a chance to get to know one of our wonderful authors in more depth.

This time it is the turn of David Henson who has been a regular supporter of the site in terms of both submissions of his wonderful short stories and his regular reading and commenting. Thank you David.

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We sent David a list of carefully considered and in depth questions to discover just what makes him tick. Fascinating:-
 

 
– What topic(s) would you not take on?
– What in your opinion is the best line you’ve written?
– Would you write what you would consider shite for money?
– Will you ever go Woke with your writing and use pronoun / non-descript characters and explore sensitive issues in an understanding and sensitive way?
– Type something surprising.
– Do you see something different in a mirror that others don’t when they look at you?
– The future – Bleak or hopeful?
– What would you like to like as you hate that you hate it?
– Records? Tapes? Or CDs?
-What genre you don’t write in would you like to try?
-Bonus question (worth double points): What percentage of their time do Dogs spend thinking about food?

 
Thank you
The LS team.

David Henson

David has got this feature off to a flying start. Not only was his response super quick, his answers are just what we had hoped for. Interesting and amusing. Thank you David:-

– What topic(s) would you not take on?

I don’t think I’d ever write a rape scene. It’s too horrible and would require more finesse than I’m capable of. I have written two stories that appeared in Literally Stories and dealt with rape. Ronda 12 was an android who’s subroutines were altered to fall in love with humans against her will. So she was effectively raped, but the story didn’t describe it. Letti the Yeti had an “almost rape” scene but it ultimately didn’t happen. That scene came as close as I’d want to get.. 

– What in your opinion is the best line you’ve written?

The best line I’ve ever written is: “I haven’t written my best line yet.” But in case that turns out to not be true … I’m not very good at writing great “lines” per se in my stories and am envious of authors like Leila who are able to work them in seamlessly.  In my case, the lines I like best tend to be images. In a creative nonfiction I wrote about my father when he was on his deathbed, I had the line “Past, present, and future — soap bubbles slipping around the drain.” I don’t know if it is the  best one, but considering how personal the piece was, I’ll say it is. 

– Would you write what you would consider shite for money?

No, I’m happy to write shite for free. The serious answer is also no. At this stage in my life doing so is neither necessary nor worth it.

– Will you ever go Woke with your writing and use pronoun / non-descript characters and explore sensitive issues in an understanding and sensitive way?

Hell no. 

– Type something surprising.

Nothing surprises me anymore so this becomes an unanswerable question. I’m surprised I said that. 

– Do you see something different in a mirror that others don’t when they look at you?

I read that most people in their minds consider themselves to be 20 years younger than they are. So … a full head of hair? No, that’s not right ‘cause I didn’t have a full head of hair 20 years ago either. I’ll have to say shaving cream because that’s about the only time I look in the mirror. Otherwise I generally rely on my wife to tell me how I look. She’s nice about it. 

– The future – Bleak or hopeful?

Bleakly hopeful. Humanity has a pretty good track record of defying the odds. 

– What would you like to like as you hate that you hate it?

I hate many things, and they all deserve it. Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. Socializing. I don’t hate it but I don’t like it. But once I’m there it’s good. People need people. 

– Records? Tapes? Or CDs?

I listen solely to streaming music these days because it’s so convenient to tell a smart speaker to play what I want to hear. As with most people, I went through the progression of records, tapes and CDs. Several years ago, I through away all my vinyl and regret it. (And then I threw away all my vinyl.) I miss the sound of the needle dropping, the snap, crackle, pop. Come to think of it, I miss Rice Crispies, too.

-What genre you don’t write in would you like to try?

Historical. I think I’ve tried almost everything else with varying degrees of success, but not historical. I haven’t written action- adventure stories either, and have no desire to. Nothing against that genre. It’s just not for me. 

-Bonus question (worth double points): What percentage of their time do Dogs spend thinking about food?

In our Annabelle’s case (see my LS bio photo), I’d say only 10.77%. She’d often rather have her chin scratched or play fetch than eat. She sleeps a lot, so if she’s dreaming about food, the percentage would be much higher. But as far as I can tell, most of her dreams are about chasing rabbits. (The kind that squeak.)

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Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay – Question mark inside a light bulb on a black background.

All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

425: Plotting, The Week in Love and Derivative Devices

The Plot is in the Mail

The concept of plotting a story is alien to me. I’m as able to plot as I am able to dunk a basketball. Personally speaking, I, at best, have only the fuzziest idea of how something I work on ends. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t end that way, but is an ending directed by wherever the flow of the thing takes me.

The problem I have with plotting is it appears to be a blueprint for creativity, not far from the formula romance writers follow. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back and they both live nakedly ever after. Inaccurately, or otherwise, I see a difference between story and plot. I see stories unfolding in a natural manner with interesting things and interesting people meeting up–all left open for happy surprises that the author was unaware of until the composition began. And plotting as something on par with paint by numbers.

Continue reading “425: Plotting, The Week in Love and Derivative Devices”
All Stories, Fantasy, Horror

Their Greenness is a Kind of Grief by Jie Wang

The sun is gone. They have a new sun now: a giant in a suit and tie floating in the sky like a zeppelin, holding a gigantic glaring mirror. They don’t know what the light source is. Maybe still the old sun. Maybe it was captured and hidden by the giant. The new sun never sets. He gives them no break.

Continue reading “Their Greenness is a Kind of Grief by Jie Wang”
All Stories, General Fiction

Desert Dust by James Bates

The middle-aged, balding man sitting behind the desk at the Arapahoe County Funeral Home looked up as I walked in. He smiled a greeting. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said, trying to be polite since I really didn’t want to be there. “My name is Sam Jorgenson. I think I talked to you earlier this week. I came for my father’s ashes.”

“Ah, Mr. Jorgenson.” He nodded, his face taking on what I figured was his practiced look of sad commiseration. He stood up, came around his deck, and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Yes, we did talk. I’m Jack Benson, the director here. May I offer my condolences.”

I shook his hand. It was dry and cold to the touch. “Thank you. Nice to meet you,” I said.

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All Stories, General Fiction

R.I.P. Beautiful Man by Tim Goldstone

He’s dead now of course. But my fondest memories of him are those summers when he would spend the long days in his garden catching mosquitoes in his special trap. “They’re not malarial here in England,” he said, “But we can soon sort that out.” And I would watch him injecting them with what he called his malarial blood that he siphoned out from the veins in the backs of his hands and stored in the same small transparent plastic bags the goldfish came in that you could win at the fair. He hung the blood-bags up medical style from the interior horizontal poles that kept the roof of his khaki ex-army canvas tent from sagging; then dressing himself as Ava Gardener he would attempt to nurse the mosquitoes back to health, constantly mopping their brows while delicately using tweezers and a magnifying glass to turn their tiny heads from side to side in a perfect imitation of febrile delirium, and calling them all Stewart Granger until he fainted. Once he was comatose on the tent’s dirt floor I would without fail take the opportunity to examine his astonishing knees. In the past they were simply called ‘knobbly knees’ and as such regarded both as humorous accessories, and objects of pride which could be awarded a small cash prize at a 1950s Butlin’s Holiday Camp. He was lucky to live when he did, as nowadays no doubt a doctor would insist that for your own comfort and quality of life you had them replaced with alloys of cobalt-chromium and titanium and high-grade, wear-resistant plastic, and, as perhaps you’re beginning to see, that would not have suited him at all.

Continue reading “R.I.P. Beautiful Man by Tim Goldstone”
All Stories, General Fiction

Yellow by Jessica Aike

Rain in Richmond was like no other, on that Wednesday in June.

David, the cab driver had parked close to the gate as I made my escape from the endless rain. As a regular, I recognised the art enthusiasts who frequented the gallery, but I had never seen him before. I had always believed art was to be publicly admired and privately dissected, in the comfort of one’s walls, an intimate ceremony, but the intrigue his face portrayed felt inviting. I was deep in thought when his gaze startled me.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Pompeii by Paul Kimm

Landing in Naples the heat from the tarmac met her face as they left the small plane. He was already a few steps ahead, keen to get through passport control and get a taxi to the hotel in Sorrento. They’d argued for days about whether to spend the night in Sorrento or Naples before visiting the ruins the next day. A sumptuous hotel, teeming with charm, only a thirty-minute taxi drive from the airport, and just ninety minutes to Pompeii had been her choice. His persistence had won for Sorrento, meaning a taxi was too expensive and a two-hour bus journey lay ahead. Sure, the hotel in Sorrento wasn’t as fancy, was further away from the airport, but definitely cheaper and being only half an hour from Pompeii meant they could do the full seven-hour itinerary. Since first opening that hefty, brown book of his dad’s, Histories and Mysteries, that he used to lift with both hands. he’d wanted to see Pompeii in person.

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All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever with an Essay by Douglas Hawley

Amnesia – An Essay by Douglas Hawley

I’ve had clinical amnesia, but it was relatively insignificant.  Some other cases have been earth shaking.  Let’s start with a lesson ignored or forgotten to the present day.  The Smoot-Hawley Act of 1930 started a trade war and according to Wikipedia it was catastrophic.  There is general consensus that it contributed to the Great Depression.  Subsequently, raising tariffs have been tried and failed on many occasions, including as it is currently being used by the US president who seems to think that he is a good business man.    Classic economics has always held that people and countries should usually buy the cheapest regardless of where it originates, making tariffs counterproductive.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 424 – Post-it’s, 100 Fucking Million (Watch this space) And Let’s Give Mr Kluger A Nod To One Over The Forty Nine!

I decided to clear out my desk today. There is a problem as I have so many notes scribbled down for whatever reasons. At the time of writing them, I thought that they were the beginnings of some of the greatest ideas in the world, now that I look at them I think, ‘What the fuck was I on?’ I will type out the shite that I’m looking at:

‘Tuna and seaweed (All eaten)’ – I haven’t a fucking clue what was going on there!!!

Continue reading “Week 424 – Post-it’s, 100 Fucking Million (Watch this space) And Let’s Give Mr Kluger A Nod To One Over The Forty Nine!”
All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

You’ll Never Understand the Circumstances That Brought You To This Moment by J Bradley Minnick

Story goes: Wonders like Rock School are more dreamt and pieced together by collective imaginations than planned; perhaps Tumbling Creek had called itself forth during the flood season and its rushing waters had picked up the first rock and transported it to the top of the hill and set it down there and once Rock School took shape, it could only become what was intended.  

Continue reading “You’ll Never Understand the Circumstances That Brought You To This Moment by J Bradley Minnick”