Morning breaks the window open, sets sunlight to shatter on the floor, the scorpions to scatter. They run for walls, but Jordan climbs from bed, his dream head raw, brooms them to the door.
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Category: Fantasy
Sin Eater by Tarri Driver
I once was a young woman who, for some years, didn’t eat animals in any shape or form. I felt irresponsible and cruel eating them. That’s not the whole story, but that’s the relevant truth. I was troubled knowing that there were animals living in suffering on gridded farms overflowing with flies and shit as far as the eye could see. I didn’t want to ingest all of that pain, brutality and filth. That was too much for me to eat.
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Week 506: A Big Announcement; Surreal the Deal; Five Great Values; Crystal Ball Questions
A BIG ANNOUNCEMENT
First, before the Big Announcement, our thanks go to Doug Hawley for taking the helm last week. We look forward to extending further invitations to do so to our frequent writers and site friends!
Next week will feature our annual anniversary post. This year is special because it marks ten years for Literally Stories. There will be the many special features we add to our anniversary wraps plus an abundance of new ones. We have been working on this since summer and we hope to see one and all next week. As always, bring the kids, show up drunk, clothing is optional.
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Where Do Lost Memories Go? by Rinanda Hidayat
Somewhere in a land where only the forgotten remembered, stood a river flowing with discarded memories. Tears cry above it, ever begging for the one who shed them to return.
Sometime between now, today, and never, a man burst out under the river––let’s call him M. He splashed around, thrashing his arms, kicking his feet, but all was unnecessary, for the river never had the will to drown.
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On Monday Nothing Seemed Out of Place by Antony Osgood
On Monday, the most enthusiastic girlfriend in the world had left late and rushed to work at Nicky’s. Running through a cloudburst I’d cheered her from the balcony. I was busy tidying our apartment in readiness for cleaning, after which I’d head downstairs to begin a few maintenance jobs for the building owner, when I glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling window, which my girlfriend calls ‘the French doors’ (she longs for a garden) to see the weather clearing and the sun had begun to tumble-dry the world.
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The Miracles of San Batista
One could argue that, as a native Batistan (even though I currently reside and work in Bocay), my opinion of the events I am about to recount must necessarily be tainted by local prejudice and distorted by personal involvement. And, in a sense, it would be accurate. But rest assured, I will tell you what happened as best as I and my fellow Batistans remember, local prejudice or not.
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The Battle Below by Bridget Goldschmidt.
In the third year of the Sectarian War, Colonel Childress’ party arrived early to get the best possible position on the rocky outcropping above the weed-choked field. The battle was due to begin at 10 o’clock sharp, according to the colonel’s sources; although retired, he still retained his military contacts. He checked his large silver fob watch.
Continue reading “The Battle Below by Bridget Goldschmidt.”
The Pelanconi Flower by Jon Krampner
The Italian Renaissance is one of the crowning glories of western civilization. In Florence, Venice and other cities, men like Leonardo da Vinci shook off the centuries-old slumber following the collapse of the Roman Empire and blazed new trails through the intellectual firmament, sparking a fire in the minds of men and women that continues to this day. But even as they did so, village life continued much as it had for centuries. Our story concerns the remarkable events that took place in one of these villages.
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Apsaras’ Dance by Kelly Matsuura
Time wastes the paint on our faces and ornaments. It roughens the once-smooth stone we were carved from. Yet behind the crumbling stone, we shine.
Our voices blend as we step from the wall, magic infusing our limbs and lighting our smiles. We sing the songs of ancient apsaras before us.
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Time Capsule by Leland Neville
I was recently involved in the death of a man right here inside the Free Library.
He began making bird sounds near me. The cawing and trilling made it impossible to concentrate on my writing. When I moved, he followed. The bird songs grew louder and more long-winded.
My father, a Marine, told me that bird noises reminded him of a battle he fought inside a dark nameless jungle. Birds, he learned the hard way, unintentionally telegraph your location to the enemy. I am now older than my father was when he died inside our garage.
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