All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

A New World by Peter O’Connor

“Is that all?” she asks.

He offers her the strap of woven hessian. She runs it through her fingers feeling the soft weave.

“All natural materials,” he says, “natural colouring, as strong as steel and 98% recyclable.”

“What about the buckle bit?”

“The ratchet.”

He hands her the item. She turns it and lifts the bar. The click is sharp and staccato in the over stuffed office.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Left-Handed Woman by Ann Harper Reed

Frank noticed the couple when the Antique Collective shop doorbell clanged. Even to this day, he expected to see his wife June pass through that door as the bell reverberated. The couple came inside. She a bit mousy and dressed with some expense to look like she shopped at thrift stores; he was in expensive clothes meant to look expensive with a smartphone glued to his ear. They were the kind of patrons the collective needed to survive. They were the kind to admire his craftsmanship, while still needing furniture and having the revenue to purchase.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Music of Lana Jardine by Harrison Kim

Lana Jardine always told me she’d be taken in the rapture, when God would gather up true Christians just before the apocalypse.  She accepted Jesus as her Lord and Saviour, so she’d never burn in hell.  “I confessed my sins,” she said.  “And he saved me.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Village by Gene Bray

 NYC 1978.  Just got here from Ohio, to be an actor.

Confession. To be a movie star.

 I get a single room on West 22nd st. It’s 15 by 8.

So I put the bed in the basement and get a mattress that stands against the wall.  A folding table and chairs

Voila.  It’s roomy.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The White House at the End of the Lane  by Tom Sheehan

Dimac looked again and the white house at the end of the lane was pale yellow. He tried to find a simile, then a metaphor, and was lost in the miracle before him. The change had happened in the blink of his eyes, and it unnerved him so that he closed his eyes, waited for the white shingles to settle back into place, become their proper selves, as if he could say that about shingles, and opened his eyes.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Historical

An Historical Footnote by Michael Bloor

A while back, I was reading an account, by the poet and journalist James Fenton, of the fall of Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City) in 1975*. In the middle of the despairing mob outside the US Embassy, begging to be evacuated, as the last of the helicopters departed, Fenton came across one man simply shouting over again, ‘I’m a professor, I’m professor.’ Poor guy, he was well behind the times, we university professors get dumped on nowadays just like any other employee. The trick is to spot when the shit-shower is imminent.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 404: A Rich Vein; The Week in Originality and Remembering Stuff That Shouldn’t Get Lost

A Rich Vein

I used to wonder why so many writers fill their fictional hellworlds with zombies. For a time I thought having a mindless monster (as they were once) whose only advantage is superior numbers, but whose eradication would make the hellworld no worse than a heckworld, was a literary lesson in perspective. The zombie hellworlds I have seen do not appear to have much else wrong with them save for the wowser undead infestation. I bet at the end of a, say, ten year zombie “challenge” (as the ruling parties would certainly call it) that going ape upon discovering the drive thru worker forgot to put the extra ketchup packets you asked for in your bag might not be as valid a reason to make a fool out of yourself in public that it used to be. What a wonderful shiny heckworld that would be.

But of course the real reason there are so many zombies (and vampires) is the same one that sent everyone to California in 1849. Get it right and there’s gold in them thar hills (though silver is a different matter). Seeing people have a go at the various undead genres bothers me no more than seeing someone buy a lottery ticket at 7-11. I wish them luck. You never know when the money ship might drop anchor in your harbor. Still, many aspiring best selling authors are a bit late to the party and suffer from what I call Closing the Crypt Door After the Undead Got Out Syndrome.

Still I am just as willing to give commercial success as much a go as the next cynical writer. Sometimes I play with the notion of concocting something so calculated that it cannot miss. I really can’t think of anything too calculated for the zombies (even though that was the aim a couple of paragraphs ago) because at its soul all you’ve got to do is have the brain-crazed bastards on your tail. The idea, the creepy crawly idea of it is great–and all efforts to improve zombie mental acuity and add subtext only detracts from the purity of the original premise: Chased by a slobbering, jabbering monster, like in a childhood nightmare. Besides, zombies are as gross as any daycare during cold and flu season.

Ha! Yet I do have a boffo vampire story (the reason for their sudden, perhaps inexplicable, inclusion at the start of paragraph two). But my vampires are slightly different from the traditional crowd. You see, I’ve never understood why ancient Dracula types create a whole slew of apprentices. These tyro vampires are usually poorly trained and in time they do enough stupid shit that inevitably leads the townfolk to the Master, whom somebody stakes like a dead butterfly to a cork board in the last reel. I’m willing to suspend disbelief, to a point; I’ll allow for vampires, but not ones who make so many bad decisions that I cannot believe they have been around since the Dark Ages.

My vampires live in groups of seven to ten or so and can shapeshift enough to loot banks for capital, for they lead opulent lives. But, as in tradition they can go about in the day, yet without the powers they have at night. Still, they must be careful during the day because the rays from the rising and setting sun can kill them, when the sun still appears to be touching the horizon; they are gold when there’s space between. My vampires sleep in nice hotels during the day, with vials of graveyard dirt shoved where the sun does not shine, and travel between the hemispheres to always be where it is winter, to take advantage of longer nights.

Anyway, they feed but do not kill. Their victims survive, get better and get rich selling zombie stories. But there is one proviso: To remain a vampire you must kill a person whom you loved in life and change she/he into a vampire before that person dies–or you will cease to exist.

Well a woman who was loved by a vampire was made one, and she had an unrequited love for a married man named, oh let’s call him, Horace. But Horace was married to Hortense and they had two infant children. It didn’t matter to the lady vampire who killed Horace; for she was not president of the Hortense Fan Club.

Turns out Horace liked being a vampire, but he also missed Hortense. So he went to her and told her about the gig, and begged her to join him in everlasting, well everlasting. Hortense says “Swell, but let me raise the kids first.” So Horace and the pack travel the world for another twenty years or so and he comes back and discovers that Hortense is terminally ill. But it doesn’t matter, the kids are raised and she’s still alive.

But as it nears dawn, she reminds them of the vows they exchanged. He understands and as Hortense draws her last breath (coincidentally, and with no one else in the room) near dawn, Horace opens the drapes and they go out together. Call it “Till Death.” fill some plot graves (as in doing something about the woman vampire who loves Horace and just how they get the money out of the vaults) and there you go, a marketable commodity.

Sadly, what I just wrote looks like something that might sell, even though it took about forty seconds to concoct. There’s something seriously wrong with that situation, mainly my inability to do anything with it. So, there you go, a free story premise that I must now turn my back on.

The Week in Originality

I am willing to wager that all five of our performers this week can do something with “Till Death” but all are too smart to associate with it. Along with three site debuts, we had the return of two long time friends.

Monday began with the 28th site appearance by David Henson. Delta Zero underscores both the intelligence and humor that are always evident in Dave’s work. And you have to think when you read it. Some might wonder “huh?” But there is actually an art of reading that is set higher than just being able to understand the words. I’d also like to state that, including his faithful daily comments, Dave has actually appeared on the site hundreds of times. If you have appeared in the past few years, David has been there for you. I hope we all return the favor.

Snakeskin by newcomer PL Salerno made Tuesday worthwhile. PL is a young writer, and if this is the quality we have to look forward to then the world of fiction is in competent hands. This is a wonderful blend of reality and the mystic, and frankly, quite entertaining at any level.

Tom Sheehan continues to shine and is still in a career of the quality that PL and our other authors have a chance at. The Rifle aims at the upcoming 200 mark (as you see I could not resist the cheap, cheap pun there). And as always Tom hits the bullseye (it was a two-for-one sale at the cheap, cheap pun show). Still, Tom once again excels at blending a situation and characters as he has for decades.

We welcomed Benjamin Pluck on Thursday, Thanksgiving in the USA. Careful Who You Save is something I fell for even though I am not smart enough to know what it really means. It draws the shine of existence through a prism and what wild colors I saw. And unlike acid, the story was free. Beautifully constructed and in no way overstated. We certainly llok forward to more from this writer.

Our third first timer was Elana Kloss, who closed the week with Cherry Pie. Elena writes sharp, descriptive and fearless prose. There isn’t as much as a wasted syllable in this piece, which takes wicked and frequent turns. Although it is relentless, it challenges you, like the other four we saw this week, to think while reading it.

Remembering Stuff

The other day I mentioned the band Chicago to a coworker, who is maybe thirty. I saw the Who? glaze her eyes to the degree that I didn’t bother to confirm it. There’s nothing wrong with that, really, it is just one of those ugsome things that happens as time marches on. Still, It has motivated me to write a list composed of items of people and abilities that are either forgotten or are on the edge of extinction and should not be. Slot ten left open for fellow fist shakers.

  • Parallel parking (Jesus, people, I can do it.)
  • American Thanksgiving Day meaning something more than Black Friday Eve
  • Setting aside the goddam phone when talking to someone (I correct that now–I say, “Hey, I’m over here.” Don’t care who gets mad; even said it to my boss once.)
  • The works of Shirley Jackson
  • Klaus Nomi
  • People instantly googling the obscure things I say, right in front of me, instead of asking
  • Displaying the manners and intelligence necessary to prevent you from talking about your STDs and felonies on your cell in public.
  • “Three-fer” beer chips. All the local bars had those
  • State Liquor Stores (I rather liked seeing all the good stuff in one place–and not in places like 7-11 or Walmart–something wrong there)
  • Open

Leila

All Stories, General Fiction

Cherry Pie by Elana Kloss

It’s my second month in L.A., and I’ve already forgotten about pizza. New York feels like years ago, and the only thing that matters now is wood ear mushroom, pork bao, and beef noodles. They arrive plump on Chinese porcelain and slam down and slap awesome like we do on a Friday night.

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