The meme had been replaying again and again in Booger’s mind.
“They are eating the cats, eating the dogs, eating the pets in Springfield.”
It was about 50 days away from a quite consequential presidential election.
Bugowski was pushing 60 and he was just as big a mess as he always was.
“Have you read the secret life of plants?” Rooster asked Booger as they unloaded the cooler full of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Poland Spring with lime (the most carbonated of all seltzers) and all the other boxes, bags and items for another guy’s weekend. “The plants communicate through chemical emissions, I read an excerpt…not surprising given their predominant place on the planet and the way they all live together harmoniously…beautifully, really.”
I have lived in the same apartment since October 1998. That was not by design, but it has worked out that way. Until I settled here, I had not lived in one space longer than four consecutive years, including childhood. Something always happened; nothing has yet to happen here. The building was sold last year, but it was just a case of meeting a new boss, the same as the old boss.
Acacia knew her calling from the age of ten. Noticing all her clothes were labeled ‘MEDIUM’ and, being a highly impressionable girl, she naturally assumed the universe, or possibly a parallel one, was offering a clear hint as to her correct career path.
I was looking out the front window, watching the snow fall, waiting for the mailman to come with my disability check. Jesus, the snow is sticking now, and my tires are bald. I needed to deposit that check today. I was out of food, running low on whiskey, and I still owed Mrs. Schmidt half the rent for this little shithole of a duplex. Fuck my life. Then, I got the call.
Fluttering canvas frames a view that has tugged at Ralph Nilsen’s dreams. The mountain is dark against the star-smeared sky, curved like a sickle, beckoning. Ralph permits himself a few moments to glance upwards, to watch the spindrift pluming across the Milky Way. Moments are all Ralph has. He will not be back, not for another season, not when he is within three hundred vertical metres…
a short story by T.C. Barrera from the yet-to-find-a-home short story collection, “Counting Birds”
“You know how it is, Eli. Mickey says you gotta get to this one today. You’ve just gotta. This guy’s paying a big, and I mean, a BIG fuckin’ rush fee; that Mickey, of course, is charging for on top of the doubled fee that he was already going to charge. Mickey says, if he asks, it is due—”
A large, clay and plaster likeness of Saint Patrick, holding a crook and pointing at writhing snakes on the statue’s base, dominated the right side of our church. He was wheeled in face up on a donkey-cart, wenched upright by strong men when St. Patrick’s Church on Ninety-Fifth Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, was built in 1847. “Black Forty-Seven” my dad called it.
Ginny was raised on violin lessons and minimal parental supervision. The combination very nearly landed her in a windowless room in the detention center in Brooklyn, and if Callum hadn’t gotten away with the dogs just when he did, even his street smarts might not have saved her.
Regular visitors to the site will be aware of Tom. He has had more stories published than any other author. Much of his work is republished writing but though he is now in his 97th year and struggling with vision loss he is still submitting new work. This is his latest submission to Literally Stories. Proof if it were needed that the soul of the writer burns brightly regardless of the passing years.
literally stories 