A second suggested Rerun from Sharon Frame Gay is this by James McEwan – this is what she said:
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Category: General Fiction
Martin Gets a Letter by Ferguson Williams
It was official. Martin McClintock was scheduled for recall. Recall was his name for it. He’d also heard revoke, the big take back, shit outta luck (that was the sinners’ special), and the Rapture. That was a favorite of the bible thumpers. Whatever it was called didn’t matter though. His number was up and he knew it as soon as he opened his mailbox. Continue reading “Martin Gets a Letter by Ferguson Williams”
Sun and Sediment by Martin Toman
During the summer holidays when I was twelve my neighbour shot his three sons. I was at home with my brother when it happened. We were experimenting with a magnifying glass, colouring strips of card with different pigments to see which would burn first under the focussed triangle of sunlight. I remember the sound of the gun was a huge and deep boom. I could feel the concussive force even through the walls of our house. I heard a shot, a scream, two more shots, and then silence. Three shells fired from a breech loaded shotgun, each containing nine double aught spherical pellets, their destructive force expressed onto the children next door. The boys used to play in the yard. I would see them almost every day. They were all younger than me, twins and an elder, one at school. My mother would look after them from time to time when theirs wasn’t well. I tried to teach them how to play cricket.
The Renfield/TomTom Ghost Debacle by Leila Allison
All writers have that one bugaboo story that refuses to finish. It’s as though the damned thing has something against you, and would do anything to mess with you, even to the point of sacrificing its chance of appearing anywhere in the Universe. My bugaboo story is called Renfield and the TomTom Ghost. It has been in production for two years, yet not even a hundred words have been “shot.”
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The Postmaster Who Never Left by Shane Plassenthal
I’ve been the postmaster around these parts for going on fifty years and I reckon I just might stick around until I’m dead. I ain’t got no plans to retire and that’s the truth. My Daddy was the postmaster before me, he got the job through the New Deal and when he shot himself back in ‘69, I took the reins. I ain’t ever left since. It ain’t never bothered me none to stick around, not like my Daddy who had left a note saying he just couldn’t do it no more. Besides, you get to see plenty of folks when you have their mail. You never get lonely. It’s been the same old same for all these years. That is, until that Becky Sharp mess.
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Extraordinary by S.K. Roch
When I was young I had dreams. Lots of them. I would be a famous artist—struck with genius, creative, unique. Or maybe an inventor—ground-breaking innovations that would change the world as we know it forever. A brilliant scientist—discovering cures for the most devastating illnesses known to men, or decoding the last secrets on earth. Celebrated, respected and admired throughout.
The Potato Grabbers by Robert John Miller
“I’ll grab the corn and you grab the potatoes,” Poncho yelled to Julia. Julia was wearing her wedding dress, full train and veil, to save time. She wouldn’t have to change when they returned.
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The Last Of My Friends by Hugh Cron
‘How long have I been your doctor?’
‘About twenty years.’
‘And you’ve never mentioned this to me?’
‘What?’
‘That you’ve got a problem.’
‘I’ve no problem.’
Through the Curtain by Diane M Dickson
The police showed her his watch. His watch and wallet, and his wedding ring. No matter how much Amy asked to see her husband’s body, they dissuaded her. None of them actually said that he was unrecognisable because of his injuries but, through the shock and horror of it all, the message was eventually received. She picked up the timepiece she had bought a couple of years earlier. The engraving on the back ‘All My Love Stuart – your Amy’ left no room for doubt. His wallet held some money, his bank cards. His driving licence was missing, that was how they had found her.
Versatur Circa Quid! by Leila Allison
I am a ghost. It’s best to get that out in the open, right away, for the benefit of those persons who still support the notion that the dead cannot possibly communicate with the quick. I am neither the walking nor the talking dead; but I am of the writing dead, whom living “literary types” resent for they feel that they have enough competition in their field as it is.
literally stories 