I thought I’d take an umbrella. I peered out of the window and drew back the curtain. It was dark and cloudy. I didn’t think – snow – but perhaps rain, sleet, maybe. So, yes I decided, an umbrella. That was back then, when I was brave, when I thought I could do it today. That was when I operated on a “normal” level, sane.
The communal bathroom was a lot cleaner than she thought. This was the first time that she’d been in. She reckoned dust would be more of a problem than shit as everyone must have used their en-suites.
Chapter 1
The more cynical residents of Pynchon, PA claimed jam would go out of fashion before the town boasted an inhabitant of note, but the place was very much like thousands of small towns across America. It was a fair to middling blot on the landscape with thirty thousand residents, drive-thru burger joints, and an underachieving baseball team; and its attractions included a permanent fairground of rusting carousels, a correctional facility for troublesome women, and a jam factory.
Continue reading “Pynchon McCool: an introduction in twelve chapters by Michael Dhillon”
Ray had been listening in for some time now. It was fair to say that not much happened. He was paid regularly and managed to make ends meet, sure. Most of the time, that was all he cared about. The days were hardly springing by like joyous animals, but neither were they crawling in the vein of pained snails. Rent got paid, the cupboards got refilled and occasionally he treated himself to a trip to the local cinema. Work was work though, and he turned up daily at nine in his suit and tie, draping his jacket on the hook behind the door, sitting at his computer, and donning his pair of headphones. Continue reading “Listening In by Jon Green”
You emerge from the wet room, naked. Walk down a long corridor and into your bedroom where you dress in a lacy white thong, a lightweight short-sleeve translucent blouse in lime green and coral pink.
No bra. No footwear.
Outside the mercury hits twenty-seven degrees Celsius. Inside you have the air-con set at nineteen. Yet despite all your efforts to stay cool, heat rises to your skin, chasing away goose-bumps.
Continue reading “The Elite Agency by Xavier P. Xavier – Adult Content”
Scott was excessive. He would have told you that himself. He lived life to excess.
What I admired about Scott was that he had absolutely no regrets. I cannot explain why and you will have to take me at my word. I knew that he had no regrets when I looked into the twinkle in his eye as he told me so.
I first met Scott many years ago and he would tell me story after story about his life. I will admit I didn’t believe his tales of travel, wealth and famous people until the night he decided to show me his treasured photographs. There was Scott in all his finery, in some exotic looking locations, rubbing shoulders with some very famous people. I am no fashion expert but when you looked at the cut of his suit, you knew that they were money. He also showed me pictures of his wife and their land in…I think it was Thailand somewhere. Now I need to explain where I met Scott. I met him in a hostel for the homeless. He was living in a room that had no toilet or kitchen. But as I said, he had no regrets. Continue reading “Hep C And A Lot Of Codeine by Hugh Cron”
The clamour of the hand bell echoed through corridors and hallways, it was followed in an instant by the scrape and thud of thirty pairs of assorted boots and shoes on the bare floorboards of the classroom.
Miss Robinson stood and removed her specs. They fell to the end of their chain and swung gently over her ample bust. “Thank you Class Four collect your things. For homework today I want you to write an essay.” None of the children actually groaned but Jed noticed one or two pairs of eyes rolling heavenwards. For him though there was a flutter of excitement deep in his stomach, he loved essays.
“Your work is to be entitled “The River” and is to be at least five hundred words. Hand it in tomorrow. Now bow your heads for the prayer.” Thirty heads bowed in unison and the mutter of childish voices strove to find a way to whatever God looked down on this benighted part of Yorkshire. Continue reading “The River by Diane M Dickson”
I was sat at a table in a service station café off the M20, on route to Dover, waiting for Angelika to return with the coffee. The seat beneath me was small, with a round foam cushion and flat metal back. Outside, through the window that stretched the length of the cafe, I could see our campervan parked in the rain. In the dim morning light it appeared grey. We’d been on the road since six, as the sun bled into the sky, and had made good time. We were twenty miles from Dover when the temperature gage hit the red and the warning light came on. Continue reading “Dover by Michael W Smith”
There are some lives that don’t begin in earnest until they are almost over. Time is almost used up before the moment is reached, the decision taken that will give life some meaning. Until that moment, only holiday snaps show that time has moved at all. Children grow up, then move away and there are no more holidays, no more snaps. Time passes unnoticed. Continue reading “Friday by Jane Dougherty”
Final credits. Show’s all but over. One last tune from Ed’s iPod and the crematorium doors widen. I’m going where the sun keeps shining, through the pouring rain. Randall lurches outside, wobbles in a thank-god patch of sunshine. Going where the weather suits my clothes. The family shuffle themselves into a line-up: the deceased’s mother reaching just the shoulder of the deceased’s wife. Ed’s brother next? Very tall and looks a little like him. Ed’s children, the daughter only up to her uncle’s waist. A face she loves interrupts the protocol and the little girl’s smile slashes the dark fabric of today. Ed’s son, adolescent and alone at the end, arms meshed over the outrage in his gut. Here now we see the stiff bar chart of the family, offering some kind of analysis. Continue reading “Post by Jenny Morton Potts”
literally stories 