She gave me the grandest name. Bardonneche. Lovely isn’t it. Didn’t suit me at all. Or not so’s you could see. Would suit me even less now, pruned up bag of bones that I am. But I wasn’t pretty even then. Mind you, neither was she. Pretty we were not.
She was Cleanthes, I was Bardonneche. We became a team.
Continue reading “Dimps by Geraint Jonathan”
I knew I shouldn’t have come to the tip on a Sunday, the queues are always massive. I should have come in the week, but I couldn’t be arsed. Yet another mistake I’ve made. Petrol is nearly empty as well, that’s another job I’ll have to do. Never fucking ends, does it?
Continue reading “Tip Run by Alex Kellet”
The dimness of the room was perfect for them both. That was how she loved it; the gentle light covered up the years that had become ingrained in her skin and the weariness in her eyes. He never asked for more light. Every Tuesday, he would drop by, say nothing, and leave a wad of money on the dresser.
Continue reading “The Silence by Rehanul Hoque”
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I never learned how to ride a bicycle. My little sister did; during her Jesus phase Tess earned a rusty third-hander from the Presbyterians because she’d memorized fifty Bible verses. It was the sort of bike you could leave out and not care if it got stolen. Forever on foot, I excelled at heartstopping bolts across busy streets, hopping fences and creating shortcuts; I also developed a mailman’s awareness of Dogs.
Continue reading “Mannish by Leila Allison”
My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
Continue reading “Where the Dead Live by Jennifer Maloney”
In the low light of early evening, Micki Gehl strolled along the path that ran from her house to the first of her three chicken coops, tossing scratch feed to her hens. Chickens were the love of her life. Their attention provided all the affection she needed and their eggs, along with the apples from her orchard, provided all the income she needed. An extensive garden supplied most of her food. She smiled a bit to herself; she truly enjoyed her life.
Continue reading “Good for the Garden by T.G. Roettiger”
“Why, oh, why Negro niece, do you sit there on the steps and cry?”
“Oh, woe is upon me and ruthlessly rides me because my father, your brother, my mother’s husband, has died. And our weeping is without end.”
“Ah, but your father was 80 and 10. It was about time for the old Negro’s story to end.”
“True, true, but he will be gone, his voice and presence will be missed, his words will be longed for, and his absence will leave a great emptiness.”
Continue reading “Immortality By Frederick K Foote”
Toys
During my decade at Goodwill I had many jobs. I recall one fondly: Toy evaluation. It involved going through the massive amount of donated toys and separating the trash from the saleable.
Continue reading “518: Toys and If I’ve Hit Girls in Leotards Once I’ve Done it a Million Times”
Carmine stands silently beneath a mammoth black and white, chrome-framed photograph of a no-nosed beauty with a blunt cut in the back room of his salon. A pie slice of a building gilded in white wrought iron swirls, Mr. Carmine’s Beauty Palace stands between a pastel-colored dog grooming shop and a dimly lit deli/bookie-joint/pizzeria on a street corner in downtown Yonkers, New York. With yards of crushed velvet, flowing script lettering hand-painted on the double plate-glass doors and layers of gold leaf Mr. Carmine, himself, resides over the first, overstuffed, red velour chair. He sports an expensive, loose fitting khaki jumpsuit, and a pair of Italian, olive-green, eel skin loafers as he begins the day. Hazy sunshine filters through the mauve miniblinds as disconnected images fill his mind: business, past lovers, today. He sighs. He hears his first customer enter the shop.
Continue reading “Beyond the Bridges A Story by Susan Jennifer Polese”
Ed liked to blame the couch, though there was more to it, but that part didn’t help.
What Kaitlyn did, she went out and spent four thousand dollars on it, and then when they delivered the thing it didn’t fit in the elevator. Ed watched them try removing the little ceiling panel, which he didn’t even know came off, but even so they couldn’t angle it in.
Continue reading “Adverse Possession by Ted Gross”
literally stories 