An arachnid-type beast roasts portions of sin-marinated corpses from inside a furnace in hell. Its tentacles slither along the hallways that connect Hell’s kitchen to the abyss, while holding onto non-silver platters filled with well-done souls for beings of the underworld to feast on.
As a passerby behemoth helps itself to a portion of sin-glazed appetizers, an ascetic’s essence is delivered as an array of gourmet selections to the holiest orders in Hades’ lounge. The martyr’s soul bears too much essence for Beelzebub and his priests, and so most of it is served to visiting heathens from heaven.
It’s here in Hades’ lounge where all energies made manifest by man’s thought, word, and emotion are fed to the holiest of deities after death—to again manifest life through rebirth.
They broke through the jungle canopy at midmorning, damp with sweat and soft declarations of wonder. The jungle made everything softer. The air, the light. Even thoughts, if left untethered long enough. The air was thick with that sweet, vegetal stillness that only comes miles from roads, wires, and clocks. Every breath tasted green.
The beetles live in the stump out back, festering beneath the rotting remnants of an old dule tree. I call them, and they rise—the black coil of death—thousands of them climbing up, up, up and over each other, hissing and clicking, putting her together like sentient fog. Black fog. Only sometimes, especially when they’re hungry, they don’t quite get her shape right; I appreciate their efforts and reward them dearly, but when they get her wrong, I want to scream.
Evelyn stared out the kitchen window willing herself to ignore the breathing coming from the living room. It was a wet labored breathing. She wiped the last dish and set it in the rack. Another breath was pulled from the lungs in the other room.
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.
Disturbing content – see tags at the bottom of the page.
Gil doesn’t talk, just sits there drawing demons. Mr. Ny clapped his erasers together and called Gil to the blackboard for one of his impossible Geometry theorems. Gil snatched up the chalk, like a pissed-off Picasso, and made quick hard chalk-chalk marks, and it was solved. The last bell rang and the mad dash.
Still feeling a bit too gooey? Still have the urge to hug people? Don’t worry – we’re here for you. Literally Stories – Christmas Hellweek. Stories to counteract all that goodwill: Enjoy
An Introduction from David
ULTRA-BELFAST
If you’re the black sheep then any family event, gathering or occasion can feel like Ultra-Belfast. There’s a purgatorial feel to your day when you’re plucked from your home comforts and trappings and shipped back to a time and place when your independence and autonomy was restricted. I vaguely remember committing the first few sentences to the white page. I’d like to say it was during the Christmas before it was published here, that would be remarkably apt but it would also be horse piss. It almost certainly came after one of those events though. One where I looked around a table and saw variations of the same face looking back at me. A little older, a little worn down. The light behind their eyes, a little dimmer than it had been the previous year, or the one before that.
For anyone who doesn’t buy into it, the Northern Irish summer and in particular the 12th of July, is the ultimate purgatorial state. Twenty-first century living grinds to a halt so a minority of over intoxicated and under informed can lay claim to everything within their eyeline in the name of tradition. Loyal servants of the crown celebrating the victory of a Dutch King over the English Monarch. Celebrating the victory of a protestant king over a catholic king. Celebrating the victory of a protestant king, who led a largely catholic army, financed by the vatican. Trying to explain it could turn you mad.
The truth of the matter is, to be Northern Irish is to live in a permanent state of purgatory. Irish by geography, British by rule, your individual identity, independence and autonomy permanently in flux and controlled by calendar and tradition. I’m ten years older than the writer of this story. If I had to try, I don’t know if I could write it now, but I still relate to it because I’m still sitting at that card table waiting to go all-in.
This week we are turning over the controls to another of our frequent contributors and friends, Doug Hawley. Doug has been a constant presence at LS for years as a writer, commentator and now as a Guest Weekend Wrapper. I have only awkward names for that position, because the hiphop industry has pretty much usurped the word rap and its homophone.
Regardless, Doug is an original, and we welcome you to his world.
Haunted
A Journey Through The Rodent Burrow
A few years ago, nearly as I can tell, I started to think about an isolated store that I used to pass going west in Portland before the West Hills. There was nothing special about it and I didn’t think about it for close to sixty years. For a while it obsessed me for no reason.
In 2021 after Clever Magazine had quickly rejected one story from me, the editor noticed I was from Portland. She was doing a wind-up issue and wanted a Portland story. I sent her something about the mystery store. She was originally from Portland, but lived in San Jose, and knew it was a Mode ‘O Day. As I dug deeper with her and other sources, I found that Mode O’ Day became a huge chain with affordable fashion, but then collapsed quickly. More surprising, the editor graduated from Grant High School in the same class as my now late sister. Neither of them knew the other.
An obsession about a building is weird. My others are more reasonable. Old girlfriends of course. A couple of years ago while reading obituaries (an old man thing) I noticed that the widow was my first serious girlfriend who lived seven miles from me (thank you internet). We ended on bad terms, but I called to offer condolences. She still hated me. There’s the one who had what could have been her last heterosexual act with me. Not a legacy I want. Prior to the attractive blonde wife and now editor, there was bright and beautiful one with whom there was a tumultuous relationship. Fifty years after she told me to leave her alone, I wrote her to ask what happened. She said it wasn’t me; she had some past trauma which caused her to change her life. Our difficulty was aided by my immaturity and insecurity.
Then there are our wonderful cat companions over the years, the last one of which, Kitzhaber, died in my arms. Despite our mouse invasion, no more cats to break out hearts. I thought Kitz might outlive me, but no luck.
Two days ago a cousin that I had been close to in the early years died. Several new friends have died since my return to Portland. The dead haunt me (covered in a story in Pure Slush), but the live ones as well. When we came back to Portland I tried to reconnect with no luck.
I largely live in my head, a condition that I would not wish on anyone with the exception of some politicians. What are your thoughts or obsessions before sleep and after waking? Serious question, I want to know. If possible, make me feel less weird. At least I’m less weird than a vice presidential candidate.
The Week That Was and Is
Hi There! We hope you are enjoying this glimpse into the mind of Doug Hawley. We shall hand this post back over to Doug after we extol the virtues of this week’s fine group of writers.
Christopher J. Ananias returned this week with his heart rending Where Everything Got Broken. Our lives can be ruined in seconds, and the echoes of the disaster may call until the last beat of our hearts…to those final thoughts in the dark. Truly powerful stuff.
Newcomer Landon Galliott completely changed the tone (save for quality) on Tuesday in his site debut Garf and the Purple Pickles. “Off-beat” is a term perhaps applied too often, but it truly fits here. And despite the quirkiness, there’s a sadness to be found in this–one that speaks to the random absurdity of just being.
Emergence Deliriumby our second site debut author, DanielleAltman is about thriving in the wild experience of youth, courting “death by misadventure,” always having something to talk about the next day. The reckless freedom is vivid in this one, as is wit and a bit of lament in this reader’s mind of times gone by.
Sarp Sozdinler was the third of three first time contributors. His tense and highly clever Marchkeeps you guessing. Sometimes the end of a story should mess with you. Sometimes impossible things must happen to keep the reader honest. Sometimes you want to corner the author and not let him go until he tells you what it means. Well done on all accounts.
On Friday we had the pleasure of meeting Ed N White, whoseThe Narrow Gauge is the first of three stories he has already had accepted. Like Tom Sheehan, Ed is a master of beautiful descriptions and restrained prose. Ed is also a fine gentleman and we are overjoyed to introduce him to our readers.
Well that’s the cast and we entreat you to give them a read if you haven’t already done so.
Now we will do the return of our guest wrapper like they do on the TV news:
“Back to you Doug…Hey how about closing with a list of your personal favorite horror films in keeping with the season?”
Big Finale: Doug’s Top Horror Films (each one is the original version)
Frankenstein – Obvious choice. I may have first seen it when it was rerun in the early 1950s.
The Thing From Another World – Notable in that technology at that time ensured the original shape shifter story was modified, but the old tech monster electrocution was good.
Halloween – Monster in a William Shatner mask. How horrifying is that?
Dracula – The Bram Stoker story that endures. Nosferatu good, but sued for copying the original too closely.
Night Of The Living Dead – They are ghouls, not zombies, but still.
Doug’s Bonus Music List
TheWreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald —Gordon Lightfoot – (Hypnotic and historic)
Roll With It —Steve Winwood – (See the video if you get a chance)
The Fat Man and Natural Born Lover – Fats Domino – (An early hit and a late hit)
I Wish and Superstition –Stevie Wonder – (Peak wonderful Steven)
Let It Rock –Chuck Berry – (I think this one was sent into space so aliens would know we rock)
Going Home Tomorrow –Little Richard – (Slows it down and grooves)
Reconsider Baby–Elvis Presley – (Means business in this cover)
You Win Again -Jerry Lee Lewis – (He covers a Hank William number and The Killer kills it)
The metallic aftertaste of recycled oxygen lingered in my throat, each breath a sweltering struggle to survive. I tracked the merciless white sun as dust devils spun in the distance. Their swirling forms juxtaposed against the still figures before me.
literally stories 
