Who are these artists? I thought. If somebody wants to talk about the barriers we put up between ourselves and the abyss, they can say it with words, not with a dead shark. I saved that thought for the date debrief with Clara. I pictured how she’d reply, gently sarcastic, “I don’t think that’s really the idea, Christine. The world would have lost something if Van Gogh had just turned to the next bloke in the guinguette and said, “Bright out tonight”.”Continue reading “The Impossibility of Death by Tiffany Williams”
Category: Short Fiction
Caves of the Gods, Heart of the Mountain by Tom Sheehan
Puma-Dog, heavily burdened yet bound in belief, wondered about the inside of the mountain he was climbing, and the trail so old in the making that he could not begin to measure its age. Even the old chief and man of wisdom, One-Wing-Gone, told him the mountain was as old as the gods themselves. “They came as one before they became many,” he explained to Puma-Dog on the 13th celebration of all his moons. “One becomes many, to serve, to light the path, to push against darkness, to fill tribal history with heroes all going back to where they came from, from the Heart-of-the-Mountain, and to be served.Continue reading “Caves of the Gods, Heart of the Mountain by Tom Sheehan”
Week 420 – Sorry Sally But That Will Always Be Embarrassing, A Nun’s Pocket Of Foreskin And Supermarket Brain-Stormers Wanting Their Hidden Cake And Eating It! By Hugh Cron
I have so many things floating about my head for this posting.
You may not have noticed but I do, in most of my posts, try and get in some writing context.
…We may need to come to that! And if I do, I’ll probably be dramatic!!
I ‘said’ to Leila early on this week, that I’d have to use the word ‘Aloof’, so in saying that, I have!
Was that a prompt?Continue reading “Week 420 – Sorry Sally But That Will Always Be Embarrassing, A Nun’s Pocket Of Foreskin And Supermarket Brain-Stormers Wanting Their Hidden Cake And Eating It! By Hugh Cron”
Baara by Hugh Cron
Charlie knew where he was going.
He’d always seen darkness and accepted it.Continue reading “Baara by Hugh Cron”
Black Flowers by Michael Ventimiglia
Being home hurts. It’s a subtle sort of pain that isn’t always obvious, but it’s always there just the same. The aching starts the moment I cross the state line and it won’t stop ’til I cross it back over. I guess that’s just the price of having a past, having to live with it.Continue reading ” Black Flowers by Michael Ventimiglia”
The Magician of Sixth Avenue by Sam Mueller
There are two types of nurses: the ones who believe in ghosts, and the ones who are lying.
We don’t talk about it much, especially now that the war is over. You can feel it more than see it when we’re together—a collective haunting, invisible guests at the dinner table. The conversations lulls and our gazes drift and we stare at strangers we’ve seen somewhere before. Was it the operating table? A hospital bed? The morgue?
You do this kind of thing for years and eventually everyone becomes a ghost of someone, somewhere. We don’t talk about it much.
But sometimes we get drunk.Continue reading “The Magician of Sixth Avenue by Sam Mueller”
No boy, no Tie by R. P. Singletary
Three months later and back into my routine, I returned to church. I noticed all the families at early service. Little girls with exquisite ribbons, little boys all about their first ties. My father couldn’t teach me how to tie a tie. He was dyslexic. I was left-handed. Charming, the pair of us. Unsuccess greeted us at every skinned knee of childhood. Laces. Did it matter whether on new or old shoes, no. Scouting badges for all kinds of knots and things? Well, we attempted all that! Every sport imaginable involving foot or paw, naw. The neck tie was the worst. Eventually, I’d give up or stammer off. Or he would. Often crying throughout. He’d stopped cursing at some point. Sometimes, I would start cussin’ at another point. Only for Mom to intervene. She said she had to pray: “No boy, no tie, no boy.” I promise I remember that prayer.Continue reading “No boy, no Tie by R. P. Singletary”
Ping’s Complaint by Leila Allison
Ping Beams of Jim
No matter what type of dimension you inhabit, watching and hearing a Moon roll noisily toward you from the sky is an odd thing. Such happened the other night as I was out in the Barnyard shooting the evening breeze with Daisy Cloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess and my Lead Imaginary Friend and second in command of the realm of Saragun Springs, Renfield.
“Ping’s coming down,” Renfield said.
“You hear that? He’s making a noise, like thunder,” Daisy added.
Renfield held a hand to her ear. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Daisy. He sounds like a rolling bowling ball.”
“Hope he’s not attempting a three pin spare,” I said. But I had been expecting the visit.Continue reading “Ping’s Complaint by Leila Allison”
Sunday Whatever – An essay by Michel Bloor
A Strange Stone with a Strange History. An Essay by Michael Bloor
One of the most striking exhibits in the National Museum of Scotland is an eight foot, two ton, twelve hundred year-old, intricately carved slab of sandstone – the Hilton of Cadboll Stone, a Pictish standing stone originally from Easter Ross, in the north of Scotland. The Picts left many such standing stones dotted across Scotland and, despite generations of scholarship, they remain in many respects a mysterious people.Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – An essay by Michel Bloor”
The Awful Truth and What’s on Your Playlist
The Awful Truth has a way of sneaking up on you. I once had a body type like Popeye’s Olive Oyl. Yet around age thirty, my clothes began to get mysteriously tighter. I went into denial. I even tried telling myself “they must be making my size smaller.” But there was no denying the Awful Truth.Continue reading “The Awful Truth and What’s on Your Playlist”