Category: Short Fiction

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Week 599: Trailer Park Sintennial and Fare Thee Well 500’s, Don’t Let the Screen Door Hit You on the Ass: And a Special List Battle Royale!

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-One-

Here’s to a Place That Has More Kids Than Teeth

I lived in a trailer park for a little over a year, 1978 to 1979 b.c.e. It was in South Park, a neighborhood a few miles south (duh) of Seattle. The Dumwamish River flowed about a hundred yards from my metal abode, and the South Park Draw Bridge was about a block away. The world’s largest and long lastingest mud puddle, which never evaporated once while I lived there, stood between the park and the cleverly named South Park Tavern (I was only nineteen and looked fifteen, so I usually got kicked out about half the times I went in–until a cop saw me and gave me a minor consumption ticket. Bastard). There was also a popular 24hr eatery (the equally cleverly named South Park Diner) where I took most of my meals (great pulled pork sandwich and home fries). Ah, it was a fine trailer park–I paid, get this, seventy-five smackers a month for a small one bedroom trailer. And I felt oddly honored when the show South Park came on the air some twenty years down the line. Those were some strange and yet terrible times, but I’m glad I had them.

One oddity was I never met the landlord. Every first of the month I slipped a money order through the slot of “their” door. You see, I was told it was a husband and wife run outfit. I inherited the trailer from my brother who had moved and they said sure if I wanted to renew his lease–I guess no one cared to meet me. When I left I gave a month’s notice with the last rent money order and returned the key the same way. It had Christmas lights duct taped to it, which, of course, I left up. I really doubt such a situation can happen anymore–I don’t think so anyway, gotta feeling the area got the hell gentrified out of it. Anyway this is a brief little mention to the South Park Trailer Park (which I hope, along with the everlasting mud puddle, still exists, but I have my doubts and I refuse to check on it). Anyway, I just found out that the American Trailer Parks have been around since the 1920’s; so let us call this year the 100th, since no one else is staking a claim.

-Two-

I’ll be as Holy as You Let Me (and a Word Was Born)

I’ve begun a long forestalled project this year. I am reading the King James Bible cover to cover. I read one chapter of it a day, everyday (I know it will take a very long time, but there is nothing that dies harder than an old lady–so, with a nod to Kate Bush, I’m running up Calvary Hill, no problem). Today (not this today, but on the today I write this) I read Genesis 32. Jacob had just rassled the Lord in 31 and today he made up with his brother Esau. It is incredible the amount of jerks you meet in Genesis. Guys who instruct their wives to pretend to be their sisters to protect themselves; and there were women who told their husbands to bang their female slaves then called the resulting children their own (no word on the slaves’ feelings) . And then there was Onan, he of the “Blue Ball Express–which always pulls out on time”–God was not pleased with Onan–and I find myself wondering just how did the Lord “slew” him? Still, I find myself no longer as unfairly aligned with the darkness in my soul against the scriptures. Good things often happened to deficient people (such as Jacob, later Israel), because they were able to grow and change. A lot of the time preachers do not express the flux nature of Genesis, which I find detrimental to the message.

Now, I’ve begun the project (which I will complete unless smited or smoted or even smittened) not as an aim for heaven, but as a way of understanding something I’ve always taken aim at with fangs bared and claws extended. That is unfair of me, so the project is underway. So far I am certain that the Bible is a series of allegories, with occasional real persons and places added. You have to allow for that because, for instance, it is impossible for two persons to create an entire species. Moreover, the lifespans are ridiculous. But there is value in this book, along with the great Sermon on the Mount and poetry such as the Lord’s Prayer. Anyway, no one in the world would love to know God more than I–but there is no way I would ever want to be Tammy Faye Baker. If faced with that choice, I will quote Twain “All right then, I’ll go to hell.”

But there is a genuine comparison between the human behaviours of ago to those of now (and all before, between, and what is likely to come). The people of Sodom were so horrible that a man, Lot, who offered up his virgin daughters to star in a gang bang so he could be a good host to his guests (preventing their star turn in the proposed gang bang) is the only righteous man in town. This was followed by the conversion to sodium by Mrs. Lot; still, I can identify with Lot’s wife, I would have looked back, especially when told not to. I think her name should be Sodo-Chloe–for sodium chloride. Then there was the incest in the cave, which was proably shaped like a trailer.

Ha! Get it! Trailer Park humour in the Old Testament! Okay, fine whatever. But due to that event the Bible has allowed me to invent a new word, which I humbly introduce to the English Language:

Precetious (n) Telling a “new Joke” that has already been told or is currently going round the joke cycle.

My mobile home shaped cave for Lot and his daughters must be precetious. It is too obvious with all the slamming of poor people with associations of incest and trailer parks. Plus it is “cool” to ridicule the Bible. I am stepping back for that; I’m for humour and holy books, but I am done with the scornful approach. For example, George Carlin (who was a genius, but when he got older, frankly, he began to slip and was not much more evolved comically than Dice Clay) blamed the Bible for over-population. “Go forth and be fruitful.” Well, other than not explaining China or India, it was precetious (I love getting my word underlined with the uptight red squiggle) for certain. George, I think, got pretty used to all the butt-kissing the younger generations of comics laid on him. Hey, the same went for the monumentally unfunny Bob Hope and Milton Berle. The only comic I have ever seen who seemed unimpressed by his ascension to the holy was Richard Pryor. Even when he was terribly sick I could see the “fuck off” in his eyes. Eddie Murphy did a wonderful imitation of Richard’s act–but Richard was most extremely first–and Pryor, unchained, is my candidate for the funniest person ever.

Hmm, I seem to have lost my way, even though introducing my Bible Study and new word was the object of this “lesson” number two.

So let us moveth forward.

-Three-

The 599th Week That Was

So many wonderful things have occurred in weeks 500-599 that one is tempted to put on Green Day’s Good Riddance and get weepy about it all. But let us not get overly stupid. A number is a number and there is nothing more special about 599 than there is in any other. More good things is always number the numero uno desirement. (Maybe another new word?)

Ever erudite Geraint Jonathan returned Sunday with Shakespeare the Tease. You need not be an expert on the Bard to enjoy Geraint work (but some knowledge is helpful). Like the subject Geraint is a master of wit and poetic prose. And there are no truer words today than those writ four-hundred years ago.

Taking the Plunge by M.A.B. Lee led off the work week and forever reshaped the concept of the plumber’s helper. And although one might feel that there was a lot of this tale at the surface–oh no, there was and is so much more to it. Absolutely funny as hell and a great read first thing in a day. So well thought out and presented.

Tuesday brought us The Potato Man by Leigh-Anne Burley. Life can build up on you as well as in you. And in just a few words Leigh-Anne showed us the implosion of a human being. A truly sad event, but maybe it can help someone who sees him or herself on the sofa, hating the same sort of life.

Shoshauna Shy (who has a real cool name, if you ask me) returned with Iowa on Wednesday. I am similar in age to the kids in this tale and trust me she got the way the American world was for little kids in the sixties. The old days were not always the good ones, no matter what people tell you. It is also a personal story, like Leigh-Anne’s, with heartbreak, but being young, there was hope as well.

Joe Ducato presented The Duster on Thursday. This one mixes the fantastic with the grim often idiotic overly orderly society in which laws are followed because, well, because. You find yourself rooting for “The Duster” even though his task is a tall one that gets ever higher by the moment.

Right now I must confess to writing The Hydra of Lambistan. It is 5:27 A.M. and it is easy to confess to my sins prior to sunrise. Anyway, for those of you who read it and commented kindly, I greatly appreciate you. And for those of you who chose the old If You Cannot Say Anything Nice, Then Say Nothing at All bit–in my mind The Thumper Commandment, well. I guess I owe you my thanks as well (but not to a sizeable portion).

Anyway, here’s a reminder to please do things you are not likely to do and further thanks for those of you who do such good deeds without being prodded by one of those giant wooden forks you used to see on dining room walls in the 1970s.

And farewell to the 500’s. It requires not a doctorate to figure out that it takes about two years to do a hundred, so I hope you remember to return next week when Hugh yanks the 600’s, doubtlessly screaming, spitting, shitting and kicking, into the world for, as the Beatles once put it, a damn good wacking (metaphorically of course, for LS deplores violence on numbers).

Extra Note

This paragraph is being added a few days after I had scheduled the article, please forgive me if it comes off a bit choppy. But I feel I should make special mention for Dolly Parton, who died yesterday. For me there are three famous people I have always believed I will be extra sad about when they go: Carol Burnett, Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton. They all have/had a special quality of friendly respect that cannot be faked. Carol is still with us and I hope she makes a hundred, but, like with Loretta before, I must bid farewell to the unlikely yet wonderful lady from the south. Dolly and Loretta Lynn were quite special yet utterly different although they came from similar backgrounds. Below is a clip of my favorite Dolly song.

The next day…I want all the Cool Famous People to please stop dying for a little while. Tim Curry was awfully cool and like with Dolly, his passing leaves a sadness.

Rocky Horror is immortal, but this wasn’t bad either:

-Four-

Grammar Stuff

Word I vow to stop misspelling: Here I’ve decided to add grammar mistakes to the ongoing list. This time out fewer versus less is the subject. I keep forgetting they are not the same, that “fewer” means a decrease in the actual, knowable number while “less” refers to uncountable mass numbers, like traffic and such. It is one of those mistakes that most of us make–or at least whatever group it is that includes yours truly.

Bi-word of the bi-week: Collywobbles (n) “whimsical word for butterflies in the stomach”

Hated Word of the Bi-Week: “Icon/iconic.” I have had enough of it. Please stop using it. Such laziness unless used ironically or in dialogue.

-Five-

List Battle Royale

The list this bi-week is different from the norm. First of all it is neither one to ten nor an A to Z offering, it is a list of seven, each item representing a day of the week. My idea is to present a Battle Royale, that wrestling gimmick in which a bunch of steroid-infused bozos hit the ring and go at it until the one guy the promoter says will be the winner remains. This battle involves songs that represent days of the week and will end with a clip of the pre-ordained winner.

The Combatants:

Monday: Come Monday Jimmy Buffet

Tuesday: Tuesday Afternoon Moody Blues

Wednesday: Goodbye Ruby Tuesday The Stones because I cannot think of a Wednesday song and have enough integrity not to google for one

Th: Thursday’s Child Bowie

Friday: Friday on My Mind Easybeats

Sat: Saturday Night’s All right For Fighting E.J. (my band did that one, unbelievable time signature)

Sun: Sunday Morning Sidewalk Kris Kristofferson

The Action:

“Hello folks, Irene the Idler here to call the action of the Great Song of the Day Battle ROY-Al. All seven have entered the squared circle, though Sunday appears to be monumentally intoxicated as Lindsay Lohan. He has staggered off to a corner and appears to be trying to roll a cigarette.

“There’s the ring of the bell. And it is clear that the Moodies and the Stones hooked up to form an allegiance. They have jumped Bowie and Buffet and have excused both from the big dance early. But neither went out first because the Easybeats understood that they did not belong in the same ring with the others and committed the Battle ROY-AL version of suicided by grabbing a handful of its own long hair and yanking itself over the top ring while the opening bell was still ringing.

“This leaves the Moodies, Stones, Sir Elton and Kris K, who appears to have passed out in his corner. Now folks are there two more duplicitous people in music than Mick Jagger and Elton John? Everyone knows the answer to that save for the Moody Blues. And out the first B-list super group goes after a from behind double drop kick from Mick and Reggie.

“The problem with duplicity and evil alliances is that such things must come to a head when all the true competition has been eliminated by unholy teamwork–It appears that both Mick and Elton had made a pre-alliance with Kris, but guess who was feigning drunkenness? And first there goes Elton then Mick (who is yanked clear by the arm of Johnny Cash), as Willie Nelson distracts the ref. It’s as clever as when Kris turned around on three when dueling Jack Elam in the Billy the Kid movie—Ring the bell, and behold the winner who is—

Jesus Christ, it’s getting to be like the obits page around here: Anyway and in memory of Frank Beard (1949-2026)–Stop dying already

And I was just thinking of her when she died this morning. This one hurts personally, for she was always known in my life for her positve energy. Bigger than life, a female Freddie Mercury to me

Leila

All Stories, Editor Picks, Fantasy, Humour, Short Fiction

The Hydra of Lambistan by Leila Allison

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I wake up every morning, face on desk, at the wee Sinatra hour of three. I’m surrounded by empty jugs and mounded ashtrays that look like Beaver dams. One thing I have going for me is I do not suffer from hangovers as badly as the Boss, her boozy hand heebie-jeebies (man oh man how those things do the St. Vitus boogaloo) will sometimes schedule me for 3:02, but mostly I come to on the hour.

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Short Fiction

Sunday Whatever – An essay by Geraint Jonathan – Shakespeare the Tease (Or, The Rest is Scilens)

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It’s somehow apt that among Shakespeare’s most idiosyncratic spellings is his rendering the word ‘silence’ as ‘scilens’. No other writer of the period is known to have spelt the word in this way. It appears in the printed plays and it appears in the manuscript of Sir Thomas More, a collaborative work written in six different hands, one of which, referred to by paleographers as ‘Hand D, is thought to be Shakespeare’s. There’s good evidence to back it up: quite apart from the distinctive spellings, the handwriting seems consistent with that of his various signatures.

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 598 – Spread Your Wings And Ragdoll Too, Crap Cocaine And Mr Bowman Would Have Had Their Backs.

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PLEASE NOTE – WE HAVE BEEN HAVING TROUBLE WITH THE SITE FOR THE LAST THREE DAYS SO WE ARE NOT WORKING THE WAY THAT WE NORMALLY DO. HOPEFULLY IT WILL BE SORTED SOON – Hugh, Diane, Leila.

Week 598 has arrived!!

I’ll leave the lists to Leila but I realised this week that I have a few tunes that I go back to when I need to calm down.

Strangely, my favourite one is one of the last that I’ll ever hear. Well that’s not true as I’ll be being cremated. Maybe it will calm my being / spirit / soul or the fuck all that I’ll have become. Weirdly it’s a piece of classical music. I don’t know much about classical but there are a few pieces that I enjoy. I will be accompanied into the after-life or the fuck all there with Delibes ‘Flower Duet.’

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Fantasy, Humour, Short Fiction

The Oz Solution by Leila Allison

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The Lernaean Hydra of Greek mythology has no set number of heads. Whatever the word in ancient Greek meaning “a buttload” applies to the noggin total of the belligerent Sea Monster, whose dispatch was the Second Labor of Hercules. But the previously Romanized version of the Hydra that recently arrived in Saragun Springs has just four heads–Vicki Beckious, Nikki Nolteious, The Situationious and Zippy-the-Pinheadious–but considering that they tend to talk at the same time, four is enough.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction

Week 597: Random Vexations Vol. 2; Five Corners’ Fiasco and the A to Z of Barroom Punchables

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-1-

This wrap has been a frustration. I have had too many ideas than a lack; when that happens everything collides and I wind up with an accident site instead of an intelligent article.

There’s an intersection in the community of Sunnyslope, Washington that is called Five Corners. It currently involves two large streets intersecting at a four way stop. But many years ago there was a third street (which was like a line joining a cross, stopping between two of the streets and did not go farther) that met at the intersection, nothing greater than a private drive granted streetdom and its own stop sign. This created the Five Corners. It is still called Five Corners to this day even though the smaller street was closed in 1980-something and there now is a giant concrete block at what used to be its meeting point at the intersection.

I’m unaware of any serious accidents at the intersection but it sure caused enough fender benders to vex the insurance companies. Imagine five drivers sitting at five stop signs, each one trying to figure out the meaning of life. I got in that mess once, and decided to drop gear, burn rubber and take all the fingers aimed in my direction with the best grace expendable. Life is too short when you are twenty-four.

Anyway a similar event happened in my mind this week. A pile up of five ideas that I had no real feelings for happened in my mental Five Corners. One involved religion (observations such as Sarah, Abraham’s Wife, was 90 but a hot 90); another featured personal music history observation involving how all popular bands sound like the one original group that existed for about three years; Catfoonery; an incomplete additional philosophy on Wildlife and something else that I do not quite remember and do not care enough to look for. It was a tiresome mess.

It may surprise some of you to learn this: Drugs and alcohol do not fix everything. You see, after you take enough of both you tend to find yourself isolated from the human race by mutual consent, which, believe it or not, is not a bad thing at all. Sadly, however, even after the most enthusiastic session of self abuse is over, the little Five Corners pile ups we create will still be there, and in the opium infused-bourbon afterdream, the situation gets no prettier.

Fortunately, however, for those of us who need to salvage enough of an idea to write a post, a lifetime of cobbling together something from nothing as a means of surviving until the next self created disaster arises, gives the strange hope of the forlorn and overdrawn. And as I looked into the dismal drear of it all, a few words popped into my head, left there by the hookah sucking angel employed by the small god of the pointless crisis. The angel said “Random Vexation, Volume 2” and went back to wherever such a personage dwells.

Well, by jingle, buy low, sell jangle fly high–there you have it. Consider all of the above Volume Two of my recently begun Random Vexations file.

And let us now proceed onto something more uplifting in purpose.

-2-

The Week That Was

Dale Williams Barrigar comes by on every second Sunday of the month with yet another essay. These works are always happy surprises except for the fact that their is nothing unexpected about their high quality. Skid Row Wine a study of Jack Kerouac is Dale’s latest on the site, and once again he displayed his rare talent for making scholarship come off both personal and sincere. The focus here was the brilliant yet troubled (a fit all description for I’d say two thirds of all great artists). And although it is impossible, Dale has a capacity to transform his education into words that give the reader the impression that he was in the same room with the people he often writes about. Truly a stunning talent, and it is a pity that he is not yet better known.

Monday was a joyful occasion because it marked the debut site story by Cris Aboobaker, The Second Husband. Cris is a good writer who had some rejections, but it was never a matter of quality. And he has always been professional and continuously seeks to improve his work. Since this one came out, Cris has had a second acceptance, which will appear in a month or so. His work is well planned but not to the degree that is stiff or over-explained. It always feels great to see this sort of person do well.

Leanne Simmons (another fine person and a professional in style and attitude) returned and gave us Baby’s Breath on Tuesday. The closing lines of this are incredible and leave a wonderful impression. This vignette is a masterful work of timing and style. So often you can see where the writer is struggling to get everyone in, but not here, it passes as effortlessly as a summer breeze.

Joe Mallon dished out the noir and then some on Wednesday with No Moon in January. This is an especially easy type of story to fuck up (forgive the profanity here, but when in noir…), the line between crisp and cool and laughable is not clearly defined. And there are even times when a bit of over the top works perfectly. And although this is a long piece, for us, Joe was able to pull it off with style and restraint. The amazing part was the tension never waned, not once. It always felt on the edge of danger.

The Claw by Mark Czanic made Thursday a better place. Sometimes when people look back, we do so with a lot of automatic mental editing. It’s the writer who can look back and recreate without flinching or selling out who has done (in this case) his job. I feel that this one requires you to think as you get along with it. And I also believe that is a good thing. A temendously alive piece that brings back the soul of the past.

Another Week that Was came to a head yesterday with Relentless Pickle by our dear site friend David Henson. In all ways, and a manner that cannot be artificial, David is the salt of the earth, a charming and reasonable and well mannered soul. And I find it especially encouraging that such a man can produce tremendous works of imagination as we have here. Hooray for David–and since he makes an effort to comment on the works of others, I hope that everyone who reads his work might leave him a comment.

-3-

Word of the bi-week: Taradiddle (n) a petty lie

Bonus Word: Hobbledehoy (n) fancy word for a young dork

-4-

Word I vow not to misspell any more: No one For years I thought it was one thing. “Noone” still catches me unawares. (I also have similar tussles with awhile and a while).

-5-

The Big List

I have Hugh to thank for the title of this bi-week’s list: Who Would You Automatically Punch if Introduced to in a Pub/Tavern?

Ah, life there are so many punch-worthy faces yet so few fists. The list contains job titles and specific persons. The abundance has resulted in an A to Z, with A and W suggested by Hugh himself

A: Advertising Fuckwits (Hugh has this nailed tighter to the cross than was the Man from Galilee. I refused to watch the show Mad Men because I consider advertising only a link better on the food chain than rapist)

B: Blithering Blabblers (These are the loudmouths who called themselves “influencers.” For some reason these fools often get themselves shot to death by cartel hitters in Mexico. I’m never for that sort of thing, but it doesn’t surprise me much, either)

C: Charlie Sheen (I cannot support the idea of getting rich by being an asshole, then exploiting HIV as though it were a resource or an excuse. Plainly, dude is a drunk loud mouth and if you get a chance be sure to wear gloves)

D: Demonae Suburbiae (These are the well fed little twinks and twinkettes who go around clad in black all the while pretending just how miserable they are. It’s cool when kids need to experiment as a part of growing up, but it is a long way from cool when they verbally abuse older people and clerks because they can get away with it. I’ll give them all fake ID’s so they can catch their well earned punches)

E: Ever-tuned Goons (These are the bastards who walk around blasting their music on their phones, often amplified by cheap bluetooth speakers on lanyards. The music is usually abusive and is especially keen on racial epithets and misogyny. Almost always scrawny skinheads who are Black wannabees and wear their pants down to their knees. Really can’t expect much from someone who fails to understand just how stupid he looks)

F: Fuckery-fuck-fucked-fuckers (More fake IDs for these underaged fecal skulls who go around making sure that everyone hears their profanity laced observations. Hell annoying from a twelve-year-old, utterly pathetic from a high schooler)

G: Gay Super Heroes: (For some reason there are people who think that behaving like a horny talking Richard Simmons is not only amusing but it is designed to make a social statement. These fools queen it up to the extreme around “straight looking people.” My friend Kevin is an openly gay man who is confident in himself to the degree that he does not feel any need to don a “uniform.” He is a very conservative looking person, by choice not out of fear nor any need to “blend.” Seattle, like most big cities, has a large annual Gay Pride event. A bunch of us went downtown to watch the parade and this one Hero emerged from the crowd and thought he’d shock his interpretation of Kevin by saying a bunch of stupid shit that will not be repeated here. Kevin smiled and grabbed the dude by both butt cheeks, brought him close and laid one on the guy, who turned beet red. Books and covers people, books and covers)

H: Holocaust Deniers

I: Iconics (Everything that is popular is iconic for these dopes. Jessica Simpson referred to “Daisy Duke shorts” as iconic.)

J: (A tie) Jerry Springer Show Guests and Jersey Shore People

K: Kilt Wearing Americans Who are Only Half Scottish (I know two of these guys–and trust me, neither have the legs for it)

L: Larry Flynt (Big difference between Playboy and a dirty porn rag, Larry was it)

M: MAGA LOVERS AND HATERS (I’d love to send these guys to the moon)

N: Neo, Old Fashioned, and In Between Nazis

O: Oprah (I used to like her, but a person can run her mouth too long. Forty years is too damn long)

P: Prince and Princess Anyone

Q: Queen and Qing Anyone

R: Rae H. (An enemy from seventh grade until I graduated high school. Let’s just say she is not “for” people like me and leave it at that. I still hate her. In the song “Santeria” the singer “has something for Poncho’s punk ass”–just saying that goes too for little shitty Miss Rae)

S: Sally Jesse Rapheal (For non-Americans she was the female Jerry Springer)

T: Twenty-Seven of the Forty-six Presidents of the United States (sometimes all except Lincoln, Teddy, JFK and Madison)

U: Uri Geller (tiresome con artist–go bend shit in hell, Uri)

V: Vladimir Putin (Gotta be one obvious one on every list, he’s the one for this)

W: Wanks Who Change Systems Without Being Asked (Hugh’s second contribution to the list goes a long way to explain punched computer screens. The platform (I so hate the modern meaning of that once harmless word) we run the insides of the site on is famous for making unwanted improvements. Then they do not tell you about them and you find yourself having to figure out how now to do something that used to be clear. Bastards)

X: Xavier Cugat (Almost forgotten old time band leader responsible for inflicting Charo on the American public via game shows and guest roles on stuff like the goddam Love Boat–he married her when he was sixty-six and she was allegedly “fifteen.” I was one more fucking “cuchi-cuchi” away from committing an act of extreme violence on many occasions)

Y: Yuppies (These people change their labels constantly, but their gentrified smell is everlasting. Each and every one of them, male, female, whatever, has a voice that reminds me of Robin Leach)

Z: Zoot Suit Close Talkers (a rare species that popped up in the 1980s. Superskinny guys in baggy shiny suits and they always drew up real close in bars asking you all kinds of questions ranging from horoscope signs to your favorite sexual positions. This rare band of fool never assaulted me (oh so fucking as if), but they were all over the more naive types. Highly inspired by Prince and Morris Day of the Time, but minus the looks and talent. I’ve heard that there still are a few hanging around, but in my estimation that is as unlikely as Jimmy Savile coming back from the dead and getting elected PM)

Leila

Robert Plant turns 78 next week…don’t worry, it’s not Stairway

Short Fiction

Week 596 – Cattle-prod Your Child, We Do Have A ‘No Fucking Chance List’ And You Can’t Escape.

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Here we are at Week 596

Every now and then I try to give a few tips on what we’re looking for and our thought process in deciding.

Today I want to point out a huge NO! NO! This was inspired by a submission and my sister who is a proud grand-parent. (Aye-One of those!) You see, she had a video of her grand-child who is my Great Grand-Nephew (I’m not sure that deserves to be capitalised) dancing. The kid is two years old and his dancing is shite. All kids at that age dance shite. Maybe apart from Michael Jackson but he turned out to be a junky paedo.

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Short Fiction, Writers Reading

Writers Read – And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie an essay by Leila

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Agatha Christie 1939

Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None was my mother’s all time favorite book. If that isn’t true, well, she can come back from the other side and tell me about it (that statement causes me a bit more anxiety than you might think). She died fifteen years ago and lately I’ve been re-examining the crash and thud of our extremely difficult and often semi-violent relationship. Now, I never swung at Mom except once when I was nine, and she actually pulled a knife on me once when we were both considerably older. I believe “volatile” sums it up if I had only one word to choose from.

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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 595: Who’s On Your Wall and a New Feature

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I went to high school with a girl named Michelle “Mick” Kleinschmidt. Mick looked as far removed from Kleinschmidtiness as you can imagine. Her father was an American of German ancestry and her mother (whom Mick strongly resembled) was a Filipina. Mick’s parents met and were married in Manila. He was in the Navy and brought Mrs. K to live in the United States. Bremerton, Washington is a Navy town, and after Mick’s father was honorably discharged he landed a job at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. This is very common in this part of the world and continues to happen to this very day. (For the first time ever, while I worked on base, I met a female Ensign who brought her Filipino husband home to America.)

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