Reed watched as Orla moved closer to his wife, as if intent on convincing him just how much prettier she was. He didn’t need convincing.
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Category: Short Fiction
Comes a Prisoner Bound in Rags by Tom Sheehan
The mountains were sunlit, like glory loose of heaven, dark as old souls at their valley roots, in the clutch of earth trembling from a sky-high battle with its last aerial shot not yet fired, its last echo of death riding the sweep of air, when the screeching, not identified, began on high. The sounds of death had breath to spare, and the U.S Air Force’s F86 Sabre pursuit fighter plane from the 4th Fighter Interceptor Wing, out of Suwon Air Base or Kimpo Air Base, both in South Korea, tumbled from the sky, the roar, the screech, the scream of air being sliced nearly by its atoms or other miniscule thinness not measureable by any of the troops facing each other on the ground.
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Anklebiters Meet God by Matthew Lyons
The riot starts over a juice box or some other stupid shit and then the nasty little dogfuckers are everywhere with their teeth and shitty little hands, so Mr Procter has to run to the art room to get something to defend himself with. The big blade is missing off the paper cutter, so he has to settle for an old metal T-square that he swings like an ax. From in here, he can hear grownups dying and little voices screaming that God is dead, a maniac anthem chorused with shrill, cruel laughter.
Scotch on the Rocks by Bruce Levine
I wanted to laugh. I had no idea why. There was no apparent reason, but I had an inordinate desire to laugh.
It had been a strange day.
Annie’s Shoes by Donna Aversa
The remarkable thing about catalogues is that Annie could lose herself in the glossy possibilities of the pages. She could pretend that her body, swollen by the side-effects of the steroid treatments, once again could wear the same styles that the impeccably tailored models did. And that she had someplace to wear them. The brunette in the cardinal-red cashmere-blend twin-set with three-quarter sleeves didn’t judge. She had a half-smile that welcomed anyone, even Annie, to copy her look. The paisley scarf is available on page 27 where inset photos show just how to wrap it in three simple steps. The classic black pointed toe pumps are on page 56.
Week 113 – Pickles, Crackers And James Wayne.
Another week has come and gone. I can’t believe that we are into March with Week 113.
I’ve been thinking about all those friends and relatives who say things that inspire. Oh and I’m not talking about any sense what-so-ever! I’m talking about the belters that make you choke on your chocolate milk!
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A Journey Begun In Lovers Meeting By JC Freeman
Readers’ Advisory:
The Union of Pennames, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters (UPIFFC) has gone on strike. The reasons for this are unclear, but there’s a bunch of them outside my office window at this very moment alternately singing We Shall Overcome and making unflattering chants that feature my name and the accusation of miserly behavior on my part: “SAY HEY FREEMAN/HOW ABOUT A FEE MAN.” Don’t blame me, I didn’t say these were good chants.
Anyway, my penname, Ms. Leila Allison, seems to be the brains of the outfit, which is the only good news I have to report. Until she either gets bored with this rebellious activity, or the situation is in some other way resolved, I am forbidden to use the alias. Until that time, however, the show must go on.
Yours Truly,
JC Freeman
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Week 109 – Addictions, Jaffa Cakes And a Shoe With No Name
I’ve been wondering this week about how addictive writing is.
Addiction comes in many forms. I have one brother-in-law who is addicted to Dysons and the other is addicted to Jaffa Cakes. It’s hysterical when they get together as one pisses off the other as there are never any crumbs to hoover up.
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Watan By Matthew Richardson
Ah sir, you come upon me just as I am closing for the night. No no, it is not a problem to remain open whilst you make your purchase. Come in, I insist! I would not have you come out all this way on a night such as this and leave empty handed. Commutes are soulless enough endeavours, without being denied sustenance for the sake of an old man closing his establishment five minutes early.
Week 103 – Paris Buns, Titles And Holidays
In the name of the wee man! I thought the number 102 was boring and then I looked up 103. If you ever want a reason to kill yourself, access that piece of amazement.
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