Whether it Be Curbing or Kerbing, Nothing Vomits Sweeter Than Stolen Beer
Society has been going to hell since the invention of the Good Old Days. Funny thing there–because it’s true and yet there are new Good Old Days rolling out of the Good Old Days Factory constantly. A Paradox, until you remember that New People are being produced at even a greater frequency.
Continue reading “Week 472: Where Have You Gone Darby Crash? Punk Bed Fiasco and Not All That Irritates Makes a Pearl”
Week 471 is the week that was.
And when you think on it, it’s also the week that is.
And as I start to type, then it’s also the week that will be!
Don’t you just hate it when someone hasn’t a clue about their tenses?
I read this week that Mary Poppins has been re-classified due to an obscure reference.
I don’t want to go into this again but I do wonder where this is all going to end?
Actually, I don’t think it will. I reckon all films will soon be classed as unsuitable if any of the characters light up a cigarette.
Continue reading “Week 471 – I Wonder What The Executives Called It? The Fear Should Be After And Falsetto Ain’t For Me.”
This week our most published writer, Tom Sheehan presents a little thing that is not exactly a short story but is wonderful it its own right. Tom is a master of the craft and language and we hope you take the time this Sunday to let him speak to you.
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The Lady and the Lumberjack
Lottie Littlejohn had worked the lone general store in Clint Falls, Montana, by herself after her husband fell across the counter and died from a heart attack, no family near enough to help her, now approaching five long years at the task. And she never looked at a man out of the corners of her eyes, not with hope, interest or hunger of the tricky sort, two ways of getting together, her to him or him to her.
It all popped loose one day when a lumberjack, a regular monthly customer, Daniel Ranford, brawny across his shoulders, forearms and wrists carrying near-emblems of his trade, took an extra look at the lady behind the counter.
If ignition was ever spontaneous, this did the errand at hand, cracked open another door as though it came loose of hinges, or the last swing of an ax sharpened for the deed.
In a manual world, lamp lonely lit when necessary for late hours or the darkest of days, it was singular, open, a notion or an idea on the run and delivered as such. For a woodsman whose life and success were explosions of energy, the drop of a tree was not the final act of the deed but there came endless splitting of logs and succeeding piles of stove wood or construction lumber in a daily mix. Destination went in every direction, sundry routes, defined needs as demands chased his energies.
Ranford fired all barrels of his attention, and managed to slip in an extra visit to the store to move the concentration, Lottie wondering if he had lost a brace of supplies or let sourness make an extra invasion.
Lottie began to pay attention to her appearance, stayed with an attractive hair-do, changed her clothes as often as she could, do a last-minute fix when she saw him coming or figured he was due for a visit; all possibilities checked and doublechecked to her satisfaction, and, hopefully, his.
Both ends made improvements, the way they would look at each other, without saying a word out of sync, like love warming up to a noble task for a lumberjack or a store clerk. She marked one minor problem with gout on one of his knuckles, and the other was an ear for soft country music in an occasional recording he purchased, as if every other visit had worn the records out, down to the nub, or, if possible, down to the last lonely tear in his eyes. the soft music finding a soft heart. And Lottie noting changes and impacts from her observation on the one man now attracting her attention.
When Ranford spun loose a soft country song from memory, “When Love Makes the Mountain Taller,” Lottie was home with a new energy, herself near drawn down over the counter, her heart now wide open with remembrance of a known love that carried her for lovely years, wrapped her in its hunger, let the topic rush the richness of old thoughts, new advantages for old souls.
Life on the upswing; nothing else like it, for storekeeper free of the counter, lumberjack free of the forest. The world can turn around in the smallest sphere; love and hunger make the drawing, the pairing.
Con-Fused Box
About ten years ago I wrote a book and wanted to sell it to a publisher. This is when I discovered the dreaded cover letter and outline–Evil Twins who walketh the literary hellword much like Beelzebub and Captain Howdy. Nearly all publishers who look at un-agented work ask to see these two guys.
At first I thought, no problem. I just wrote a book, I can produce a cover letter and outline.
I was wrong. I had written a book but I could not (and still cannot) compose a concise cover letter or a sense-making outline. The problem was that I did not want to do either of those tasks because they were the type of work that tripped the innards of my mental fuse box. Still, my life has always been heavy with unwanted chores that my mental machete whacks through on a daily basis. Yet the blade wasn’t up to either task. I emerged from the jungle, toting my mixed metaphor, defeated due to my inability to summon ‘Bub and Howdy on demand.
Later on I found myself warming up to a pair of what turned out to be highly uninspired and unoriginal notions. I figured I’d flout protocol and do as I saw fit–an action that nearly always is a recipe for shame and failure. I later found out that my big Ideas were as common as Dandelions in May. Yet at the risk of embarrassment, I will share them with you.
The first is the affectation of a “Breezy” demeanor. This usually happens in the cover letter only, when it is evident to the writer that she cannot create a proper cover letter. She adopts the guise of a “character” and writes a few contrary and wildly off the topic sentences in lieu of a cover letter–in vain hope that her “unique charm” will win the day: “When Leila isn’t murdering publishers and their families late at night with a machete she writes peerless fiction…”
Breezy doesn’t work out.
The other is the “Belligerent Genius.” She will lower herself just this once to do as asked. Especially troublesome in the outline: “Here the complexities of the plot cannot be surmised in a few cheap words; some intellect will be necessary on the part of the reader…”
The Belligerent Genius never hears back from the publisher either.
I am ruefully guilty of having committed both sins in the past. And although we do not publish books, nor ask for more than a basic informative email, I have discovered that there are a few (very few) fellow sinners in submissions–who cannot even do that correctly and will opt for Breezy or even Belligerent instead. I will not chastise people who engage in familiar folly (that’s my word of the week-folly), because it would be hypocritical of me, even though I have seen the light. But with that said, such behavior never works out well.
I’m also deficient at segues. You’d think that through sheer repetition I would improve. But I am the sort of person who walks fifteen-thousand steps a day and puts on weight. It’s all a part of the natural disorder of my system. Still, if I head the next section with a positive word and jump into it, the damage will be controlled and the minor segue faux pas (hopefully) soon forgotten.
Winners
This week featured number thirty-four by a long-time site supporter, the quick second appearance of another (which has happened a lot lately) and we welcome three first time contributors.
David Henson opened the week with The Man Who Pulled Himself Together. It is one of those rare things that works in stretched realism and as a metaphor. David has pulled himself together thirty-four times and also with his daily comments on the works of others. I feel that this one was as hard to do as tapping your head with one hand and circling your stomach with the other. Yet David was able to make this unlikely scenario work; the flow is perfect and it is easy to buy into as well.
Adam Kaz made a quick follow up to his his first story that appeared last week (Random Roommate) with How I Made the Greatest Rock Concert Movie Ever. That is a bold claim and certainly in the eye and ear of the beholder, but there is no denying the youthful energy and fun of this piece.
Wednesday featured what can be called an expanded folk tale by first time contributor Iván Brave. Karass is both imaginative and charming. It is always a great idea to examine the concepts of other places and other times; this sort of activity keeps the mind flexible and open. The Ferryman burning his fares, the eccentric (to say the least) “passengers” make this one both fun and enlightening.
Picture the Dead by John Cantwell is a well crafted, elegiac work that resonates and improves with each reading. It’s also one I can’t say too much about without tipping too much. But the overlapping of realities is brilliantly done, as are the idioms.
Our third consecutive newcomer to the site, Brandon Nadeau closed the week with Donn and the Mourning Moon. This one is impossible to describe. But it is unforgettable and doesn’t go more than three words anywhere within without doing something interesting or even amazing.
There they are–our five stars of the week. Only time and possibly decent cover letters will prove if each one has a long future in print. I think they should, but since I have no desire to live forever, I am in no position to make that kind of promise. Still, struggling segue-wise, I close with a list of ten tales that I feel have withstood the test of time. I encourage further suggestions.
Ten Great Short Stories of Yore (Proof that the Dead can still do well)
What were you doing at the start of the Summer of ‘19? Once upon a time that question brought images of straw hats and trolley cars. But we now have a new ‘19 to define in our memories, though it is still a bit too green for that at the moment.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns Ghost Hats by Marco Etheridge”
Well hello there folks!
Here we are at week 469 and time for the relevant round up!
A couple of writing things have come up over the last week or so and we thought that we’d explore them further.
Continue reading “Week 469 – Always Listen,Honour Your Mammy’s Mammy And Never Crawl In Brown Water.”
Tastes
I find that I have a narrow spectrum when it comes to reading material. Along with fiction I like non-fiction written by good writers– biographies by David McCollough are a fine example. I never read “celebrity autobiography” and consider the purchase of such a capital offense. The good thing about books is that you can get a feel for them by reading the first couple of pages (forget the blurbs on the cover). Hardly can ask to watch the first five minutes of a film before deciding to buy a ticket or not.
Continue reading “Week 468: Personal Preference; A Week of Preferred Works and the Fictional Pet Department”
Beth dies the night she packs her honeymoon suitcase. She folds a red-fringed shawl and places it carefully on top of her clothes. She zips up the suitcase and wheels it to the front door.
“I’m good to go.”
Her husband, Pete, walks into the room.
“What do you mean you’re good to go? Where are we going?”
“Oh, Pete.”
Well here we go again, another week, another round-up.
We’re very busy with those who are still trying to hang onto their New Year’s resolution but we know that come the middle of February, most will give up.
Continue reading “Week 467 – Why Not Try Brain Surgery, News And I Love The Daily Record.”
Our friend Tom Sheehan does everything in a big yet dignified way. He has the most stories and years and (probably reruns). And it is from his sizable pile of successful stories (gleaned from a long and successful life) we once again run Recall and Reveille.
Continue reading “Sunday Rerun: Recall and Reveille by Tom Sheehan”
literally stories 