As I write this, Elam, a weird looking Housefly the color of motor oil, but mostly of a golden sheen, has been tormenting me for the past half hour. Lucky for Elam that I’ve progressed into a philosophy that everything above a bedbug (notice the lack of a capital B there) is holy. Flies just make the cut, above the way they are as infants, yet below your basic Aphid (seems strange I should kill Flies as babies but not as adults–something Herod in that). Elam had no name until he just happened to rest where I left my eyeglasses. Greatly enlarged by one of my lenses, I noticed that one of his many eyes was droopy. It gave him a sinister mein. I do not have much more to say about the vexation called Elam; I do suspect he will still be bothering my screen as I write further, or at least until one of the Cats pinch off something more to his liking, but for those curious about his name, please refer to the clip at the bottom of this post.
This week our friend The Stream of Consciousness (SOC) makes an unasked for return. Now, this time SOC will be edited. No Molly Bloom goingonandonaboutwhatandwho flibberjittishness, nor weirdo spelling will appear after this particular sentence. No, this SOC will involve the current crash and thud of my little life as it unfolds on a dreary September morning that already has a touch of autumn in it. But not the good touch of crimson and gold (well outside the gold sheen of Elam), but the slightly fluey nudge you get when you cannot clear a nascent sore throat or rid yourself of the constant observation of skies of mildew and the certainty another war will break out today even though you are not up to fake caring for such matters because they never involve you. That of course leads to an astonishingly empty self admonishment. What about the new orphans? And then you hear Al Pacino’s voice from And Justice For All… berate you: “Dontcha’ care-yuh, dontcha’ care-yuh?”
Bells and drums – the jingle of a cavalry troop’s harness, the thump of hooves on a dusty road – announced the arrival of riders in gray at a bridge in Georgia in July, 1864. Most of the soldiers dismounted while their captain rode onto the bridge and halted before two figures, an old black woman holding a sack and a child.
The line of people stretched all the way around the block. It was 1983, it was Rome, and Mr. Castano’s sculpture work was in high demand for movie sets, fashionistas, and pranksters. The artist also reserved a certain amount of his time to help the injured or disabled with realistic or artistic prosthetics. I was a customer close to this latter category, though the only person I wanted to look right for was myself.
The list of writers nabbed or injured by tuberculosis is staggering. Even Charles Bukowski, at the time living well in Los Angeles, circa 1990 got a dose, and it appears to have opened the door to his death a couple of years down the road.
Here we go again. Another Saturday round up and we are now at Week 602.
A bit of wisdom I read this week. It states that we should never steal, never cheat or lie. Don’t be a despicable human being. This should be a given, but that’s not the reason! You see, our governments hate competition!!
He finds it beneath the firewood, stashed amongst hickory and maple, wrapped in linen cloth and frayed pages of a Daily Express; by its side, ammunition. It is long and unwieldy. Rowan has never held a rifle before. He examines its walnut stock, a Savage Model 110, rubs his palm along the shaft and looks around. As far as he knows, no-one has come to his grandfather’s farm in weeks but the item’s sheer menace beckons caution. Swallows swoop and warble, eyeing his catch, tending their precious nests in the rafters. Does it work? He turns it in his hands, holds it up, takes aim. Is it loaded? He has no idea how to use it. He googles Savage 110, allocates pieces and elements, slings the leather strap over his shoulder and walks to the far end of the barn. The swallows look on in silence. Rowan wonders what he looks like: stupid, no doubt. Yet he doesn’t feel stupid.
I was busy wiping the sweat from my brow when Oliver came over.
“It’s still down,” he said.
“I know that, but is it going any lower,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. My heart was pounding too hard again and I was out of the meds, I hadn’t had time to get to the drugstore and get more. I was going to have a heart attack before thirty-five, it was obscene, it was beyond all reason.
My great great great great great grand daughter, Miss Allison, usually tends to the bi-weekly festivities at Literally Stories, but her continuous state of despair has created a temporary state of mental paralysis brought on by the conspicuous consumption of apple jack on an empty stomach, heart and soul. Therefore she beseeched Yours Truly, Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender Spirit, to fill in for her this bi-week.
“I think the bintarong ate my condom.” That’s a showstopper of an opening sentence, and although it is not literally the opener of Anne Marie Potter’sThe Binturong Blues it catches your attention and quickly sets up a deliriously madcap work of derring do.
Since this is a bit of a milestone, six hundred weeks is something to behold, I’m going to start off in a good mood, I can’t promise that I’ll stay that way as life trudges on and I’ve found that it goes out it’s way to annoy me. I can sit here, being happy and I can guarantee that a phone-call, a thought or an email will make me want to kill someone. Probably the fucker who phoned, or sent the email or I thought about.
So to begin with, I need something to make me smile.
This band always does!!
*I’d also like to ask two quick riddles
1. What do you call a spider with ten eyes?
2. What is so fragile that even stating it’s name breaks it?
Following on from my topic last time, I want to advise, again, something that we have mentioned before. Some topics will never make it, as, well, we just don’t like them. The one that I want to touch on is animal cruelty.
We hate that.
I wrote about Peter Mullen in my previous Saturday’s Post. He has done some brilliant work. (‘Trainspotting’, ‘Neds’, ‘My Name Is Joe’ etc.
I wanted to watch ‘Tyrannosaur’ which he also stared in but THANKFULLY I read about the first scene. Due to that, I’ve avoided it like the plague.
I also have only watched ‘The Wee Man’ just once because of the same sort of reason.
Gwen loves those John Wick films but when I heard his dog was killed – I ain’t watching them either.
This is a lesson to the fucking outraged – If you know you will be outraged, don’t read the fucking story!!
Since this is number six hundred, I reckon I need to do something enlightening and appropriate. I thought about a lot of the topics I’ve used in these and also the points I’ve made and those that have been made to us. I’ve come up with this. It’s a sort of list of things that I’ve used and the experience that we’ve all gained. I’ve done these since Week 64 and Leila has taken one every two weeks since around Week 360ish.
I would say that I have learnt a helluva a lot about the site, these postings, writing and myself in that time.
So in no particular order!
– A statistic first. We’ve had over 17 000 submissions.
– Since Week 64, I’ve been trying to work out how to easily find out how many writers we have.
– From those, only three people who’ve been published took umbrage with us.
– There are only three previous writers who we would now never consider.
– AI is something newish. There wasn’t many stories of this ilk at the beginning. There is now and they are mostly fucking boring.
– There are always exceptions.
– Sometimes there are never exceptions.
– We changed the guidelines once and had to change them back due to some woke fuckwit. I really do regret that…But for the good of the site, I was happy to accept my regret.
– All our decisions are for the good of the site.
– Telling us you have chronic dandruff and such like is more information than we need.
– If we piss you off, have some pride, stay pissed off!!
– If you become un-pissed off, I can’t promised that we’ll do the same.
– A decision is a decision, asking us to change our mind is futile.
– We can spot passive aggressiveness in an email a mile away. We will respond courteously but we really want to answer with ‘Fuck off and die’!
– We’ll always be professional.
– In our minds and wishes, we can be really childish.
– Comments instigate thought and inspiration.
– Those who don’t comment or read comments are missing out on thought and inspiration.
– I’ve used comments between myself, Leila and Diane as inspiration for these postings.
– We can’t thank those who comment enough!
– As already mentioned in this post, animal cruelty stories will never get through. I’m still traumatised by the late, great Tom Sheehan’s brilliant but harrowing story ‘Titanic’. (I’m filling up as we speak)
– We all miss Tom Sheehan.
– We’re all in awe of the amount and quality of Tom’s work.
– The three topics that I use for a title in these postings, I try not to use the words from the body of the posting.
– I’ve always wondered if anyone noticed the point above?
– Sometimes the number of the posting has relevance.
– There are only two films with the number 600. They are ‘The 600’ (A Rwandan film) and ‘600 Miles’ staring Tim Roth.
– I know fuck all about Rwandan films.
– Anything with Tim Roth in is worth watching – I’ll have a look.
– Any song that has the number 600 in it, to me, looks like shit.
– I know very little about classical literature and very seldom do I use any content in these postings. Except to slag off ‘1984’ and Shakespeare.
– I wonder if my slagging off of any topic is insecurity?
– See above – Fuck that – They bore me!!!
– I sometimes scribble down bits and pieces that’ve made me think and I hope that I can use them in The Saturday Posting, but as a rule I very seldom know what I’m going to write about. – I’m sure you’ve noticed.
– Another old tip. Never in the name of fuck, class you or your story as hysterical.
– PC, Woke, Proclaimers and The Outraged are and always will be cunts.
– I swear a lot but I don’t give a fuck!
– Our (You) writers are as good, if not better than many a published writer!!
– I will always hate romance!
– Sometime happy coincidences happen. This part of the posting is exactly 600 words!
Okay onto this week’s stories.
We had two new writers, a third timer, a sixth timer and a twenty-fifth timer.
To our new folks, we welcome them, hope that they have fun on the site and continue to send us their work.
Send in a Re-Run (A story you read a while back and enjoyed) Throw in an introduction and we will post what you send us.
Please keep commenting or begin to comment.
Say ‘Thanks’ to the folks who take the time to read and comment.
Before I forget*
1. A spiiiiiiiiiider.
2. Silence
I need to thank Mr Tam Cowan whose column in ‘The Sunday Post’ has given me a few of the really stupid jokes I’ve used.
Just before a last piece of music, I will leave you with something he was pondering…
‘I’ve read a lot about rivers and the term for effluent is always raw sewage…What kind of weirdo cooks it??’
I’ve been watching ‘Lazarus’ by Harlan Coben – Not my favourite of his but it was still enjoyable and there is a song throughout that reminded me of a cover that was miles better than the original. If ever a song suited a voice, this is that one!
Oh and we just had to say:
Thanks to all of you who have stuck with us over these six hundred postings, the writers, the readers and especially those who comment – We appreciate you all!!!
