The night had muted the crickets and, as if the fluttering of their filmy, prehistoric wings brought the heat down, the air had cooled into the namesake fog of these Smoky Mountains. The clouds moved into the darkness, rolling down Evelyn’s tongue into her throat, joining the vast, black distances between the flickering bulbs of a far-off holler and the lantern light cocooning her as she worked.
Continue reading “Dead and Gone: A Reckoning by Ashley Laughlin”
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Famous fantasy realms are ridiculously wealthy– them with their pool parties and scantily clad underage lawsuits in waiting. But for every emerald high rise in Oz there’s a dozen impoverished lands of make believe held together by duct tape and the wages of mental illness. My realm of Saragun Springs is as threadbare and stone soup as it gets, but that might be a-changing. Yes, prosperity and the torpedoing of what little charm we have may be just around the corner. Actually, it is up in the sky–and to paraphrase Dickie Plantagenet, we aim to pluck it down.
Continue reading “Hobnob Standard by Leila Allison”
Well here we go again and by fuck this might be random.
I loved when a kid who I worked with in the hostels used that word in a way that I had never heard.
Continue reading “Week 451 – Marvin / Scott – Which One Deserves The Plaudits, RETIRE!! – JUST FUCKING RETIRE!! And Rickie Bell’s Karaoke Extravaganza!”
Ms. Almond, our reading teacher, emanated a gaunt pallor and an unfit constitution, and she eschewed the bad breath of old age. She did not seem quite at home in her old woman ways—her shock of gray hair, her stoic and sad eyes, pools of blue that had seen far too much of the world, her permanent wrinkles that spread out like fans from the corners of her eyes and lips. Her etched forehead that told a thousand youthful stories.
Continue reading “The Slow Guiding Drift of Identical Things by J Bradley Minnick[1]”
I had never heard of John Fante until I saw an interview taped with poet Charles Bukowki in the 1970s. Bukowski had enough ego to support a planet, and when asked his favorite writers he spoke his own name three times. But he then thought about it for a moment before delivering energetic and obviously heartfelt praise for author John Fante. The man he said was his only influence.
Continue reading “Auld Author John Fante by Leila”
The Caramel Apple Orchard
Although I will probably have another Saturday post closer to Halloween, it is on my mind now. And since all my other current ideas have the charm of razor bladed apples, I will go with the cheerier topic.
When I was growing up Halloween was mainly for kids, but over the years it has been taken over by The Failure to Launch Generation. I was one of those children who put next to no effort into a costume. I was goods oriented; people were giving out candy no matter how shoddy I looked. So I’d get one of those cheap witch masks (the kind that always got sweaty and smelled like a runny nose after about a half hour of wearing), don a dark blanket for a cape and carry a whisk broom, which inevitably went missing early. The sack was the important thing. And I took the biggest one I could find–usually a pillow case.
Continue reading “Week 450: Halloween Memories and Horror Heroes”
Before we start I have to apologise for my Q&A session last week. I did something that I never do directly – I self-promoted, not just one, but two stories.
Continue reading “Week 449 – I Was A ‘Look At Me Hoor’ (I’m So Sorry!), The Literally Equivalent Of Pi And Lost In Translation, Or More’s To The Point, ‘Lost Initially’!!”
I trudged into the kitchen, pulled my socks up over my long johns, and grabbed the parka we keep by the door for outhouse trips in the middle of the night. When you’re freezing, half asleep, and unable to hold it anymore you don’t want to hunt around for a coat and boots. The weathered Sorels sat under the coat hooks, rubber soles peeling back from the leather uppers, the thick flannel inserts compressed and frayed from years of use. I tugged them on and braced for the cold.
Continue reading “Running on Snow by Bruce Snyder”
The water shivers as it splits open, winding from the west. The boat is cold, a cast iron carcass, sleeving through the deep-down weeds and choking fish and ash-sugar surface without a sound. The only sound is the slick of the horse’s tail, filched up by flies. Mist sits on the water like a layer of fat. The water smells of underground, of church stones.
Continue reading “Collar by Meg Woodward”
Now that it is officially autumn, Andy and Alfie the Feral Cats are bulking up for winter. Well, actually only Andy, because Alfie is already beefy as it is. He’s a rarity, a Feral Cat who has a double chin. Andy, however, changes his body type with the season. During the warm months he sheds his long coat and becomes lean and ripples with muscles. Come September he begins eating twice his normal amount and by the time November rolls around he looks like a fuzzy Tapir.
Continue reading “WEEK 448- Bulking Up; Another Fine Week; Annoying TV Characters”
literally stories 