From the two sides to every story department, we present The Last Lost Eye by Marco Etheridge.
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Category: Short Fiction
Week 447 – Before Frank, DS Is BS And Recycling Plastic.
I seem to have a joke theme going on for now!
I don’t know why, I think it has just been coincidental on what I have been talking about over the last few weeks.
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Week 446: Influences; Site Influencers and Under the Influence
Influence
When in a certain mood my mother could kill a good vibe with a comment more quickly than the Andromeda strain can wipe out a small town in the desert. There would be a get together of family and friends, and everyone would be chatting and having a nice time and she would inevitably have to say something like:
“It’s sad to think we will all be as dead as people in old movies someday.” Then she’d cast an innocent glance around the room (which included children) then add “Ever wonder who’ll kick first?”
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Week 445 – Beware Of New Taxi Drivers, Over-Acting And Personal Hygiene Products.
Well this is a sad week for many a British person. Half of Glasgow is in tears. But I’ll come back to that.
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Always by Karen Uttien
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,” the priest recited – as he did every Sunday – but today wasn’t Sunday.
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The Many Deaths of Neptune Gilderoy by Alex Sinclair
I was seven years old when I first tasted death.
My father Nehemiah had sent me down the pit so he would have some drinking money, and I cut my leg on a jagged sail of rusted metal as I made my way down a tunnel.
It sang its way through my undernourished leg meat and by the time I had finished the day’s work,(my father would not have tolerated me shirking from an honest day’s graft, regardless of severe wounds. He had Guinness to drink) my peeling dealer boot was filled to its sloshing brim with a hot soup of blood.
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Literally Reruns – Saint Frances Everlasting by Leila Allison.
Our lovely editor Leila has worked incredibly hard at Reruns ever since we introduced the feature. In all that time she has chosen dozens of stories, written the blurb for them and produced interesting and amusing questions. I reckon it is Leila’s turn. Her cannon on the site is huge, and it’s impossible to pick one out as ‘better’ than the rest because they are all excellent. There is a vast range of genre and every one has something unique so this was not an easy task. The stories also come in little groups, each one a comment on a relationship, a gang or group of characters, fictionally fictional or just fictional 😊 (with a nod to Daisy Cloverleaf). As I was trying to choose one, I opened dozens, so I think my best advice would be for anyone reading this to just go to Leila’s pages and stroll through the treasures.
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WEEK 444: Bug-Bird And Dreams
DREAMING
Many writers are influenced by their dreams and nightmares–or at least that is the claim. I don’t dispute the possibility but if I had to lean on my dreams for material my stuff would be sparse and even stranger. A fine example of such happened just the other night when I experienced a dream I call “Bug-Bird.” My mind was in a white page and just ahead skulked Bug-Bird. Half Moth, half Pigeon and clad in a flasher’s raincoat and wearing a fedora, I could only see Bug-Bird from behind. But I spied antennae through holes in his hat, tail feathers and Pigeon feet. Bug-Bird staggered forward and I was gaining on him (only a guy would dare be Bug-Bird). I recall wanting to tap him on the shoulder and have a look at Bug-Bird but that is when I woke, with the words Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird chanting in my mind by what might be called a “sulfurous chorus” of demon voices. Hardly bestseller material there–and perhaps the only way Bug-Bird can get into print is through something like this.
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For Whom the Elm Toad by Leila Allison
Ancient starlight is a key ingredient in Magick. Forget sunshine; aged roughly eight minutes upon arriving at Earth, it’s too raw and is to starlight what prison wine is to hundred-year-old cognac. And culling the rays that bounce back off something like Saturn only adds a few meaningless hours to the photons. Yes, the older the better, all the way from Deneb and Andromeda, Rigel and Beteguese, the maniacal red-shifted glimmers that howl silently through the endless now, the insane shine of forever.
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