Frederick K. Foote has been a steady contributor to the site for years. He has published more than eighty with us and it is not a matter of if but when he will reach the magic 100 mark.
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Category: Short Fiction
Week 558 – News Stories, Ritchson Was Closer By A Mile And Come Back Next Week
Here we are at Week 558 which is just before the special 559. I’ll mention this later.
I had my usual look at the papers this week and a few things tipped my interest…Or should I say poked my anger!!!!
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The Saragun Civil War by Leila Allison
Auntie Bellum
Every society must schedule at least one civil war during its existence. It appears to be an unwritten cosmic law. Far be it from Saragun Springs to scoff at unwritten cosmic laws by continuously living in peace when such is considered abnormal.
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Most of the Things He Remembered Took Place Long Before He was Born * by J Bradley Minnick
Neither Mr. Dunner nor I knew which now-gone relative carefully placed the photographs in the chimneys. Had it not been for Mr. Dunner’s care, we wouldn’t have known the photographs existed. All that I know for sure is that Old Da, my grandmother, took up each newly discovered photograph and studied the emergence of her former self (portrayed in various instants), but there was more to it than that. I’ve come to believe that all the while she was either healing or dying, and I expect we were both waiting for some coda of presentiment.
Let’s go back to the beginning:
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Week 557: Magick and Fare Thee Well Sybil Fawlty
As I get deeper into my cronehood, this time of existence in which people either do not see me or pretend they have business elsewhere when the cowl slips, November has become my friend. The mocking young forms who strode about oh so hot to trot last summer are now buried under layers of linen and lycra and are having a hell of a hard time using their phones in the rain.
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Angela and the Balm by J D Strunk
Five hours. That’s how long Angela had been hiding in the basement. Five. Whole. Hours.
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Say Aunts by Kayla Cain
Rooooolllllll. Bang!
Rooooolllll.
Catch.
I love the solid smack of my dad’s old cue ball into my small palm. I sit against the foot of my bed rolling the ball across the floor so it ricochets off the baseboard back to myself. I’m only feeling my own momentum, but I can pretend it’s from someone else.
Week 556 – Two Questions, Oocha, Ooocha, Oocha Ooooo!! And Serial Killers Are Much more Interesting Than Your Kids.
Something has been playing on my mind this week after eating some Japanese crackers – Do fish taste the way that they do due to the seaweed? Or does seaweed taste the way that it does due to the fish?
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Week 555: Controlling Enthusiasm
I have decided to cut down on my use of the exclamation mark. I have often used it as a shortcut to fake a sense of goodwill that I do not usually feel–or at not least up to the degree implied by an exclamation mark. There’s a stink on an exclamation mark, for me it reeks of perkiness and whatever potion lurks in Kathy Lee Gifford’s coffee cup. (You’ll probably have to be an American of a certain age to get that last bit. If not, lucky day: something to google.)
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The Importance of the Ant by Rachel Sievers
“People don’t care, Rich,” she shouts. Of course, people care, she just doesn’t care, which is fine, I don’t need her to care. I can care for both of us.
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