Tom Sheehan has published more stories on LS than any other writer (although it ought to be mentioned that Hugh Cron is keeping pace). A lot of the time I feel that he gets overlooked by the casual, younger reader due to subject matter.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns: Oh, the Wounds He Wore, Death His Neighbor (Jimmy the Meterman) by Tom Sheehan”
At War With Reality
I like to create an artificial sense of order. To achieve this I write a To Do List everyday. I neither accomplish nor consult the thing after I make it, but the act of creating a To Do List and peeling it off the pad and sticking it to the wall behind my monitor temporarily places me in control. It makes me feel like I’m doing something; that I am in charge.
I write my daily list on one of the dozen or so multi-colored sticky pads that may or may not have at one time been inside the office supply closet at my workplace. I use one of the fifty or so black “Precise Rolling Ball” pens that may or may not hail from the same source as the sticky pads to write my To Do Lists (used to do them in a fine point Sharpie until the supply dried up). I take heart from the pastel squares of Great Deeds to be Done accumulating on the wall like coral. Many have given up the stick and have fallen into the slim space between my desk and the wall, down amongst the spiders. But looking up at those which hang in there gives me the artificial sense of order that I crave.
Continue reading “Week 332: At War With Reality, and The Apocalypse A to Z”
Well here we are at Week 331.
Every now and then we throw in a few nuggets of wisdom about the site and what we look for. Or how we consider submissions in general, so with that in mind, I’d like to concentrate on fledgling writers and pass on a few bits of advice. I think any writer who has done this for any length of time will agree with most of these.
Continue reading “Week 331 – Even Derren Brown Would Struggle With Some Of Our Submissions, At Least We Know The Words To Our Anthem And Yet Another Mad Tory Shagger!”
Now that Leila is an integral part of the LS team she has taken to sleeping in the cellars of LS Towers. We hear her while we are upstairs having an end of the week drink. Muttering as she moves through the stacks. It’s okay we don’t mind. She brings out stuff like this.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Car Crash Television by Nik Eveleigh.”
Fear
I’m afraid of heights, close places, and small talk with strangers. This makes me a crummy candidate for riding in planes. Which is fine because I’ve only been on one air trip in my life, and I will never do it again. I’ll go by car, rail or ship first. Hell, I’ll walk, if it comes to that. A friend once told me that air travel is statistically much safer than going by sea. She also reminded me that I cannot swim. I retorted that I may learn how to swim anytime I please, but that my prospects for self propelled controlled flight are limited.
Excellent questions usually attract poor answers. For instance “Why do some people joyously skydive and bungee jump, while others clutch the sides of their chairs until the blood has left their knuckles just contemplating those activities?” I usually reply to something like that with “You never hear about anyone leaving a crater after she falls off a barstool, right?” Yet, later on, when doomed to spending time with my own thoughts, I wonder why I am afraid of the devil may care aspect of life.
Continue reading “Week 330: Fear and Recreational Violence”
It’s Saturday afternoon.
It’s Twelve O’ Clock.
And this is post 329.
I hated ‘Crackerjack’.
It was a kids show that ended with a quiz. If the kid got a question correct, they got a prize that they had to hold. If they got it wrong they were given a cabbage. If they dropped anything, they got another cabbage.
But on the bright side, the wee stupid weans would at least have coleslaw and soup to eat for a few weeks!
Continue reading “Week 329 – Remembering Stewpot, Wondering If Two Snowflakes Are Frightened Of Everything And China Crisis Did Some Good Songs.”
Before we start, we have a Brucie Bonus:
‘Nice to see you, to see you…’ – Oh I can’t be bothered! If you don’t know the reference, I suggest you don’t look it up.
We have a secret level today, a wee addition.
We are delighted to announce that we’ve received a piece of work from the legend himself, that, to be honest, we didn’t know how to categorise. It isn’t exactly prose. It’s definitely not a story or essay. And it’s not a poem.
But what it is, is a brilliant piece of writing.
Continue reading “Week 328 – He Always Wanted To Be Sammy, More Brilliance From Tom And Potential Familiarities”
For history and legend sakes, certain attributes, character traits if you will, have to be appointed here at the beginning of This old house (B. 1742), home for more than a half century of my life. To start off with, to walk these stairs, up or down, a signal for day or evening in the heart of an otherwise silence, is to hear sassy children underfoot. They are the underlings of square nails stretching their might, hanging on for more than two and a half centuries worth of treads and risers and hand-hewn stringers.
Continue reading “This Old House by Tom Sheehan”
Everything is offensive. There’s no plainer way to put it. There is no topic that can be brought up that is universally inoffensive.
“What about a box of cute newborn puppies?” A voice in my head asked, when I first conceived the opening paragraph.
“Gotta do better than that head voice,” I said. “Try to fight this: ‘Cute, but that breed shits on the floor, no matter how hard you teach ‘em not to. How dare you rekindle that memory.’”
“Okay. How about World Peace and True Love? Surely no one can complain about them,” my head voice said; for it was a stubborn head voice that needed to be smacked on the nose more than once.
“Munitions manufacturers will find something wrong with the first and the second does not exist. Go away, head voice.”
Case closed.
Continue reading “Week 327: Twenty-six Ways to Weave Your Drunkard”
In life, everyone knows a version of Dave. Dave is the sort of man who is never any good with the ladies. Sure—he can joke with them at arm’s length, the innocuous touch on the shoulder, the forearm. And because a sprig of humor always plays on his lips, he smiles most of the time. He also suffers from a continuous string of good manners and never fails to hold doors open for the ladies, and flatters them on new sweaters and haircuts. Without crossing into hashtag territory, he comforts them when they confide in him.
Continue reading “The Human Condition by Monika R. Martyn”
literally stories 