The night started out with 2 racists in the Middle East Nightclub & Bar on the South side of Cambridge. Each man on the wrong side of a real bore of an argument. The spit that flew off their tongues stained the fabric of this particular dimension. The one we selfishly call ours.
This Sunday Lelia Allison has chosen a story by a regular contributor and friend of the site – James Hanna and well and his Dad I guess – this is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – The Time My Dad Chewed out a Cop by James Hanna”
Natalie’s legs are splayed on the floor, flexing up and down as she rubs a crayon against a sheet of pad paper. Most of her crayons are snapped into countless pieces, grimy from rolling across the floor. But not this one. It’s the prized pink crayon reserved only for princess’ dresses and decorative hearts, and today she is working on a heart that is too difficult to fill. Still, she does not flinch as she grips the crayon, diminishing it layer by layer onto the paper.
Continue reading “The Making of a Love Letter by Richelle Co”
Another week and another realisation that no matter what horror we can imagine and write about, real life is much more horrific.
To all involved in New Zealand, we send our heart felt sympathies.
She both loved and hated her room, as she would have an overbearing mother.
…I always wanted to have a shot at some of that inner dialogue speaking to me.
You know the shit that I’m talking about; the ‘Sex In The City’ voice, ‘True Romance’ and me hearing Alabama, or even I suppose, John-Boy from The ‘Waltons’. Any of them would have done and I wanted it to be from me for me.
It nearly happened. Once.
“It’s time to go down to the surface.”
Mayli turned her face against the cabin wall. “I’m too tired.”
Tama took a breath. “I know you are. But you’ll like the surface, and it’s an easy transport.”
Mayli swiveled her head back to reveal a pale face, too thin, too creased for such a young age. “Easy?”
Of course nothing was easy for Mayli. The encroaching paralysis brought pain with every movement. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
The voices of the three funny men occupy my headphones, and I rub my new, hastily bought gloves together. On a Friday afternoon, in early December, the central train station is naturally pulsating with luggage-burdened passengers. Their conversations are upbeat, their postures eager. I find it a nice change of pace; seeing faces that aren’t marred by frustrated creases. The train times are so far unaffected, and for the time being, civility reigns supreme. We’re all going home. And it is such a wonderful feeling.
Henry watched the girl in her drop-waisted dress, heavy brown hair tied up in an even heavier bow, as she scrubbed molasses off the drive chain of the Black Beauty bicycle. She worked the delicate brushes through the tiny crevices, dunking them in saltwater — a necessary evil — to free them of gook. Her dress was stained, and brown water dripped over her knees.
I walk to work under a dull gray sky. Last I heard, there was still blue sky somewhere above Alaska. My brother and his wife went there, to live off the grid. I am gridlocked, travelling the same two miles back and forth every day. Work, home, work, home.
Continue reading “A Pill to Love, A Pill to Forget, A Pill to Live Forever by L’Erin Ogle”
literally stories 