All Stories, General Fiction, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 426 -Protective Sports-Wear For Those Who Need It, Erika The Legend And An Eye-Witness Account.

Another week to be rounded up.

We are now at number 426.

Let’s start with a question.

If you submit your work to a site/publisher /whoever, would you rather that they were drunk whilst reading?

If I threw in a ‘You would be guaranteed an acceptance’, would that change your answer?

And if I throw in a further, you’d receive a payment, does that make any difference?

Let’s find out those with principles and the other sensible folks!!

Continue reading “Week 426 -Protective Sports-Wear For Those Who Need It, Erika The Legend And An Eye-Witness Account.”
All Stories, Fantasy

Your Garden of Contempt Dominique Margolis

Dear father, I’m sorry you think that I have been such a despicable daughter, but I wish you health and happiness so that you may spend yet another wonderful birthday in your Garden of Contempt for me! You’ve indeed worked long and hard to make that space luxuriant, so you deserve to kick back and enjoy!

Continue reading “Your Garden of Contempt Dominique Margolis”
All Stories, General Fiction

Encounter at The Green by Edward N McConnell

The loud noise in the hall was getting closer. I knew what that meant, study time was over. Within seconds my door burst open. It was three of my frat brothers, notorious partiers. The fact they came to me was not surprising. I was one of the few people in the house that had a running car.

 One of them said, “Hey, Sparky, want to go to a great bar in Youngstown?” What he meant was, “We need a ride to a bar in Youngstown.”  

A little bit about these three. I remember their names, but I’m not going to reveal them. All you need to know is that each came from a very religious family. Their fathers’ were ministers. That’s why they were at an evangelical Lutheran college instead of secular state school.

   My Dad used to say, “The biggest troublemaker in town is usually the minister’s kid.” In this case, multiply that times three. I was in college to get a degree, not cirrhosis. These three had other educational goals. What those were, your guess is as good as mine.

Continue reading “Encounter at The Green by Edward N McConnell”
All Stories, General Fiction

Feathers by Lindsay Bennett Ford

The plasticity of the charity bag felt like another cruel humiliation to Marilyn. Her once fashionable flowered sleeved blouses and trim-line shift dresses had been taken down from their hangers in the wardrobe – only to be dragged out in handfuls by the spiky haired shop assistant with youthful enthusiasm while Marilyn’s cheeks burned. Bright colours clashing like layers of a trifle, chiffon and polyester laid on top of one another in the bag, pressed trouser legs are unseemingly wrapped around a starched collar, polyester and cotton acting like reunited accomplices caught and stretched out on the counter, inspected and held up against the harsh fluorescent light. Something bounces out the bag and with a loud ping, rolls across the floor.

Continue reading “Feathers by Lindsay Bennett Ford”
All Stories, General Fiction

Requiescat in Pace by Bill Huey

Patrick Mulcahy awoke with a start after a night of fitful sleep. It was Monday, October 23, and this was the week he would die. On Thursday, October 28, at 3p.m., Patrick Mulcahy, 62 years and six months, would depart this life.

This doleful fact had come to him in a dream, but Pat had always had a knack for prediction, especially for death. He wasn’t a shaman or a mystic, but his gift was prediction. This made many people wary of him, but others flocked to him for predictions about sports, elections, and even the weather.

Being certain of the time and day of his death had its advantages, because it happened soon enough for Pat to enjoy a full life. His work as an actuarial consultant furnished him with both ample time and income, and Pat visited every major league ballpark in the United States. He went to spring training for his beloved Red Sox every spring, and even went to Cuba for the historic game in 2016, as a guest of David Ortiz.

Continue reading “Requiescat in Pace by Bill Huey”
All Stories, General Fiction

Helen vs The Gas Pump by Joel Pedersen

Helen stood at the back of her car, in the unrelenting heat of summer in the desert, staring blankly at the pump. This was the first time she had pumped gas since David had passed. A great, vital man. A locomotive halted by the failure of the tiniest part, cascading into ever progressive, irrevocable destruction. It was one of the worst things she had ever experienced, and when the end came it was the worst relief. She had her hand on the valve when, looking back at her car, past the faded McCain 2008 bumper sticker, there was no gas cap cover. She remembered then that she had always been on the opposite side of the car, in the passenger seat, as David pumped gas. So she got back in the car and turned it around.

Continue reading “Helen vs The Gas Pump by Joel Pedersen”
All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whoever

Now a chance to get to know one of our wonderful authors in more depth.

This time it is the turn of David Henson who has been a regular supporter of the site in terms of both submissions of his wonderful short stories and his regular reading and commenting. Thank you David.

***

We sent David a list of carefully considered and in depth questions to discover just what makes him tick. Fascinating:-
 

 
– What topic(s) would you not take on?
– What in your opinion is the best line you’ve written?
– Would you write what you would consider shite for money?
– Will you ever go Woke with your writing and use pronoun / non-descript characters and explore sensitive issues in an understanding and sensitive way?
– Type something surprising.
– Do you see something different in a mirror that others don’t when they look at you?
– The future – Bleak or hopeful?
– What would you like to like as you hate that you hate it?
– Records? Tapes? Or CDs?
-What genre you don’t write in would you like to try?
-Bonus question (worth double points): What percentage of their time do Dogs spend thinking about food?

 
Thank you
The LS team.

David Henson

David has got this feature off to a flying start. Not only was his response super quick, his answers are just what we had hoped for. Interesting and amusing. Thank you David:-

– What topic(s) would you not take on?

I don’t think I’d ever write a rape scene. It’s too horrible and would require more finesse than I’m capable of. I have written two stories that appeared in Literally Stories and dealt with rape. Ronda 12 was an android who’s subroutines were altered to fall in love with humans against her will. So she was effectively raped, but the story didn’t describe it. Letti the Yeti had an “almost rape” scene but it ultimately didn’t happen. That scene came as close as I’d want to get.. 

– What in your opinion is the best line you’ve written?

The best line I’ve ever written is: “I haven’t written my best line yet.” But in case that turns out to not be true … I’m not very good at writing great “lines” per se in my stories and am envious of authors like Leila who are able to work them in seamlessly.  In my case, the lines I like best tend to be images. In a creative nonfiction I wrote about my father when he was on his deathbed, I had the line “Past, present, and future — soap bubbles slipping around the drain.” I don’t know if it is the  best one, but considering how personal the piece was, I’ll say it is. 

– Would you write what you would consider shite for money?

No, I’m happy to write shite for free. The serious answer is also no. At this stage in my life doing so is neither necessary nor worth it.

– Will you ever go Woke with your writing and use pronoun / non-descript characters and explore sensitive issues in an understanding and sensitive way?

Hell no. 

– Type something surprising.

Nothing surprises me anymore so this becomes an unanswerable question. I’m surprised I said that. 

– Do you see something different in a mirror that others don’t when they look at you?

I read that most people in their minds consider themselves to be 20 years younger than they are. So … a full head of hair? No, that’s not right ‘cause I didn’t have a full head of hair 20 years ago either. I’ll have to say shaving cream because that’s about the only time I look in the mirror. Otherwise I generally rely on my wife to tell me how I look. She’s nice about it. 

– The future – Bleak or hopeful?

Bleakly hopeful. Humanity has a pretty good track record of defying the odds. 

– What would you like to like as you hate that you hate it?

I hate many things, and they all deserve it. Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. Socializing. I don’t hate it but I don’t like it. But once I’m there it’s good. People need people. 

– Records? Tapes? Or CDs?

I listen solely to streaming music these days because it’s so convenient to tell a smart speaker to play what I want to hear. As with most people, I went through the progression of records, tapes and CDs. Several years ago, I through away all my vinyl and regret it. (And then I threw away all my vinyl.) I miss the sound of the needle dropping, the snap, crackle, pop. Come to think of it, I miss Rice Crispies, too.

-What genre you don’t write in would you like to try?

Historical. I think I’ve tried almost everything else with varying degrees of success, but not historical. I haven’t written action- adventure stories either, and have no desire to. Nothing against that genre. It’s just not for me. 

-Bonus question (worth double points): What percentage of their time do Dogs spend thinking about food?

In our Annabelle’s case (see my LS bio photo), I’d say only 10.77%. She’d often rather have her chin scratched or play fetch than eat. She sleeps a lot, so if she’s dreaming about food, the percentage would be much higher. But as far as I can tell, most of her dreams are about chasing rabbits. (The kind that squeak.)

***

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay – Question mark inside a light bulb on a black background.

All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

425: Plotting, The Week in Love and Derivative Devices

The Plot is in the Mail

The concept of plotting a story is alien to me. I’m as able to plot as I am able to dunk a basketball. Personally speaking, I, at best, have only the fuzziest idea of how something I work on ends. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t end that way, but is an ending directed by wherever the flow of the thing takes me.

The problem I have with plotting is it appears to be a blueprint for creativity, not far from the formula romance writers follow. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back and they both live nakedly ever after. Inaccurately, or otherwise, I see a difference between story and plot. I see stories unfolding in a natural manner with interesting things and interesting people meeting up–all left open for happy surprises that the author was unaware of until the composition began. And plotting as something on par with paint by numbers.

Continue reading “425: Plotting, The Week in Love and Derivative Devices”
All Stories, Fantasy, Horror

Their Greenness is a Kind of Grief by Jie Wang

The sun is gone. They have a new sun now: a giant in a suit and tie floating in the sky like a zeppelin, holding a gigantic glaring mirror. They don’t know what the light source is. Maybe still the old sun. Maybe it was captured and hidden by the giant. The new sun never sets. He gives them no break.

Continue reading “Their Greenness is a Kind of Grief by Jie Wang”
All Stories, General Fiction

Desert Dust by James Bates

The middle-aged, balding man sitting behind the desk at the Arapahoe County Funeral Home looked up as I walked in. He smiled a greeting. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said, trying to be polite since I really didn’t want to be there. “My name is Sam Jorgenson. I think I talked to you earlier this week. I came for my father’s ashes.”

“Ah, Mr. Jorgenson.” He nodded, his face taking on what I figured was his practiced look of sad commiseration. He stood up, came around his deck, and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Yes, we did talk. I’m Jack Benson, the director here. May I offer my condolences.”

I shook his hand. It was dry and cold to the touch. “Thank you. Nice to meet you,” I said.

Continue reading “Desert Dust by James Bates”