Feral Advice
Come spring, Feral Tomcats, nature’s charming blighters, seek the bliss of temporary domesticity. Such is happening in my courtyard; or at least the attempt is being made. Both my Feral Tomcat friends, Andy and Alfie are doing well. But Alfie has been smacked with lovesickness.
Continue reading “WEEK 433: Feral Advice; It’s A Big World Afterall; A to Z of the Kitchen”
Before the second home in Montebello, I was placed in my first foster home, where my hunger for thinness was conceived and grew larger in size than I had ever been.
Continue reading “Foster by Athena Vasquez”
I watch the middle-aged man in the tailored suit with disdain as he states commands to the soulless, unblinking Ernest.
Continue reading “Write me a story in the style of Hemingway by Stephen James”
It’s a scorcher of a summer night in Gaza City and Fadi lies naked in bed, sweating buckets in the dark. His mother shouts something from the kitchen, her voice bouncing off the walls, mixing with the clanging of pots and pans. From the bedroom, his father’s reply is a muffled murmur, drowned out by the blaring TV. A stray dog barks outside, and soon a few others join in from a distance, their barks blending together like a chorus of sirens.
Continue reading “Chasing Sleep on a Hot Summer Night in Gaza by L.F. Khouri”
The lady in the pink dress wants to save me. Her soft eyes wet, she reaches for me, hungry to share her joy. She steps closer, hand on my shoulder now, and pulls me to her. But I don’t like people touching me without asking. Jesus is knocking at the door of my heart. Let Him in. Everyone at the Holy Redeemer Revival wants me to say yes. I step back. What if He doesn’t like what He sees inside?
Continue reading “What I’ll Lose by Phebe Jewell”
“You have any family, Hook, if that’s what they call you.” The heavy set man asking questions had been around for at least half a century, carried serious eyes, some obvious facial scars marking the years, but those remnants didn’t appear to be from life-threatening situations. Warmth, in no certain terms or applications, issued from his person as well as from his voice, a long-time cowboy tone carrying his words with a semi-hoarse baritone as though it came from deep in his chest and not through regular vocal channels. A cough would not have been so deeply issued.
Continue reading “The Confrontation by Tom Sheehan”
Ah, the month of June. When I was a child June was a magical time. School was out and summer lay ahead like an endless fantasy. It was impossible to believe that something that wonderful could go bad. But it did; when school let me out for the last time I immediately began working at a job I needed but already hated.
So it is fitting that we mark this June with a tale of regret for something wonderful that was lost and always will be, with Dave by Hugh Cron.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Dave by Hugh Cron”
Another week bites the dust and we find ourselves at posting number 432.
This is being published the day after my birthday but I am writing it the day before as there is no point in typing it the day of my birthday. I’d miss all the keys and spill my malt onto the keyboard.
Continue reading “Week 432 – Plod With No Shoulders, Removed Nipples And Bloater Is Too Close.”
Sophie’s yoga teacher had raved about the cacao workshop. It was to be held at the yoga studio on a Saturday afternoon. Sophie had started taking yoga because she thought it would be good for her anxiety levels. She wasn’t sure a cacao festival would help with that. Didn’t cacao wake you up? Sophie didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to go to sleep – for weeks, maybe even a month or two. She had terrible insomnia. But Juniper (was that her real name?) the yoga teacher, insisted that the workshop would open up Sophie’s heart and help her to overcome all her worries. In one afternoon? That would be great and a lot cheaper than four or five years of therapy.
Continue reading “I’d Rather Have a Chocolate Bar by Frances Gaudiano”
As he was falling from the rooftop, Jimmy`s whole life flashed before his eyes. That is why it was even more upsetting. A gap year in Australia, a few good years at college, and a job until he finds something better. After his skull would have crushed against asphalt, his brain splashed all over the road, and his broken limbs would be packed in a plastic bag, would there be a grand procession? Or, perhaps, just his parents and two or three friends would mourn him for a month. Falling, Jimmy knew: the latter was the case. They would have to use vague language during his eulogy sprinkled with cliches, for there was not much to tell.
Continue reading “Jimmy, the Architect by Dan Shpyra”
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