To some, hindsight proves a faithful if fashionably late companion. Though it often offers questionable advice, reflexion is more tolerant than people, each of whom seems keen to speak of subtle feelings Chas rarely recognises. His, ‘I’m just angry’ stock response fails to satisfy those in search of his finer feelings.
‘Sad–’
‘No space for sadness when you’re angry.’
Continue reading “As Ever, the Nun by Antony Osgood”
I’ve had a problem controlling my temper my entire life. It started when I was young. If I didn’t get my way there’d be hell to pay. I used to get into a lot of fights. A few times I even ended up in the hospital. And that all happened before I got out of grade school. Fortunately, over time, I was able to change. What happened? I wish I could say that I had a simple answer or a magic formula, but it really just came down to wanting to do more with my life than spending it being a pugilistic jerk who settled his arguments with his fists. At least I never used a gun.
Continue reading “Storm Clouds by James Bates”
This double tribute to his hometown is Tom at his best, and we feel that you will agree with that assessment.
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Walk a ways with me, here by the Saugus River and the Old Iron Works, where I played as a boy, where arethusa bulbosa (dragon’s mouth orchid or swamp pride) waits for spring and new reeds to hide the young of red-winged blackbirds, where indentured Scot servants worked off their passage, where Captain Kidd brought his treasure to bury on Vinegar Hill (not found yet by boy or man), all leading me to say: The Hour Falling Light Touches Rings of Iron (at the First Iron Works of America, Saugus, MA): You must remember, Pittsburgh is not like this, would never have been found without the rod bending right here, sucked down by the earth. This is not the thick push of the three rivers’ water hard as name calling… the Ohio, Allegheny, and the old Monongahela, though I keep losing the Susquehanna. This is the Saugus River, cut by Captain Kidd’s keel, bore up the ore barge heavy the whole way from Nahant. Mad Atlantic bends its curves to touch our feet, oh anoints. Slag makes a bucket bottom feed iron rings unto water, ferric oxides, clouds of rust. But something here there is pale as dim diviner’s image, a slight knob and knot of pull at a forked and magic willow. You see it when smoke floats a last breath over the river road, the furnace bubbling upward a bare acidic tone for flue. With haze, tonight, the moon crawls out of Vinegar Hill, the slag pile throws eyes a thousand in the shining, charcoal and burnt lime thrust thick as wads up a nose. Sound here’s the moon burning iron again, pale embers of the diviner’s image loose upon the night. Oh, reader, you must remember, Pittsburgh is not like this.
(On back cover of the book, “Small Victories for the Soul VII.” Wilderness House Press, 2019 and Back Home in Saugus.)
Image: Banner Pixabay.com
Saugus Honor roll image from Wikicommons images
This is week 415 but it is something special for me as I think(??) I’ve reached posting number 300.
Well slap me sideways and call me Susan.
Oh and let’s start where I’ve always been – Fuck off you snowflake cunts, I’m not advocating beating up women. In my life history that would never have happened for two reasons:
1. Respect of the strong and all ladies in my life.
2. Fear of the strong and all ladies in my life.
…I mean, I’m very surprised that I’ve reached Saturday Post number 300!! (I think! I’ve included yearly posts but as is my file, this is number 300)
Continue reading “Week 415 – Spartans, 65 Days Short Of A Year And 8 Off Of Whatever The Fuck Off Of A Peugeot.”
Cognitive Dissonance, my jazz combo, show signs of being on an upward swing, even though we left the audience at the altar last Fall when we almost but not quite played “A Love Supreme.” The show was a victim of unexpected interference from my day job, when my boss Ronnie was thrashed by the competition’s guys. I had to run to see him at the hospital minutes before we were planning to hit the stage. It was mandatory.
Some band members blame the inexplicably awol drummer, who prioritizes a half-week relationship over Cognitive Dissonance’s long-term reputation. Months of practice down the drain. However you frame the situation, our musical reach exceeded our grasp.
After I refund the ticket sales out of my own pocket, it’s ketchup soup and toaster leavings until Spring.
Continue reading “The Kid Who Thinks He’s Grown by Todd Mercer“
Blood puddled like pureed cranberry sauce on the floorboards, seeping into cracks and staining the reindeer-skin rug. Erica the Elf sat in the cosy armchair by the fire – His chair – watching the red liquid trickle in tiny tributaries towards the television cabinet. She took a cigar from the box on the coffee table and lit it, letting the match scorch her fingers, the smell of smoke mingling with the metallic stench of death. Glancing at the Fat Man’s corpse lying semi-naked in the centre of the room, Erica dialled the emergency services number and waited.
Continue reading “The Bad Elf by David Christopher Johnston”
Oh, how satisfying it will feel to fill that final gap on the wall! In just a few hours, his collection will be complete at last, the wall completely covered in carefully measured rows and columns of black and white stills. The precision of the white gaps (28 mm) between each photograph gives Andrew great pleasure – he has always been exceptionally neat. It is extraordinary how many memories are held, suspended, within these grains of film. His favourite is 8 across 6 up, the one with a small 36 inscribed on the bottom corner.
Continue reading “The Darkroom by Freya Williams – Warning – content that some readers may find disturbing.”
‘I’m so sorry, I really wasn’t paying attention,’ the middle-aged man was told by an older woman. They were the same height. George, being six foot three, had found the novelty of not looking down for their conversation quite refreshing, though he suspected in the morning he’d discover a plethora of aching muscles he never once suspected he possessed. Her attention was fixed on undexterous fingers shaking an empty not-quite-glass, a bubbly flute of clouded plastic. It was as if, George imagined, the last drop of wine had proven impossible for her to access, and for the life of her she had found no way to solve the puzzle. She kept holding the flute up to the noisy strip-light, seemingly either looking for fingerprints or a miracle. She appeared forensic in her analysis of unobtainable alcohol. George was reminded of a video he’d once seen on YouTube, of a goldfish obsessed with its image in a mirror. The poor fish had been unable to free itself from the mistaken belief it was threatened by itself. It was the saddest thing George had seen.
Continue reading “Keep Dancing by Antony Osgood”
The woman at the door stared at the children. She was pregnant. Seven months low to the ground with what she knew to be a boy. She ran a hand up and down her stomach. It had snowed overnight, and it was snowing still.
The boy and the girl were sixteen or seventeen. Maybe younger. Neither was dressed for the weather. Blue jeans and black t-shirts. Black sneakers.
“They want to come in,” she said.
“Who did they say they were, again?”
The woman looked through the glass eyehole, past the strange children. A white horizon absent direction. There were no tracks in the snow. It was windy, and the wind pushed and pulled the fallen snow. Still, it would have been nice to see tracks.
Continue reading “The Other One by Richard Leise”
Ah, the brave year of ‘15. No matter the century, I’m certain that someone will claim that she/he walked ten miles uphill through snow both ways to and from school, upon recalling 2015. Time distorts perception and makes exaggerant raconteurs of us all.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Everything Happens For a Reason by Adam West”
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