I was visiting Fraser, an old friend, in Fife. It was one of those fine, dry, crisp, cold days that you often find in Scotland in February and we took a walk out into the countryside. Fraser pointed out a ruined tower in the middle distance, Balwearie Tower. The name was familiar, like a fragment of an old song: ‘Balwearie Tower? The home of Michael Scott, the Mage?’
Continue reading ” The Laird of Balwearie by Michael Bloor”
My fingers glide over the white and black of the piano keys. The tune, a melody that wrote itself on my heart years ago, when my hair was not white and my joints did not ache, is familiar like the embrace of a longtime lover. My fingers are too stiff and my knuckles too engorged to play with the elegance they once possessed but the tune calms me.
Continue reading “Manhattan and Gibson by Rachel Sievers”
“Four horsemen on a broke-dick mule!” exclaimed Dr. A.P. Cary, as he pressed off the Orget.
He couldn’t believe what he had seen. His sister Beverly—had she been there—would have said, “Y’all going out the world ass backward.” And they were. The denizens of Sand City had lost their natural-born minds. The shit was ridiculous. Teenagers, twelve-year-olds, lucky-to-be-twenties blicking each other as if homicide were going out of style. What they failed to understand was that they were blicking at the wrong MFs. When the bluecoats routinely blazed holes in sons, fathers, daughters, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, and aunts, the self-proclaimed savages didn’t do anything. Rarely did they risk their life to take a devil to hell. All those Sand City villains misunderstood who the opps really were.
Continue reading “The Cure by Corey Olds”
A fishing boat with an outboard motor puttered past the lake house. The wind off the lake gently stirred leaves on the tourist trees lining the dock. The pontoon boat was secured. A loon laughed heartily as a Saturday morning began to unfurl.
Continue reading “The Lake House by Adam Kluger”
Something got in the way should apply only to happiness. I’d rather be a happy peasant than a genuinely depressed monarch. So in that regard it doesn’t matter if you are working the door or have it held open for you.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Revolving Doors by Sharon Frame Gay”
Positive Thinking
We will celebrate our eighth anniversary next month. Anniversaries and birthdays usually make me queasy because I view each as another item to be checked off a Great To Do List whose final task is “Die.” But I will allow that there is maybe, perhaps, seemingly and possibly an element in my personality that could be improved by wise advice, Vitamin Jesus or even a sunnier attitude brought about by better chemistry.
Continue reading “Week 398: Positive Thinking; The Week In Rocktober and Sing, Little One, Sing Like the Wind”
I had been hoping to be invited into The Posse for some time.
If you are too young to remember, or have been asleep for many years, here’s how we came to this. The world has always had serious divisions, not the least the USA, but disintegration here accelerated with the ravings of a former president whose name I don’t use. He died of a heart attack screaming “I’m the president’ while being questioned during his 2022 trial for various and sundry financial crimes. Soon thereafter, led by his sons and daughters, true believers were convinced he didn’t die and would soon return to save the country. Cult 45, as it became known, began to plague politicians at all levels of government with arson, death threats and kidnapping. Politicians aligning with Cult 45 were treated likewise by the enemies of Cult 45. Those opposed Cult 45 were called Anti45 by their supporters, and spelled derisively Auntie45 by Cult 45. The country was further divided by an Endemic, worsened by many variants. Mask or not, vaccine or not, the country was violently divided. As government was forced to protect itself, the business of governing the masses was left behind.
Continue reading “Killer Killer by Doug Hawley”
My father seeks help from the psychics, their names a litany, a liturgy. Padre, Maria, Esmerelda, Christin. They promise good fortune, alignments of the planets. They promise to vanquish his opponents. To vanquish bad luck. And he has so much, at least in his opinion. There’s the divorce from years ago, something that still simmers. I, his only son, didn’t become a lawyer. I up and left. I became a writer, a marker that to him conjured garrets and begging for food, and not victory, conquest. He tried to amass a coterie of girlfriends from abroad, each one coming in from distant lands, snatching a green card and the possibility of things. They called him prophet, valiant lord, but those were only obsequious platitudes.
Continue reading “Psychic Promise by Yash Seyedbagheri”
If she hadn’t looked at her phone at the exact moment she was crossing the road she would have…
Continue reading “A Game of Consequences by Sandra Arnold”
The dusky light had gone out. The blinds lay beige and dull with no sky behind them. Only the phone screen remained, and the quiet waves, and the suckling embrace of a hotel mattress. He shifted and pressed send.
Continue reading “The Souvenir by Nick Satnik”
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