All Stories, General Fiction

A Left-Handed Woman by Ann Harper Reed

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Frank noticed the couple when the Antique Collective shop doorbell clanged. Even to this day, he expected to see his wife June pass through that door as the bell reverberated. The couple came inside. She a bit mousy and dressed with some expense to look like she shopped at thrift stores; he was in expensive clothes meant to look expensive with a smartphone glued to his ear. They were the kind of patrons the collective needed to survive. They were the kind to admire his craftsmanship, while still needing furniture and having the revenue to purchase.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Music of Lana Jardine by Harrison Kim

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Lana Jardine always told me she’d be taken in the rapture, when God would gather up true Christians just before the apocalypse.  She accepted Jesus as her Lord and Saviour, so she’d never burn in hell.  “I confessed my sins,” she said.  “And he saved me.”

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All Stories, Fantasy

A Hell of a Story Part 2 by Frederick K Foote

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To whoever has the misfortune to find and listen to this recording, this is not a hoax, joke, or the results of delirium, hallucination, or a fevered drug dream. My name is Oslo Jennings, and I’m a 64-year-old victim of a fatal heart attack while driving. My medical records at the San Juan Medical Center document I was dead for 4 minutes and 33 seconds.

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Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns-They Always Welcomed Visitors by Mariam Saidan

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As advertised, our stories come from all over the world. Although most are from the West due mainly to this being an English language site, we are often given sensitive, intelligent glimpses into the mores of various cultures. Still, when you get to it and remove all the traditions, we are all human and hurt much the same.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Village by Gene Bray

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 NYC 1978.  Just got here from Ohio, to be an actor.

Confession. To be a movie star.

 I get a single room on West 22nd st. It’s 15 by 8.

So I put the bed in the basement and get a mattress that stands against the wall.  A folding table and chairs

Voila.  It’s roomy.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The White House at the End of the Lane  by Tom Sheehan

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Dimac looked again and the white house at the end of the lane was pale yellow. He tried to find a simile, then a metaphor, and was lost in the miracle before him. The change had happened in the blink of his eyes, and it unnerved him so that he closed his eyes, waited for the white shingles to settle back into place, become their proper selves, as if he could say that about shingles, and opened his eyes.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Historical

An Historical Fotnate by Michael Bloor

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A while back, I was reading an account, by the poet and journalist James Fenton, of the fall of Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City) in 1975*. In the middle of the despairing mob outside the US Embassy, begging to be evacuated, as the last of the helicopters departed, Fenton came across one man simply shouting over again, ‘I’m a professor, I’m professor.’ Poor guy, he was well behind the times, we university professors get dumped on nowadays just like any other employee. The trick is to spot when the shit-shower is imminent.

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