Here we are at Week 400. I’m quite sure I’ll use that number a few times throughout this post.
I honestly can’t believe that we’ve reached this amount of weeks of publication!
It’s just a pity that the hundreds and the anniversary don’t tie in, I think it did on our second year but then dates and weeks and holidays buggered everything up. Our 8th year anniversary will be in a few week’s time, Week 403 on the 19th November.
Continue reading “Week 400 – 400 Weeks, Halloween And A Hospital Visit.”
There must have been about ten or twenty of Them. Circling above the house like the beginnings of a tornado. Their smooth, steady flight was stark against the clamour from inside. Voices clashed against running footsteps, something clanged in the kitchen, and the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. One man sat huddled in the corner, unable to move. And in the midst of it all was a wail, a cry that every few minutes rose from within and floated slowly outward. But They remained indifferent, a set of black wings and sharp beaks stark against the sun that was just beginning to dip downwards. They soared round and round, while inside the small bungalow chaos reigned. One of Them ruffled its feathers.
Continue reading “Relief by Rati Pednekar”
Whistler stood in the weeds, leaning against the brick wall of the old train station and listening to the susurration of wind over the tracks. The others might have known he was there, might have seen him suddenly after looking once and not seeing him as the wind stirred through the cyclone fence, wafting the trumpet vines and grasses down near the old, rusting boxcar where Nathan lived, but he saw no one. Bobo and Saint Louis lived at the other end of the yard in a faded red caboose, but nobody knew where Whistler lived. He appeared and disappeared. No one knew.
Continue reading “The Violin by Frank Jamison”
Del Río— Rachel’s new board and care home. ’S where I was this morning till eleven, with Caron, the Russian, although “Caron” sounds Greek to me. Whatever, he’s gonna handle the move. Me, I’m driving home and thinking of Miles Archer and tuned to NPR when—
Continue reading “Rachel, Remarque, and The Maltese Falcon by Vince Barry”
The pain in her chest was akin to a physical blow. It had always been this way, in life outside of family she was well-spoken and liked by many. In the circle of family suddenly she was reduced to the small child who hid when voices rose.
I just don’t understand why you have changed so much Callie Rose,” the woman’s voice was raspy from years of chain-smoking. “It’s like you don’t even love the Lord Jesus anymore.”
Continue reading “Hen and Chicks by Rachel Sievers “
The wind played music with my bones. Like a xylophone.
“It’s cold in hell,” he said, “Let me tell you.” He shook his head, taking another puff from his cigarette. He throws it into the ocean and it fizzles out into the darkness. Hands in pockets, overcoat. Leaning on the sidebeam, night blows past.
Continue reading “Cold by Mason Koa”
Although justice usually arrives pretty damn late, it can show via any avatar. For the evil willingly participated in by Lazlo Lachman, there is no suitable punishment. For crimes against humanity, even hell feels insufficient. So, maybe causing him to go mad, to shove him into himself with only a buzz for input is as good a penalty as any. Such is the soul of The Bee by Rebecca Moretti.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – the Bee by Rebecca Moretti.”
As we get closer to Halloween I find myself thinking of the darker side of the human heart. But instead of making a list of horror films and actors (which I have done before), I would like to salute the Evil Bad Guys* of Film and TV, for they are the ones who make stuff worth watching. (I use the word “Guys” in the unisex form–for I do not care for “Gals.”)
Continue reading “Week 399: A Tribute to Dark and Stormy Knights and Another Week That Is”
The pomp and festivities traveled with them down the ancient granite steps, but once they entered the bar, and its heavy wooden door closed, the entire world from which they came was abruptly silenced.
Continue reading “The Serpent by Chuck Smith”
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”
literally stories 