I admit to being strange. Everyone is strange, which should move strangeness to normalcy, but doesn’t. An abundance of strangeness doesn’t mean consistency. It only means a consistent state of strange states of beings.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Shaking Hands by Debra Brenegan”
The Eldritch Horror
I’m an insomniac. I do not claim to “suffer” from it because it is a consequence of my ridiculous daily intake of cigarettes and coffee. I suppose I could drink myself unconscious every night, but that will have to wait until retirement.
I often lie awake and watch beautiful fancies flee my mind–up to heaven they go, without me. Yet my ugly chimeras are made of fulsome stuff. They linger like the afterdream of boiled cabbage in a poorly ventilated room; and I eventually find myself examining the left behind junk for something to think about other than that jug of Crown Royal in the pantry.
Continue reading “Week 376: The Eldritch Horror, The Week That Still Is and a Saturday Special”
Kemp emerged from the dark woods behind the little St. Andrew’s church and took a moment to look things over. One car sat in the small lot and a few stained glass windows glowed with feeble light. His watch showed 8:58 p.m. All good for his scheduled private confession.
Continue reading “Passing On by John J. Dillon”
The Minotaur turned the ribs in his hands, trying not to focus on the still warm blood oozing between his stubby excuses for fingers. He grimaced as the flow matted his thick fur.
But the work must be done, so work he did. With three fingered hoof hands unsuited to delicacy. The Minotaur couldn’t remember when he’d started creating his statues to the fallen. Only why.
Continue reading “Echoing Hooves, by Rick Danforth”
Cigarette smoke curls up in front of my face like curtains parting on a stage. I lower my hand to my drink and shift on the hard metal stool facing the band.
The western world may have quit cancer sticks, but Shanghai is a throwback to a wilder time, and I throw myself right into it. I take another drag off my latest addiction– clove cigarettes. I soak up the nicotine, the syrupy sweetness of my rum and coke, and the atmosphere. I like sitting by myself swirling the ice in my drink and smoking. It’s a nice contrast to my workdays spent corralling dozens of shouting, laughing, and crying preschoolers.
Continue reading “Black Coffee | Hēi Kāfēi by T.L. Tomljanovic”
Buzz Turner, all 12 years of him, reader galore, all the thick and curly red hair in place, saw the moon slip sideways into his eyes just opened for the change, dragging him instantly from a deep sleep into clear observation. He loved the transfer in the heavens, as well as the sudden change in himself, a keen awareness coming his way, all the way. It was all magic, and he loved it, a boy’s swift change in himself, a piece of the skies at hand, and mystery afoot the way mystery makes itself known, on its own time, in its own style, dream-like.
Continue reading “The Edge of Dreams by Tom Sheehan”
Moments linger, trapped in thought. Two things right, then one thing not:
I’m a ghost.
Ghosts live in the memories of those that they touched.
It doesn’t hurt to die.
I had three paragraphs written for Harrison Kim’s Crisis Line, but I discovered that I had nothing to say on the topic that Kim didn’t say better. So, the good news is that I am smart enough to have realized that, and the better news is that Mr. Kim is around to answer my questions.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Crisis Line by Rerun Harrison Kim.”
Week 375 is upon us.
My turn once again after the brilliance of Leila and Daisy’s problem page!!!
I have an update!
Continue reading “Week 375 – What’s Wrong With Tom Brown? Squealing Like A Pig And It’s Refreshing For An MP To Be Watching Adult Porn.”
I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but this was an extra rainy Vegas morning. There she was, a little old lady standing in a puddle, bundled up in a poncho and one gloved hand jutting straight through the rain with an outstretched thumb. It was five a.m., and nobody else was on the road. What could I have done? My damned Jiminy Cricket conscience forced me to stop there, so she wouldn’t get hypothermia.
“Much obliged,” she said when I pulled over to the curb and popped the convertible’s side door open. “Such a nice young lady.”
Continue reading “Rain Lady by Abigail Louise Lowry McCormick”
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