The discovery of skeletal remains in the woods near the Quitipea River has brought back memories of Robert Nix. I knew him as a kid and thought he was just weird at first—we all did, even the teachers. It was only later that I—and I alone—discovered he was actually insane; I just didn’t know the depth of that insanity, not back then, anyway. I know now.
Continue reading “Waiting for Robert Nix by Héctor Hernández”
I do it on a cold December day in Oakland, California. I sign the papers and pass the physical. In three days, I will belong to the United States Air Force, my freedom from her and her freedom from me.
Continue reading “The Great Escape by Frederick K Foote”
Tom Sheehan has written in every possible genre over his seventy year and counting career as a writer. And sometimes, as with today’s story, The Ghosts at Horseshoe Creek, he will blend two together.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Tom Sheehan”
I was riding the bus last week when I was attacked by a MWCM, which stands for “Misty Water Colored Memory” (lifted from that gooey Barb song she sang before she got the perm that made her look like “Arnold Horshack” on Welcome Back Kotter–a dated reference but very true). As you have likely guessed MWCM is a sarcastic term. It defines an elderly concept in my “Ago” that is always attempting to change me into a sniveling old Shrew. We all have something like that inside (or will once fifty or so comes creeping), an ugsome, nettlesome something that (apparently) has invested heavily in old Shrew futures. I cannot kill mine but I can temporarily beat it to atoms by using my hard, old cold heart as a hammer. I often take satisfaction in imaginary acts of violence. They keep me balanced.
Continue reading “Week 551: The Attack of the MWCM; The Week That Was; A Belated Happy 80th to Debbie”
Into the cab
In a daze
Leaving the bar
About to take leave of my senses
A complete lightweight all these years later
Continue reading “Not Such a Weird Duck By Adam Kluger “
Our house was what dreams were made of—a hazy vision of lost grandeur, countless rooms, and long corridors leading to an airy parlour. A crumbling gilded ceiling glittered in the light seeping through tall windows. A polished table with a deep, glassy sheen, where I sat my laptop, stood on the elegant curve of Queen Anne’s legs. Georgian bookcases were crowded with dusty oil lamps, their glass chimneys catching the cold, sterile shine of fairy LED lights. A heavy marble fireplace, its mantle cluttered with birthday cards, roared into the night.
Continue reading “Timeless Sympathy by Hana Carolina”
1880, Charleston Settlement, Oregon Territory
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Hope was getting old. The thrill was gone, and her wiccan skills were diminishing due to her lack of enthusiasm. Oh, she could still raise a demon, but they were low rent, stereotypical evil and talked too much; most tended to live in the past with little thought given the future. And she could still impress the hell out of the feeble-minded, but public schooling was cutting into the ignorance she had so long depended on. Educated people tend to ask questions. They see a three-headed frog and attribute it to science instead of witchcraft. Bastards.
Continue reading “My Fair Wiccan by Leila Allison”
Tuesday. It was as dead as a doornail Tuesday night in my bar, The Rusty Spur. No games, fights, or anything else worth watching on the TV. No controversy or shenanigans in our town or county worth the spit needed to talk of them. It was as if this part of West Texas was caught in a kind of dull-as-dust malaise.
Continue reading “Eight-Ball Blues by Frederick K Foote”
From behind a second story window, we three watch for the girl. Fissured by time and fractured by turmoil, the glass allows for less than optimal viewing, but my sisters and I can see well enough to take immediate notice when her slight figure emerges from a subterranean staircase and melts into the crowd. This particular evening is boisterous and punctuated by the trappings of revelry. A new year is preparing to throw its filthy arms around the neighborhood, animated celebrants studding the sidewalks like remnants of a tenement fire.
Continue reading “Grayscale by Carolyn R. Russell”
David Henson is one of our top contributors in both stories and daily comments for writers. Today we bring back his About Uncle Story.
Continue reading “Rerun Henson/About Uncle Story by David Henson”
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