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Mom was a world class liar. Once in a lifetime. She believed that a solid lie should have few moving parts; this theory allowed her to capitalize on the specious notion that true-sounding things are brief. Mainly, Mom got her whoppers over with a confident attitude,brevity and something in her eyes that told you not to fuck with it further.
Continue reading “Good News Club by Leila Allison”
He was in the sparse land between shifting sands of the great desert and the last tree bearing green when he saw the vultures descending from their high flight. Breward Chandler, “Brew” to friends back in the mountains where breathing was much easier than here in the midst of little life, sat bareback on an Indian pony he had freed from a natural corral behind a blow-down. Chandler had learned that the horse would obey pulls on his mane and in this manner he had escaped from sure capture by heading into the desert, with his pistols loaded and a lariat and a canteen he had grabbed on the run. He was not sure who was after him, either renegade Indians or renegade whites out for the kill, looking for guns, clothes, saddles, anything for free. He was hoping that they’d measure the little he might have against the rigors of a chase in the desert. Perhaps, he also hoped, they were smarter than he thought they were.
Continue reading “A Saddle in the Desert by Tom Sheehan”
Adam Kluger’s Pooboogle is a first class example of the ray of light finding a down and outer kind of story. A form probably first thought up by one of the girls on the Ark. Yet Adam has not only updated the shape to fit the times, he still manages to find something new to say. I can’t locate specific examples (maybe the six fingered guy) as much as I got a refreshing vibe from the story. Maybe it is because of all the sour tales out there which attempt relevance by conveying steady rain and suicidal tendencies.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Pooboogle by Adam Kluger”
There once was a race of authors who had achieved a level of celebrity similar to that of movie stars. Even people who didn’t read knew these authors by sight. They became the “must gets” for the swankiest dinner parties and were topics of discussion at all lesser gatherings. Then it ended. Just like that. Inexplicably. Alas, few authors turn heads in the wild anymore. Stephen King might–then again his face is hard to forget.
The mysterious mass extinction of celebrity authors is a phenomenon that only I have noticed or care about. Which means I am either a trailblazer or just another deluded soul, a couple of moments of clarity shy of the asylum.
Continue reading “Week 370: A Mass Extinction, Four Moral Authors and Nine Reasons Why I Will Not Go To Heaven”
Roscoe was a three-year-old Dachshund who had a problem: his “Associate Human” (A.H.)–though in most other ways acceptable–had a thing for dressing poor Roscoe in ridiculous costumes and posting the result on her YouTube channel. Dachshunds are uncommonly dignified, and things like being forced into wearing a “Frankfurter” outfit for the sole purpose of the A.H. gaining likes and subscriptions hurt Roscoe’s pride.
Continue reading “Roscoe and the Lightning Glory: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical”
“This is it, Mitch, the crunch match we’ve all been waiting for.”
“That’s right, Bud, a fight we never thought would happen, or even should. But here we are. Weird.”
Continue reading “The Big Infight by Tim Frank”
Schiehallion, aka The Faery Hill of the Caledonians, is a magnificent, isolated, rugged, limestone ridge in Highland Perthshire, in the plumb-centre of Scotland. I’ve climbed it many times in the past, but now my arthritic knees deny me that pleasure: the jarring of the knees taken all the enjoyment out of hill-walking. So what the hell am I doing now, struggling along Glen Mór, on the south side of Schiehallion, in the November sleet, with a giant ship-in-a-bottle in my rucksack?
Continue reading “The Otherworld Hiding Place by Michael Bloor”
Eighty-nine-years-old and he hasn’t a clue. About fucking any of it.
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“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”
Continue reading “Frank by Jane Houghton”
The first man in this story, Carl Savage, stood at the end of the ward in a veterans’ hospital in Central Massachusetts: the second man, bed-ridden, stared at him, fighting for a splash of recognition. There was the way that man shrugged his shoulders, looked back over one as if he had missed a targeting mark. The second man moved in his bed; a slight movement barely noticeable. He had not moved much in almost twenty years. He wanted to call out, but he knew no name; but knew something; it spun up out of him as if it were the last chance in the whole world. The man at the end of the hall halted his departure and turned around slowly in his departure. The second man in the bed began to move one finger. One finger! One finger as if tapping on a key, tapping, tapping, tapping.
Continue reading “The Vet by Tom Sheehan”
When you put out a shingle that says STORIES WANTED, you get a little bit of the good stuff and plenty of what you deserve for your impertinence. The “plenty of what you deserve” element is easy to describe: In some way something about each one in it sucks. That’s as scientific a way of putting it as I can give you. But the good stuff is hard to define; and sadly, some of the good stuff meets the same fate as the suck stuff for one reason or another. Actually, most of what we reject is well done, just the story is in some way incomplete, in our humble estimation.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Nose by Doug Hawley”
literally stories 