Isla liked to play a little game while driving on Highway 4 to Grandma and Grandpa’s for Christmas. She zigzagged her eyes between telephone poles and farm fence posts until her head hurt. The car window was an endless stream of canola fields blanketed with snow and open skies.
Continue reading “Black and White Christmas by T.L. Tomljanovic”
Without knocking, Renfield entered my office pushing an antique television on a furniture dolly. The thing looked old enough to have aired the Lincoln assassination.
“What now?” I asked.
She smiled. “Every time you ask me that; every time I avoid answering you, and every time I wonder why you have yet to catch on.”
I leaned back in my chair, put my feet on the desk and attempted to look wise yet amused, all knowing but still a good sport. For I’d read somewhere that such poses are commonly associated with a tall in the saddle style of leadership that people find inspiring. Unfortunately, I am very short.
Continue reading “PDQ Pilsner Playhouse Proudly Presents by Leila Allison”
It was all hers, the night, the huge house, the loneliness, the dark corners of every room that she knew so well. It was all hers, and Thursday was special, just about every Thursday except the ones precluded by her natural flow. First, there’d be a soak in the tub, for an hour or so, after which she’d stand in front of the 7-foot mirror and study herself, always noting the dark mass of pubic hair, curled and rolled and headlining her view. There was a connection with that action, left by her husband, Kent.
Continue reading “The Thursday Night Woman by Tom Sheehan – Adult Content.”
I came across this oddity in the stacks and was simultaneously intrigued, repelled, entertained and baffled by it. It’s very interesting and an irresistible peculiarity. Once you start reading this it is impossible to stop. Well over five years have passed since long time site friend David Henson gave us Squirrel. I think it is high time to learn what he meant by it.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Squirrel by David Henson”
Before we start we would all like to say that our hearts bleed for the state this world is in and our thoughts are with all those poor souls who are suffering, being murdered and needing help.
I have mentioned a few times what my shortcomings are when I write.
I am shit at titles, description, imagination, technical terms, character names, to name but a few. There is another hands on discipline that I can’t do for the life of me. I can’t fill a fountain pen without covering myself in ink. I need a roll of kitchen towel, a ream of blotting paper and some industrial hand cleaner. I have splash marks up my wall from a re-filling attempt. My cat loves to ridicule me as he sits on the headrest of the chair and stares at the splodges.
I’ve stared at them myself to see what I can see, I don’t think there are ten, I can only make out five. They are :
1. Greta Thunberg with sunburn and wrapped in plastic.
2. Yosemite Sam’s nose and half of his moustache eating a kumquat.
3. A seahorse derby that is won by the 7-4 second favourite named Gerald.
4. A raspberry blancmange toasted sandwich.
5. A Rainbow fighting a packet of M&Ms and losing an eye only for one of the M&M’s to take pity and stand in. (And for all you Romance Writers – It wasn’t the bloody green one!)
I’m not sure if these are disturbing. I do know that one is a wish!
There are two weird things about these interpretations.
1. I hate toasties.
2. The ink blots are only in black.
We all know a few things about James Bond. He wore Oxfords, drank a Vodka Martini, carried a Walther PPK and used a Ronson Lighter. I wonder if he used a Dupont Fountain Pen?? (He’d need to win a few hands of Blackjack – Those bastards are expensive!)
If he did my admiration has went up ten fold. Okay, he could get away with the tuxedo but he’d look a right tit saving the world with ink blots on his shirt.
Talking about ink blots on clothes. Our anniversary was on the tenth and Gwen had a problem with a fountain pen long before me. When she was signing the marriage certificate, the pen leaked and she spilled some of the ink onto her dress. Now a lot of Bride Divas would have had a tantrum but she was a bit more philosophical about things and had a fag. She said that she’d always have the ink from the very first time she had signed her name Cron.
I read somewhere that this was the week in history when Alexander Graham Bell patented the telephone. (7th March 1876).
A few things came to mind.
– ‘Alexander Graham Bell’ is a terrible but brilliant song by the Glam Rock band ‘The Sweet.’
– I wonder if Mr Bell ever considered that his invention would be used more for pouting arseholes taking pictures of their ridiculous eyebrows rather than actually used for speaking to people.
– I really do wish that ‘Ahoy’ had been taken up as the greeting when a call was answered. I don’t suppose this wouldn’t really have changed anything:
…Ahoy…Is it me you’re looking for. (Poor Lionel! Nothing could save that song!)
…I just called to say Ahoy.* (Poor Stevie! Nothing could save that song either!)
…Ahoy! Are you wearing any knickers? (Let’s be honest a perv is a perv!!)
…Ahoy. Have you been sold PPI in the last five years. (No change there, The answer to that is still ‘Fuck off!!’)
…’You had me at Ahoy’ (Nope! No difference. Rene would still overact and Cruise still has a face you’d want to slap into next week!)
Okay, onto this week’s stories.
We had no first timers this week but what we did have were five writers who have two hundred and twenty two stories between them.
But to be fair, anytime Mr Sheehan is published, the average soars.
As always our initial comments follow.
The man himself was first up with ‘What’s In My Wallet‘.
This is story number 160 for Tom Sheehan.
That amount of stories makes my head hurt!!
And unbelievably, there are a lot more to come.
‘These stories regarding Korea are always excellent.’
‘This is up to Tom’s brilliant standard.’
‘Tom’s output continues to be beyond belief!’
It was great to see L’Erin Ogle back with another story.
Her sixteenth was called ‘Cherries‘ and it was published on Tuesday.
‘L’Erin is as dark as ever.’
‘Gripping.’
‘Shocking and excellent.’
Tony Osgood broke the back of the week with his fourth outing entitled, ‘Here Come Grandfather’s Goats’
‘So bloody hard hitting and brutal it moves you if you have any soul at all.’
‘The situations that cause this sort of desperation have never eased at anytime in history.’
‘The more times you read the story, the more you appreciate the writing.’
On Thursday we had our lovely fellow editor Diane.
‘Snow‘ was her thirty second story for the site.
‘Perfect word count.’
‘Unlike so many short shorts, this has a beginning, a middle and an end.
‘Even though it is so short, it takes time to unfold.’
We finished off with Alex Sinclaire who has now reached a milestone. This is Alex’s tenth story for us and that means he is in only the 3% of writers who have ever managed this.
Many congratulations Alex!!
‘Dengue Fever‘ completed the week.
‘A Narrative was accomplished within the rolling madness.’
‘Very dark.’
‘The ambiguity was done to great effect.
Usual prodding or poking or whatever.
Please comment, it makes the Great God Timatuma very happy.
I see that Steven French has joined our band of frequent commentators – Thanks so much for that!!
And someone please have a go at the Sunday Re-Run. I don’t know how to tempt you. Maybe by suggesting you get some medication for shyness. (Buckfast works in Scotland) Or telling you if you are a writer and want to get your voice out there, why not do a spiel and throw in a few questions for an author of a story that you’ve enjoyed. We’ll publish exactly what you send us. And that feature is looked at by around three hundred people every Sunday.
And just to finish off. I see that another attempt at replacing bearskins with synthetic furs has been refused for those regiments who protect the Paedo’s Mother. It is argued that the synthetic caps loose their shape. Here’s a mad idea, why not change the design of the stupid looking hat?
But I think I have a cracking idea. Why not have a reality TV show where members of the royal family are sent out into the Canadian Wilderness armed with a penknife and they have to find and fight a Black Bear for its fur.
If they are successful, then there is a new hat for a Guardsman. But if they lose, they’d need to abdicate or live in exile or more than likely, be shovelled up.
Fuck your Love Island – I’d watch that!
Hugh
(At time of writing I can’t confirm if the harry one has accepted the job as host.)
* I know that is the wrong lyrics but every now and then I like to re-iterate how bad that song is!!!
Buddha hates us all. And he hates me the most.
The little statue of Buddha I keep in my pocket, the one I stole from the pagoda, stares through me into the next life.
Continue reading “Dengue Fever by Alex Sinclair”
The body was a small broken thing from a distance. Seen across the snow field there was little more than a coloured smudge against the white.
They couldn’t go for it now, it was too dangerous. There were fissures out there, hidden and lethal. If there had been any chance of life, there would be no option, but they couldn’t justify the risk. Witnesses said that he fell from the summit and there had been no movement since. No reason for him to fall they had said. He had made it to safety, removed the roping and then just fallen back. It was inexplicable, a tragic accident. Maybe a dizzy spell caused by the altitude. Jake had listened to all the radio communication. The panic and distress.
They had called his mobile of course and the helicopter had hovered overhead for a long time, powder swirling upwards in the wash but there was no visible sign of life and so he would stay out there. The dark would hide him and probably more snow would cover him as the season progressed. In a few weeks he would be invisible, nothing but a hump and a sad memory for his climbing mates.
Jake moved away. He wouldn’t come back. Not then, not in the spring. If the season was very cold the body would be well-preserved and if they got to it before the wolves and birds there would be something left for the family but Jake didn’t need to see it. The hullabaloo, if they found the bullet might reach where he was and he would smile at the fuss, but he’d be long gone.
He pulled up the warm fleece around his face and bent to retrieve his ski poles. He had already tucked the rifle into his backpack. As the sun slid away the summits turned pink, and Jake turned to the East and moved off. He loved the snow, the chill and the clear cold air but it would be nice to feel the sun warm on his bare skin and he smiled under his face mask. Life was good when the jobs came up this way. When he got back to the hotel, he needed to call his contacts in Hawaii and organise things ready for his arrival. Another few years working at this pace and he could retire. Maybe he’d come back then and ski with no interruptions.
Ahmed falls from the steel deck thick with diesel oil and malice, through a rain unlike anything he’s known, and he glimpses an almost touchable shore, shameless, sharp and cruel, unreal and foreign, rich with waste and electricity, though the air’s not a thing to loiter in.
I’m flying to a distant destination.
Continue reading “Here Come Grandfather’s Goats by Antony Osgood”
Frankie is his least favorite nursing aide. She wears cheap perfume that smells like cherries and he hates cherries, the knotted pits inside them, the red juice that blooms across fingers and teeth, the bittersweet taste spread across the tongue. His mother loved cherries, left bowls of them half eaten sitting on dressers and counters and even stacked on the floor, the pits stinking and rotting with bits of the fleshy fruit still attached. The stain on her fingertips resembling the lipstick smeared around her mouth.
Continue reading “Cherries by L’Erin Ogle”
For these past 70 years, since 1951 in Korea, I have carried a 1000 Won Korean Banknote in my wallet with the signatures of all my squad members on the face of that banknote, our unit being Headquarters section, First Battalion, 31st Infantry Regiment of the 7th Infantry Division, when we were deployed on the far side of Lake Hwachon, and when squad members put their signatures on that bank note, given to me by a Korean worker assigned to our unit, Lee Bong Ha. He was a chief figurehead in his own right when he made a replacement crystal for a comrade’s broken watch crystal out of a plastic spoon, which was carried in many military papers under the title of “Time to Spoon.” Lee Bong Ha had been paid off from his government contract with a basketful of such banknotes, and passed them out like the near-useless paper that they were (some of them used for the most unlikely reasons you might think of.)
Continue reading “What’s in My Wallet? By Tom Sheehan”
literally stories 