All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Modern Entertainment by Megan Wildhood

literallystories2014

The man who pit this roof against rain, his best friend and owner of the final store in town, the woman who pits seed against element to feed me all my life, our humdrum hay baler, two others I didn’t know and I sit in a circle in Shopkeeper’s empty store. These are our Friday nights now after the litany of systems failures. “Supply chain-issues,” Papa mumbles when it comes up. “Just the economy cycling again, actually,” Shopkeeper grumbles. “No one believes us about the mass injuries,” the two guests basically whisper.

Continue reading “Modern Entertainment by Megan Wildhood” →
All Stories, General Fiction

Loaves of Life by Tom Sheehan

literallystories2014

When I invaded the Bond Bread Factory, as a hungry seven-year-older, on a plank from a neighboring building, my sister Patricia, younger by a year, was my scout, my watch dog, my whistleblower, all to make sure we’d have toast off our kitchen stovetop which required bread to begin with, mystifying my mother about “Who in these days gives fresh bread to kids on the prowl.

Continue reading “Loaves of Life by Tom Sheehan” →
All Stories, General Fiction

It’s Not About Her by Jaydan Salzke

literallystories2014

Enter. Order. Eat. Pay. Leave.

The whole operation is streamlined; a seamless experience for staff and customer. The rules are clear and seldom broken: there’s to be no trespassing. People are here to nibble at sandwiches and sip coffee, not to have a stranger in an apron pry into their personal lives. So you serve them and leave it at that. That’s just the way it’s done.

…until it isn’t.

Continue reading “It’s Not About Her by Jaydan Salzke” →
Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – Bike Killer by Doug Hawley

ireneallison12

Maybe it says plenty about our race that we often find ourselves in the corner of the Bad Guy. And in the case of this story, the “victim” isn’t always a beloved member of society. In fact there are some amongst us who dislike cyclists and spandex and their blatant disregard for traffic rules and pedestrians. Not all, nor a majority of cyclists are pushy, passive aggressive sociopaths, but enough are to be annoying. You will find that circumstance at the heart of Dough Hawley’s Bike Killer. And when you read it, please take a look at the almost as entertaining string of comments below it.

Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Bike Killer by Doug Hawley” →
Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 373 – The Difference Between Stories And Songs, No Place For ‘Whistling Jack Smith’ And What The Fuck Will We Be Writing About?

gwencron

Leila and her lists are killing me!!

I am also a list lover.

So from that I’ve thought about one thing that saddens me about a story compared to a song…A song can make you smile straight away, a story, well you need to get into the crux of it. To be fair though, the ending of a story is better, a lot better, than a few beats of a drum.

Continue reading “Week 373 – The Difference Between Stories And Songs, No Place For ‘Whistling Jack Smith’ And What The Fuck Will We Be Writing About?” →
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction

The House Across the Street by Robert P. Bishop

literallystories2014

Harvey looked out his front window, saw the real-estate lady pull into the driveway of the house across the street and get out of her car. She walked to the For Sale sign with Sale Pending pasted diagonally on it.

Another victim is moving in, he thought.

Continue reading “The House Across the Street by Robert P. Bishop” →
All Stories, General Fiction

Still A Child by Kwan Kew Lai

literallystories2014

Crossing the curved wooden bridge over a small river, I reached the Kutupalong Refugee camp. The temporary tarp and bamboo dwellings of the refugees stretched endlessly over the deforested undulating hills. The morning humidity settled, a cloak of haze, making breathing heavy and labored. Smoke from outdoor cooking curved and lingered in the air.

Swarms of children quickly surrounded me, holding my hands, skipping alongside me. My guide and I climbed up the dirt steps carved into the slopes. In the monsoon rain, these would all be washed away. It had already left its legacy; deep cavernous grooves furrowed the fragile slopes.

Continue reading “Still A Child by Kwan Kew Lai” →
All Stories, General Fiction

These Hands by Rob Vogt

literallystories2014

It doesn’t sound sexy at all, this medical condition that makes her fingers turn blue in cold weather. Dangerously blue. She worries constantly about frostbite and nerve damage, even amputation. Her fingers are long and slender, like twigs used to start a fire on a camping trip. Twigs do not sound sexy, either. But whenever Jennifer rubs her hands together, briskly, vigorously, you cannot help but think about the way her fingers would feel if they were wrapped around you. The palm of her hand feeling your heft, your warmth. Probably this should never happen because the two of you met in recovery and according to absolutely everyone you have ever spoken to, jumping into bed with a fellow alcoholic is a horrible idea. Still, you know that you will never forget the day Jennifer walked into the very same meeting that you were attending, snugged into a pair of hard rocker jeans and a scoop-necked t-shirt. Legs up to here, sun-kissed cleavage, eyes that were feline and feisty and hard. How in the hell were you supposed to concentrate on sobriety sitting across the table from all of that? Pretty soon both of you stopped going to meetings and started playing tennis on the local high school courts. Buying air mattresses at gravel-driveway rummage sales. Sitting on the couch watching movies from the 80’s, belly laughing at things that were funny at the time (and also at things that were not).

Continue reading “These Hands by Rob Vogt” →
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

A Boy Named Sue by Scott Taylor – Content Warning. A subject that some readers may find upsetting.

literallystories2014

Yo yo yo, I’m here to tell ya about a boy named Sue.

Every day, Sue went into school, in the little pigtails his Momma put him in and his little blue bonnet on his head, and all the children sang, “FUCKIN’ PUSSY!”  They danced around him in tribal fashion, and spit bubble gum in his ears, and tried to make him eat dirt.  Every day he would soil his pretty little yellow dress, skin his knees and run home crying to Momma.

Continue reading “A Boy Named Sue by Scott Taylor – Content Warning. A subject that some readers may find upsetting.” →