Mother, the one who birthed us, was the one who turned the oven on. Tossed us in there, my older sister Nan and me, as though we were turkeys at Thanksgiving. She was too strong for us to resist, though we tried, squirming, kicking. But she was still strong.
Continue reading “Step by Yash Seyedbagheri”
Sunday morning, and some idiot is trying to start his piece of crap car, cranking it over and over. Will that battery never die? There’s no fuel or no air or a lack of both and all the hope in the world is not going to light that sorry engine off. Give it a rest, will you please, for the love of all things holy, or if not divine then at least civil?
Continue reading “Quiet Longed For, and You by Marco Etheridge”
Here we are at Week 355.
This is my last posting of the year. We have a couple more specialised ones and one I think from Leila next week.
Continue reading “Week 355 – Jesus Speak, Teribble Speling, And Withdrawal Isn’t Just Inconsiderate Birth Control.”
I knew it was one of “those” days the very moment I woke up, my head spinning as dawn clustered around me calling for attention, trying to snap me back to a real encounter, not the lingering touches of darkest night I had no control over.
Continue reading “Strange Encounter by Tom Sheehan”
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A Saturday Morning, 1975 b.c.e
One, two, three, four, five…
One, two, three, four, five…
One, two, three, four–
As she lay in bed, Tess shoved the early morning hum of the street and small under-noises in the apartment out of her mind and focused solely on the little clicks she heard in Anna Lou’s room.
Tess knew about Anna-Lou’s habit. Her mother was a careless telephone gossip, especially when in her wine, which was pretty much always. “The doctor’s been feeding her Percodan and God knows what since they shot Lincoln.”–or something similar, was what Mom said to friends on the phone when the subject was Great Aunt Louise. For some boozy reason, Mom believed if she lowered her voice to a confidential tone that neither of her children would make a special effort to listen.
Continue reading “1975 b.c.e. By Leila Allison”
Fat Freddy hated laundry. He hated the insolent way the grotesque pile grew. He hated the smug swish-swash sound of the washing machine, and the self-satisfying whirr of its spin cycle. And after all that, he especially hated the selfishness of the dryer keeping all that warmth for itself and the undeserving clothes. One day, he thought, it’s all going to come to a boil.
Continue reading “Laundry Night by John D. Connelley”
I came back in the autumn for a short weekend. I’d forgotten that it was autumn; where I live the trees are like monuments that never change, but nothing lasts forever does it?
Continue reading “The Way You Always Were by Otto Alexander”
Just exactly what consciousness is has yet to be adequately explained. Endless reams filled by bright minds are dedicated to the subject; some get close, but in the end the actual definition is as elusive as that of time. Consciousness and time are two elemental particles of reality that defy concise explanation because they are made up only of themselves.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Lamentation by A. Elizabeth Herting”According to the people at Guinness World Records, the world’s least successful writer (during the paper manuscript era) was named William A. Gold (1922-2001). He wrote eight novels and a vast amount of articles and shorts, but sold just one piece for fifty cents.
Continue reading “WEEK 354: The Fine Art of Failure and a Saturday Special”
literally stories 