They push, push, push me, like that horrid boss in the Twilight Zone episode about Willoughby. The one with the poor ad executive. He’s a moneymaker, not a shape, a human form. I don’t blame him for jumping off a train, hallucinating about a dream community.
Continue reading “Push, Push, Push by Yash Seyedbagheri”
Prefatory Remarks
Defining the Tippleganger:
The Spirit half of this little drama
Has a second bottle of wine ever convinced you to cut your own hair? Did that darn vodka make you “overshare” sex fantasies you have about your sister’s husband with a mutual friend who cannot keep a secret? How much Budweiser does it take to get you to call your ex at three a.m.?–in spite of what it says about that sort of thing in the restraining order.
Continue reading “Tippleganger and Dozzle: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical by Leila Allison”
I’m in the changing room of a high-end boutique when Oscar calls me back.
‘What’s up?’ he says. He is at home. I can hear the whir of the washing machine behind his voice.
‘I’m trying on a dress.’ It is red with white polka dots and hangs just below my knees.
‘You never wear dresses.’
Continue reading “A Controlled Moment of Light by Jo Robson”
Now that Leila is an integral part of the LS team she has taken to sleeping in the cellars of LS Towers. We hear her while we are upstairs having an end of the week drink. Muttering as she moves through the stacks. It’s okay we don’t mind. She brings out stuff like this.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Car Crash Television by Nik Eveleigh.”
Fear
I’m afraid of heights, close places, and small talk with strangers. This makes me a crummy candidate for riding in planes. Which is fine because I’ve only been on one air trip in my life, and I will never do it again. I’ll go by car, rail or ship first. Hell, I’ll walk, if it comes to that. A friend once told me that air travel is statistically much safer than going by sea. She also reminded me that I cannot swim. I retorted that I may learn how to swim anytime I please, but that my prospects for self propelled controlled flight are limited.
Excellent questions usually attract poor answers. For instance “Why do some people joyously skydive and bungee jump, while others clutch the sides of their chairs until the blood has left their knuckles just contemplating those activities?” I usually reply to something like that with “You never hear about anyone leaving a crater after she falls off a barstool, right?” Yet, later on, when doomed to spending time with my own thoughts, I wonder why I am afraid of the devil may care aspect of life.
Continue reading “Week 330: Fear and Recreational Violence”
Tommy owned an ‘all you can drink’ restaurant. For one dollar, you could imbibe all night; beer, wine, mixed drinks or straight liquor, it made no difference. That was the hook. His buffet was expensive for the quality of food served, but profits have to come from somewhere. Tommy’s was alive, crowded and happening. It was not a date night destination. If you expected a quiet, romantic dinner, you had a better chance at McDonald’s.
Continue reading “Tuesdays at Tommy’s by Ed McConnell”
We slosh through these places, Jorvy and I, with beeping equipment we don’t understand and in suits that keep us alive. Our breathing is laboured. Boluses build at the base of our throats, resting like half-swallowed pills. The gin they give us, which tastes like it had to cross a dozen illicit borders to get here, dissolves them.
Continue reading “Civil Servants by Ben Fitton”
Gram and I used to watch Jeopardy together almost every weeknight. Our little “must see” TV date began at the dawn of my memory and ended with Gram’s death shortly after my twenty-second birthday; it’s already ten years gone by.
Continue reading “A True Daily Double by Leila Allison”
I outline payment schedules. Credit card bills, student loans, power, utilities. I draw up grocery budgets and lists, in my elegant cursive, something I’ve relearned in recent months. More onions, less TV dinners, and Diet-Pepsi, containing more late-night sleeplessness. A tomato or two, if possible. Some granola bars, even.
No beer, save for the occasional six-pack of Coors Light.
Continue reading “American Nightmare by Yash Seyedbagheri”
Some people in or about his circle of friends of Willard Coxby III, weren’t sure of his nickname, with choices at the start, whether it was “Tulips” or “Two-Lips,” both being cautions of the ear, the receptions, as if one served over the other.
Continue reading “The Code Master by Tom Sheehan”
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