I aim my phone, recording chaos. My classmates can’t beat this, several hundred miles away. An ambulance, a snow-covered hill, a sea of Ponderosa pines, spectators and bright red and blue sleds.
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Literally Reruns – Skye Jim McKay by Hugh Cron
Long time visitors will probably have realised that I upload these Rerun suggestions in the order in which we receive them. So here we are with a look back to last year when Leila sent in this piece by fellow Editor and backbone of the site, Hugh Cron.
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Week 314 – Determination, Crushed Testes And An Acceptable Arc Of Urine.
This week I’d like to discuss not giving up. It’s quite apt as we had a writer not so very long ago advise us that they were giving up since this was now their fourth refusal. That is for them to decide but in the whole scheme of things four refusals isn’t that much. But it’s up to the person and how they feel.
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Captain Carey’s Luck by Michael Bloor
I came across the manuscript below in a second-hand shop in Simla, the former British hill-station in the foothills of the Himalayas, among some papers previously belonging to a Victorian military surgeon. The ms was seemingly written in Bombay (now Mumbai) and signed by Captain Jahleel Brenton Carey of the 98th Regiment of Foot (later to become the South Wales Borderers). It is dated the 23rd of February, 1883 (two days before his death, aged thirty six), and appears to be written as a kind of testament.
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Strangerman by Arthur Davis
My nails are dirty. Always have been.
A constant reminder to Irma that I wasn’t good enough for her.
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My Plea For Solitude by Harrison Kim
Right out of high school after Dad died I inherited eighteen acres down the road from Mom’s house. Raye, who I now call “The Old Crow” married me quick after that. I started building for our great future. I framed the house around and over top of the trailer, then took the inside trailer wall out. We trucked in water from Mom’s place. My friend Elton and I constructed the septic tank, a fifty gallon drum with pipe holes at both ends, pushed down in a rocky hole. My brother Jackson helped lift the roof trusses. My life pinnacle topped there, Raye and I bouncing on the bed by the wood stove, sex and drink and rock and roll in the custom made residence, and then came three kids, Raye and my mighty sperm created them two girls and a boy.
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The Thankless Child by Edward Hall
When I first saw Gordon, it was my second year at Moorebank Asylum. “Your daughter has a cancer of the mind, Mrs Davis,” the doctors had told my mother. “She’s very sick.” They stuck needles in me after tea on the first night, and for the next three months thereafter. Those doctors said it was some new-fangled, Eastern treatment for my conditions—psychosis, lunacy, neurosis . . . the list of ‘ailments’ goes on and on. After they’d stopped with the needles and Doc Taylor made note of my negligible improvements, Mother paid another thousand-or-so dollars so I could stay “just one more month.”
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Sorry by Yash Seyedbagheri
People fling sorry at me.
Sorry, a person cuts in line.
Sorry, a biker knocks me over.
Sorry, my debit card’s been declined. Next customer, please.
There’s no sorry in rejected credit card applications. They speak only of delinquent obligations. Income. Balances.
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Literally Reruns – A Single Grain of Salt by Nik Eveleigh
Leila has picked out a real beauty this time. One of our most popular stories by wonderful Nik Eveleigh.
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Week 313 – Speed, Alex O’Hara Was A Knob-End And Trust Me, ‘Old Shep’ Is Worse!
I don’t know why I was wondering how many words a minute I could type. I decided to test myself. I can do around three hundred which I’m led to believe is quite impressive. I was so proud until I found out they all couldn’t be the same word without any spaces. No one appreciates my three hundred ‘a’s.
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