Distraction by Sharon HajjIn the morning, I like to bury my dreams under the pillow so I can immediately check my to-do list:
I sit in silence amid the scattered, worthless rubble of what were the symbols of your life’s bright flashes and triumphs that you hold so dear. These shattered remains lay in tribute to unbridled, hate-filled rage, spawned from the union of betrayal and deceit.
Jane couldn’t keep her clothes on.
She’d been arrested a few times on public decency charges but when the authorities witnessed her prison togs repelling themselves from her, the charges were dropped.
She was referred to experts on everything but there were no experts on spontaneous clothing removal by the clothing itself.
The thing about parallel universes is that there might be somewhere where you exist where you are a better person. But then there has to be another place where you’re the worst version of yourself.
His name was Amos Clark, 75 years old if a day, and on one of those days at the little decrepit house where the dowser used to live, this kind-looking man with a beard came carrying all he owned on an A-frame on his back. He set his A-frame on the ground and looked at the small house needing much work on the outside and quickly imagined what the inside of the house looked like. Old muscles, in a twist of memory, began to move under his shirt.
Continue reading “The Lost Notes of a Carpenter’s Song by Tom Sheehan”
Another one from Leila Allison and this time it is by lovely Tobias . This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Elsa by Tobias Haglund”
Another week has came and went and left us with Posting Number 229.
I have never thought of myself as being naive but there are some things that would make me reconsider.
I thought life would get easier as I got older.
I believed that I would, one day, do a job that I enjoyed and have no intervention from fuckidiot management.
Continue reading “Week 229 – Madness, Letting Writers Write And A Horny Guy With Crumpled Clothes.”
I was looking out the window of my 3rd story deluxe apartment, the ceiling high windows the selling point of the hip, modern home. All the people below looked so different, yet eerily similar. Long hair, man buns, side shaves, and bright awful color streaks through their hair to match the dull plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Mr. Blake was very excited. His performance review was today, and he was looking forward to it. Whistling, he knotted his tie and inspected himself in the mirror. He thought he looked good. Solid, mature, but with a twinkle in his eye—a guy you’d like to have a beer with, because he seemed like he knew how to kick back.
This conversation is with old red wine that brings you, brother, out of surging daylight to fill the doorway like a mailman with a bad letter or telegram. Specters leap out of this old mixture, the blood of grape, the fine chalk it paints teeth with, a whole day of sunlight collared in a tumbler, a red sunset too far away to tell where. You went off to that sunset once, around the corner of the barn tipping toward its knees and Sam Parker’s garden paving the ripe earth all way to the Lovett house sitting white as a pepper-mint down the lane.
literally stories 