Pineapple yoghurt. Trifle. The last few months he wanted milky things. I bought a bottle of Rémy Martin. He took a sip, made a face. ‘It’s too much now, too strong. I’m sorry,’ he said.
The Nail in the Coffin by Maédeiva Myre
I hear everything: the soft cry of my mother, the beep of the heart monitor, the whispers of the nurses, and the subtle hum of the air conditioner. I feel the rough texture of my hospital gown against my skin, the cold hand of the doctor every morning when he visits, and the warm hand of my mother every time she touches my cheek. I am awake. Wide awake.
Sheltered by Jamie Sheffield
“… bled all over the counter, staining my hands and the floor before I could get it cleaned up,” finished the lanky, slightly dirty, anemic-looking kid ringing me out, unaware, or perhaps undaunted, by the fact that I hadn’t been listening to him.
Literally Reruns – Margaret’s Mementos by June Griffin
Leila Allison has dug deep now into the archives and rooted out a gem from the early days with a story by June Griffin. This is what she said:
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Glam Rock, Docken Leaves And Some Other Barry White.
Here we are at week 203. That number seemed so boring that I didn’t even look it up!
I’ve been thinking about animals this week. And no, not in that way! I may be a bit strange but I’m not fucking deranged!
Continue reading “Glam Rock, Docken Leaves And Some Other Barry White.”
Joy by Frederick K Foote
Fear has seeped into my sixty-year-old bones. Dread is my shadow and accompanies my every step. Terror has hollowed me out, emptied me, leaving me broken and brittle.
Private Snowflake by John McLaughlin
“This has got to be the sorriest sight I have ever witnessed in my long and storied military career!”
The Grass Jesus Walked On by Elizabeth Bruce
“One dollar,” young Earl C. Calder said and looked at the farmer before him transfixed on the small the blue vial Earl held in his hand.
Earl didn’t blink in the mid-day sun, all 110 pounds of himself holding steady next to Ida. The vial of elixir they had emptied the night before still floated through him, but he didn’t flinch, not Madam Wilma T.’s son, born in a brothel and groomed for greatness.
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White Face by Shona Woods
‘I need a lift you see.’
My voice strains to be heard outside Mike’s house. There’s a hot stink of ale chasing him out the door, a cigarette resting along his ear, and a slapped cheek look about his face. He looks down from his considerable height, bolstered by the chunky doorstep. He is a statue on his plinth and I’m a beggar with a crutch.
Siswana by Ntombi K
It was a Monday morning. A village hen clucked at the assembly, looking for its youngling. The school principal, Mister Rakobo, went off with the hen, leaving the assembly divided into several assemblies. The Mocking Birds choral conductor raised a hand, calming the sopranos and tenors that were going this way and that. “Whose mother is that?” inquired some. “Someone must have stolen money or something,” speculated some. “A family death? A bullying case?” Some concluded that this was not the case.
literally stories 