She gave me the grandest name. Bardonneche. Lovely isn’t it. Didn’t suit me at all. Or not so’s you could see. Would suit me even less now, pruned up bag of bones that I am. But I wasn’t pretty even then. Mind you, neither was she. Pretty we were not.
She was Cleanthes, I was Bardonneche. We became a team.
Continue reading “Dimps by Geraint Jonathan”
I knew I shouldn’t have come to the tip on a Sunday, the queues are always massive. I should have come in the week, but I couldn’t be arsed. Yet another mistake I’ve made. Petrol is nearly empty as well, that’s another job I’ll have to do. Never fucking ends, does it?
Continue reading “Tip Run by Alex Kellet”
The dimness of the room was perfect for them both. That was how she loved it; the gentle light covered up the years that had become ingrained in her skin and the weariness in her eyes. He never asked for more light. Every Tuesday, he would drop by, say nothing, and leave a wad of money on the dresser.
Continue reading “The Silence by Rehanul Hoque”
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I never learned how to ride a bicycle. My little sister did; during her Jesus phase Tess earned a rusty third-hander from the Presbyterians because she’d memorized fifty Bible verses. It was the sort of bike you could leave out and not care if it got stolen. Forever on foot, I excelled at heartstopping bolts across busy streets, hopping fences and creating shortcuts; I also developed a mailman’s awareness of Dogs.
Continue reading “Mannish by Leila Allison”
As anyone who reads the site knows, we publish a great deal of stuff by one or two-off writers. That is not a problem, but it sometimes results in excellent stories getting lost because the name of the author was only around for a short time.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Loredano Carfano”
Here we are posting number 519
It’s been a weird week.
I’ve been limping more than normal and just noticed I have a huge bruise on my knee – Fuck knows how it got there. A note to my self (Is that one word??) I need to take more showers!!!!
Continue reading “Week 519 – Cleaning Naked Appendages, ‘Tell ‘Um About The Honey Mummy And Henry Maghee Was That Mummy.”
Our boy is in trouble again. Belvin has done something. This time it is all over the news. The red drag of stoplights. “Why are we even going?” says Genie.
Continue reading “The Footnotes by Christopher Ananias”
My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
Continue reading “Where the Dead Live by Jennifer Maloney”
What is immoral is simply what we don’t want people to do. If anything is expeditious to us, of benefit, if it accords with our own plan, we will not only sanction but applaud what would otherwise outrage us.
Continue reading “Katrina by Richard Krause”
In the low light of early evening, Micki Gehl strolled along the path that ran from her house to the first of her three chicken coops, tossing scratch feed to her hens. Chickens were the love of her life. Their attention provided all the affection she needed and their eggs, along with the apples from her orchard, provided all the income she needed. An extensive garden supplied most of her food. She smiled a bit to herself; she truly enjoyed her life.
Continue reading “Good for the Garden by T.G. Roettiger”
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