When she left home Briony hadn’t meant to leave so – well, quite so permanently. She went to the shop to buy a cabbage. A medium sized drumhead was what she had in mind, although in fairness there was an option for cauliflower. Dinner was beef, already in the cooker, rich and redolent, herby and delicious. Beef, Beef in beer for Dick and to go with it mashed potatoes and cabbage. His favourite.
Continue reading “Just Going for a Cabbage by Diane M Dickson”
When my father came home from work and said we were going to a concert I was thrilled. It was to take place upstate along the Hudson River in a town called Peekskill. To get out of our stuffy Brooklyn apartment at the end of summer was heaven-sent. I didn’t know dark times were swirling around us.
“You’re going to love the concert David. Paul Robeson is going to sing,” said my father.
“Are you sure Frank? You saw what happened the other night,” said my mother.
“It will be fine. More of us will be there and we can’t let them get away with this can we? After all this is America,” he said.
“Of course you can talk to him, off you go.”
“Thanks daddy!”
I watch as Daniel sprints away. Head down. Arms pumping. Balance ready to fail him at any given moment. Adrenaline fires my heart as he skids on a pine cone at pitch-forward-and-split-head distance from the wooden bench. I breathe again as he thrusts his hands forward and climbs laughing onto the seat and gives the old man a hug who, in return, as usual, pats my son’s head and continues to stare at the trees lining the park.
“I got a book from the library today it’s about a dog and Charlie wanted it but I got it first and gave it to my teacher and…”
Life: what is it all about?
I’d left for the party minimally drunk and maximally desolate. Eva and I had argued earlier. “Laurie,” she’d said truculently, “why don’t you want to go? Who stays in on New Year’s Eve? Jenny and Pete are our oldest friends. But maybe you have your own reasons?”
-Go on! A minute of rest is a minute lost in the Garden of Eden. Legs, listen to me. You will stop cramping and raise my body of burden another step. One more. That’s it.
I know. The air is drier, lesser than I thought. I have not given you sufficient energy to climb another cliff. If I could I would have banished my thought process and saved you some energy. It has done me no good, only fueled me with doubts. I remember praising the hour when the sun set. ‘To be rid of the burning sun,’ I said, ‘is all I can ask for.’ The heat cost us my water and I was already conserving my supplies.
Continue reading “The Valley of the Shadow of Death by Tobias Haglund”
Here are some scores:
*Wales 2 1 Russia
England 9 1 Australia
Scotland 4 4 USA*
Sweden 1 1 Republic of Ireland
Northern Ireland 1 1 India*
For those of you who are wondering how on earth they missed out on such an exciting bunch of midweek Football ‘Friendly Internationals and are now contemplating whether or not Scotland blew a 4-0 half-time lead against the USA and did Australia send their cricket team instead of the Socceroos, I have news.
Wonder no more. No such fixtures took place this week. The ‘scores’ are – as you have no doubt already guessed – a tally of authors published on Literally Stories since our inception in November 2014 (an asterisk denotes new writers scheduled to appear on LS soon.)
For a review of this week’s stories I’ll hand you over to the readers.
The Number 26 by Diane Dickson. Fran Macilvey said: Very interesting and poignant.. Thank you, Diane!
Three Weeks by Todd Levin. Vic Smith said: Another good story, Todd, thoughtful and observant. I enjoyed reading it.
Honey Pie by Tobias Haglund. June Griffin said: Tobias, this beautiful story is so real, it left me hurting.
Len Cordy and the Lollipop Guild by Shane Bolitho. Des Kelly said: Nicely written. Filled with evocative scents, sights and sounds. You drew your characters well.
Sanctions by Hugh Cron. Vic Smith said: Another slice of truth, Hugh. You speak for those with no voice, without trying to turn them into saints. Des Kelly said: Nicely told. Full of despair.
Story of the Week for week ending Friday 13th March went to a photo finish. In horse racing the idiom would be it was that close you could throw a blanket over the runners and riders. Fine, but if you did that then horse and jockey might not cross the line at all. They might veer off at an acute angle, plough through the running rail and head straight for the nearest…I digress. It was close. But there are no horses or blankets. There is however a winner’s enclosure. Albeit a crowded one.
Three winners. Hugh, if you can just…budge up a bit Todd. That’s fine. Tobias if you could tuck your elbow it then…good, now you can all take a bow.
Don’t forget to vote for your favourite stories to choose the winner for next week:-
“MR BELL!!”
“THAT’LL BE ME!!!”
The security guard walked over. Neil watched as the guard’s belly swayed from side to side. He couldn’t help himself as he began to gag.
Why the fuck do I imagine so many ugly people shagging?
“Have you a problem?”
Neil hit at his chest.
“No, not at all, I just have an attack of the dry boak.”
The guard pulled at the back of his trousers, “No, I don’t mean that, I mean your outburst.”
“MR BELL, I AM WAITING!!?”
“Oh, you mean like that?”
Toothpick balanced on his lip, just so. Hair slicked down with practiced precision. But despite the evil eye and air of menace he fancied he gave off, Rachel Duccini couldn’t help but smile. Gerard Marron, for all his sneering attempts at brooding ominousness, reminded her a hell of a lot of the Lollipop Guild Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. The way he squinted, the pant legs too short to cover his ankles, and the way he had his hands in his pockets, thumbs out pointing at each other across his groin.
Continue reading “Len Cordy & The Lollipop Guild by Shane Bolitho”
It shone over Hayfield, South Dakota, and George Angus ran his hand through straws of Hard Red Winter Wheat. Cream colored leaves. He used his hand to shield against the sun and fixed his eyes on the old oak tree upon the hill. Then down again. Frail dryness. Like the touch of Mary’s hand. He looked at his own hands, dry but not frail. Quite sturdy. Sharp lines, trenches from a working life. He ran his palm over his scruffy wide face.
Nathan stood outside next to the elevator. We see each other sometimes across the floor while he smokes a rolled-up cigarette and sometimes drinks and I take out the leftovers.
‘Three weeks without a kiss,’ he said to me the last time I stood there last summer with my black bags, ‘but at least I don’t stink like you do right now’ and through the smoke he’d laugh, coughing roughly in the yellow glow.
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