Sylvie looked down at the dishes. In the slightly greasy water her fingers disappeared under the foam. The light sparkled and popped as tiny globes exploded and infinitesimal rainbows vanished in the blink of an eye.
She had always loved bubbles, the luxurious bath type ones that wrapped you in a quilt of scented foam. The ones children, and sometimes Sylvie herself, made blowing through a plastic ring, and the sort that floated out of wonderful bubble machines. Of all the things she wished she had, and there were many, a bubble machine came pretty high on the list.
Lars said to Miranda, “Understand this…” and left the table.
A series of explosions shook the six storey building but did not deter Miranda’s study of him; his untidy egress.
Through the narrow living space towards the sash window, she watched him go. Observed him at the window and after a time wondered why he found what was on the other side of the glass – a post-siesta pre-bombardment tableau in the still spring air – more compelling than whatever it was she supposed he intended to spout next.
This past week has been a smörgåsbord of thought-provoking pieces. Yes we are very international and know words like smörgåsbord and… international.
The stories have given us moments of fear followed by moments of deliberation. And speaking of moments, we started the week off with Lissa’s. Lissa’s Moment that is. For a moment it lasted pretty long, in fact by the time the sequel came out it could no longer be called a moment, it had to be called: Lissa’sFlight.
That can’t be true, you say. Yes it is. It’s the way Diane chooses titles and speaking of titles and things that are true. Desmond Kelly’s True was our Wednesday story.
How could you possibly do a segment to the Thursday story? It will not be easy, in fact I have already lost my train of thoughts. Where was I? Oh yes, The Whereabouts of Mrs. Trishaby W D Frank is a dark and twisted tale, recommended for readers wanting a frightful experience or for people named Mrs. Trisha who are currently lost.
“Lost” you say? A bit like Elsa, the Friday story, about a young woman making a life changing decision.
Lastly but least leastly the story of the week for 12th to 16th January. Without fixing the numbers or allowing the lobbyist too much say. The last week winner is: Literally Stories Week 7. What? That has to be the rigged results. No the real winner is: The Front Page by David Louden. Congratulations to David Louden!
Don’t forget you can vote for your choice of Story of the Week for the week ending 23rd January either here – right now – right on this page OR by clicking the link on the Header Menu or the cute little letter box in the side bar
Three Choices – No excuse – Come on support your favourite – please 🙂
There’s a temperature – not too warm, not too cold, just right – where I am caught for hours. Thousands of tiny water drops form like islands in an ocean upon the inner wall of the shower stall. Streams run down, connecting the islands and growing bigger to eventually drop to the puddle at my feet. As the water hits my forehead, eyelids and cheeks a comfort settles, knowing no matter how long I stand here, the water won’t stop. Sooner or later all of the thousand islands will be connected and new ones will form. The streams reaching my feet will not stop streaming and the flow will keep wrinkling my hands. I lean left and the shower hits my shoulder creating a waterfall.
I withhold tears as I peer into the furious blue eyes of my runaway lover. His rugged, masculine body is chained to the behemothian memorial stone of a literary legend, yet his murderous vows continue to escape effortlessly. I murmur wryly as I brush my fingers across his exposed nipples and entertain an intense bombardment of blissful necrophilia fantasies.
“What a waste all of this is… I am breaking off another physical relationship and degrading a historical artifact simultaneously. Where did we go wrong, Ed? Why are you acting like such a monumental tosser!?”
I wrote poetry for an illiterate. She was pretty. We made bad love in a goodly way. She wanted to live in a doll’s house near nesting swans. Furiously describing anxiety, panic attacks. I saw her through the night, but days went badly. Trauma for effect; the actress at her art. Drinking water from zippy bottles, dropped out the window when used up. The landlord never understood.
Lissa felt old. Her bones were tired and her soul weary. Mama and Baba had been long gone and she had spent countless years alone in the dark, cramped place where they had all existed.
The three brief occasions when she had gone “up top” were her dearest memories. In the deep of the night, when the gangs roamed outside the draughty windows and the spotlights from the Enforcer’s wagons slid across the walls, scaring the cockroaches and scorpions, she would close her lids and take her thoughts to the sun-kissed meadow and the startling blue of the sky.
Literally Stories Week 7!? Last I checked you were on Week 5. Yea, but then we had a Roundup and with all of the New Year’s Eve Updates who keeps track. Speaking of keeping track, that’s where we left you. At the tracks. The Front Page by David Louden generated a lot of attention.
The nags were against me. Six races. Six bets. All blown out before the finishing line. I’m going to change bars, I told myself, this place is bad fucking luck for me. Superstition and gambling become more impassioned bed fellows the worse your luck is – and mine, mine hadn’t seen anything to show for it in months.
I sat at the bar in the Front Page cursing my luck, cursing the Racing Post, cursing the barman who had talked through the back page of form listings and most probably caused me to rush to a decision when time and a clear head was required. As the stranger pulled up a seat beside me I cursed him too. Wednesday afternoon, quite possibly the quietest time in a bar’s week and in a room full of empty, cold seats this prick parks up alongside me.
literally stories 