All Stories, Short Fiction

Week 509 – Stunning Place, Ralphie Glick And Two ‘C’ Words – One Worse Than The Other!!

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This may go on a wee bit as my head is full of stuff. I should probably separate (I can never spell that sodding word!!) it all and make a few posts out of this or that or whatever, but what the hell, I enjoy writing off the cuff. (I need to check where that saying came from) First off, I need to say what a cracking four days with my lovely wife who I judge for staying with me!! We went to Skye. What a stunning place. Beautiful people. What a diversity of folks as well. I think I counted fourteen nationalities that I spoke to over four days. But fuck me, it’s expensive—I think only Paris could compare. However, it didn’t matter. We were together for forty years so we said ‘Sod it! Let’s go somewhere we have always wanted to see.’ Skye was that very place. I drank Talisker in Skye which is the home of Talisker. I had a few Drambuies, which was made for Bonnie prince Charlie. I got dizzy as every sodding place is so high. I ate superb seafood. Met an Aussie / Kiwi couple who were travelling half of Europe on their honeymoon and a wee mad mental Liverpudlian fellow who walked a bit weird. We both wondered if he had had an injury and he told us that he had. He jumped off a one hundred and fifty foot cliff, was blown back onto the cliffs. He broke all his ribs and shattered all of his mouth. He was a young guy and I asked him how his mum felt, he stated, and I will always remember this, ‘When I was well, she hurt me more than the broken ribs and fucked up teeth.’

All in all, I know that there are folks from all countries reading this…If you ever get the chance, go there, it is something that I have never experienced before. You just think two things:

1. Is this no a bit good!!

2. I’m insignificant. Mother Nature tops us all!!!

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All Stories, General Fiction

Ghost by Margaret Wells

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Text 9:40 pm “It’s not the same without you [shrug emoji].”

Text 9:41 pm, Spotify link, “Tu Orgullo” [Your pride]

Text 9:42 pm, Spotify link, “Estoy Aquí” [I’m here]

Part of me wanted to type, are you fucking kidding me, after four years, still with this bullshit? What part of “we’re divorced” is not resonating with you? The other half of me knew that there was no possible way to reply. Every reply would be the wrong reply. To respond to the substance—really, my pride was the problem, you cheating bastard?—would be to invite more back and forth. (That our split was all about my pride was one of his constant refrains.) To remind him that I’d asked him to stop sending texts like these would bring the rejoinder that he knew that already, but couldn’t I see his true and beautiful love, a true and beautiful love that existed in and around the totally incidental cheating that went on sporadically ever since we got together when we were twenty-two? Couldn’t I see that he had given me every reason over decades to fight for him and for our relationship? What was wrong with me?

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All Stories, General Fiction

Ghost of a Shark by Neil James

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The monster on the beach lies on his side – bigger than a boat, sadder than the ocean. The seafront’s deserted at dawn, so I leave my bike in the empty car park, next to the tariff sign that upsets the tourists. My shoes imprint into the wet sand as I approach him, the creature from another world. 

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All Stories, Science Fiction

Scarcity by R.W. Owen

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The forest held its breath, and so did Amelia, as she crouched in its undergrowth, heart hammering and a lump rising in her throat. She silently swore off the next fiery ache that coiled in her thighs. She listened for the delicate puff of air that would bring the spores, echoing across the pines and oaks as they descended in a curtain of death that would fell the living, leaving in their wake only the eerie, absolute silence of death. 

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All Stories, General Fiction

 Mushawie off the Hill by Tom Sheehan

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Jimmy Mac, on the second-floor porch of his Smith Road house and the early sun barely creasing the edge of Baker Hill, looked over the top of the box scores, the Sox winning their fifth in a row, and saw, for the first time in he’d later guess to be about eight years, Mushawie just coming to the bottom of the Cinder Path. Coming off Baker Hill. He couldn’t remember Mushawie being off the hill. My God! Jimmy, said to himself. Nobody saw Mushawie unless he wanted them to see him, him socked away back in on the Delmere property the way he’d been since VJ Day in ’45.


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All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Week 508:Inspiring Words From the Past; New Inspiring Words and Remembering a Friend

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Inside Information Inspiration

At the start of his career Hunter S. Thompson typed copies of famous novels in effort to gain a “muscle memory” of greatness–Gatsby for instance; the whole thing, seeking the inspiration; how it felt to write the powerful words. I have never gone that far, but I do surround myself with what I think are great words and images. These are pasted to my walls along with what I consider fine art. Visually, I have (among many others) Van Gough, Picasso, Dali and Giger prints as well as a large Shakespeare poster (whose accusatory eyes tend to follow me for some reason) on my walls. But it is not all highbrow, because I also have stuff like Elliott the Pigeon (of this wrap’s header), “Dogs Playing Poker” and a poster for Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster on the same walls

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All Stories, General Fiction

In Want of a Home by Alannah Tjhatra

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Angel was sprawled across the couch, the TV turned to Seinfeld. She had a cigarette in one hand and a magazine in the other.

“Wish you’d at least take that shit outside.” Grace stripped off her soaking coat, peeled a dead worm off the sole of her shoe. She stuck her sneakers on the heater to dry.

Angel rolled her eyes, a puff of smoke escaping her lips. “And hello to you too, baby.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

Being Billy Olsen by Gerald Coleman

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“One’s real life is often the life one does not lead.”
—Oscar Wilde

Billy Olsen didn’t remember the moment he started to grow into the image everyone had of him. Nor whether other people’s “Billy Olsen” was anything like the real one, if there was one. Self-awareness was not a strength. Perhaps that’s why he confided in me.

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