Adult content – see tags at the bottom of the story
I don’t believe in God; and I’ll tell you why. I don’t believe that good exists. There’s just evil and the absence of evil. It’s like your air conditioner doesn’t actually blow cold on you. It simply absorbs the heat and expels it elsewhere.
Continue reading “The Absence of Good by Thurman Hart”
The terraced house had a brown door, an unkempt garden, and a crooked gate. Weeds sprouted from the wonky paved path, and a torn plastic bag clung to a bare bush.
Michael stood before the gate, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a plastic bag of his own, his eyes fixed on the front door.
Continue reading “Blacksticks Blue by Robert Cutillo”
On the canvas, the sun glints off the edge of the pool where the turquoise water meets the azure sky. The palm trees almost sway in the sea breeze, the water shimmers as if tickling the sides of the pool. In a dimly lit room, towards the back of the museum, a single spotlight in an otherwise empty gallery focused its beam on a painting of a swimming pool.
To the left of the painting sat a lifeguard.
Continue reading ” Dive Right In byJames Flanagan”
(A Novel Excerpt) by James Hanna
Author’s Note
Gertie McDowell, a naïve young girl with a talent for misadventure, has joined a women’s wrestling troop called Christian Ladies of Wrestling. The troop was put together by Wanda Sue, a bank robber with a streak of religion whom Gertie met while serving time because she “trusted the wrong sort of fella.” The mission of the troop is to bring folks closer to Jesus by having women posing as Christians beat the sin out of women posing as transgressors. Gertie’s wrestling persona is Haystacks Holly, a lustful temptress who needs a good punishing. The troop also includes three runaway girls: Cocheta, an Apache girl with sleeves of tattoos, and Sofia and Mia, a pair of sinewy migrant workers.
Continue reading “Christian Ladies of Wrestling”
In the 90’s, I was a crackhead, pushing a United States Postal cart all over Midtown South Manhattan. Me and 100 or so other guys. We worked 120 hour weeks. We worked till we dropped. And we slept where we fell.
Continue reading “The Cart by Gene Bray”
Just like most of our visitors and writers, I couldn’t even begin to count the number of books I’ve read. My first real favourite was Heidi, which I read over and over and from that point on I never stopped reading. I’ve read some brilliant works, and I have read some dross. I have this thing where I’ve started, so I’ll finish, but I am slowly weaning myself out of that mindset. There are only so many years in a life after all and too many good books.
Continue reading “Auld Author – The Physician by Noah Gordon by Diane”
Whether it Be Curbing or Kerbing, Nothing Vomits Sweeter Than Stolen Beer
Society has been going to hell since the invention of the Good Old Days. Funny thing there–because it’s true and yet there are new Good Old Days rolling out of the Good Old Days Factory constantly. A Paradox, until you remember that New People are being produced at even a greater frequency.
Continue reading “Week 472: Where Have You Gone Darby Crash? Punk Bed Fiasco and Not All That Irritates Makes a Pearl”
“Let’s have intercourse.”
“…excuse me?”
She trailed her fingers over the wooden table. Bought at some drift store a million years ago, for a buck and a half. He still liked it – a memory.
“Listen”, she said, “let’s face it. The marriage is dead. There’s nothing for us to do anymore. Except intercourse.”
Continue reading “After the Fall by Dianne Willems “
“Love is a zero-sum game. Pretty much.”
– Billy Olsen
When Billy Olsen first saw her, he behaved oddly, like a Cubist painting tumbling down a staircase.
It was Tuesday evening. The Parrot Lounge’s sole décor statement was a stuffed parrot in a cage hanging from the ceiling below a light bulb in cigarette smoke. It was not the place to take a date nor find a snug corner to brood in—too much light, too loud, substandard bar food, and flat pitchers of beer.
Continue reading “Out of His League by Gerald Coleman”
The Exchange by Toye EskridgeBattalion after battalion, the towering pines stood rigid, guarding both sides of the blacktop the salesman barreled down in his cream Studebaker. The pointed hood knifed the stifling Southern air.
Continue reading “The Exchange by Toye Eskridge”
literally stories 