When the poor shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat their children.
Or starve, was the unadded addendum. Many had chosen to starve. Many had not.
Continue reading “When the Poor Have Nothing More by Sparrow Grace”
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Beezer and Barkevious claim to be brothers. That’s unlikely in the physical sense–Beezer is a British Bulldog and Barkevious is a Scottish Terrier; but nowadays you can be anything you want to be until you try to buy life insurance. Then again, since they are talking Dogs who live in the make-believe realm of Saragun Springs, such a claim remains possible. Regardless, the boys were wandering the realm’s countryside sniffing for rancid stuff to roll in when they saw Conrad the Blackface Ram headed their way.
Continue reading “It Had to Be Ewe by Leila Allison”
On that day, as on most days, the 8:22 was right on time. Book in hand, I boarded a nearly empty car and secured a seat facing west, so as to avoid the blistering fire of a Colorado sunrise. The city burned amber and rose as the doors dinged closed and the train lurched forward. I gazed out the window as we glided out of downtown, past campus, and under 6th Avenue. At Broadway we met I-25, which we would parallel for the remainder of the journey south.
Continue reading “Missed Connections by J.D. Strunk”
Today we will once again visit our friend Tom Sheehan, the tale is called Flesh of an Unwanted Fish.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Flesh of an Unwanted Fish -Tom Sheehan”
Here we are at Week 491.
Getting close to 500 – Don’t really know what that means but surely it means something!!
I had something happen to me this week that emphasised how old I’m getting. Okay apart from the usual aches and pains and hating the world for existing!
Continue reading “Week 491 – Can Only Us Scottish Folks Say Bach? RIP Dad For The Second Year And Winifred Atwell Enhanced Him!!!”
The L train had stopped at the Lorimer Street Station on its way from Manhattan back to Brooklyn when the young man sensed a sudden excitement in the car. He raised his eye from the book he was reading as a full-size stand-up bass sailed past. In moments, a trio of Mexican musicians had set up in the middle of the car.
He nudged his girlfriend “Look,” he said.
Continue reading “Ta Da Dum Bing – a story by Michael Henson”
Mussolini loved his monkey. Historians may argue over the details of this strange relationship, but the existence of the creature, and the very real bond between man and monkey, cannot be denied.
Continue reading “Mussolini’s Monkey by Marco Etheridge”
The fog was descending, creeping in from the mountains and cloaking the lake in a heavy mist. Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, Birgitte looked up to the darkening sky and smiled. “We should probably be heading in soon,” she said, though her voice held no hint of actually believing it. “It will be night before we know it, and there’s sure to be some talk or trouble if we’re too late.”
Continue reading “Flesh and Feathers by L.S. Engler”
Poisson Regression by JJ de Melo
Sweat sticks me to the couch. Like a bug in fly tape. The windows are open, but I only have one fan. It barely helps. I’m breathing hot soup in my apartment and I want out. To leave. Take a walk. But it’s not safe. Not yet.
Continue reading “Poisson regression by JJ de Melo”
I peel off the paint bottle’s seal, and a strong chemical smell wafts off the top. The scent reminds me of the hospital’s ICU corridors and the ache that filled my chest when my mother and I entered Room 520A to see Nana a few days before. I swirl around different colored paints and recreate the fiery orange sunset and the same brilliant blue sky from last year when Nana and I walked along the shore during our annual beach trip after Easter Sunday Mass. My little brother plunges without thought into his palette and haphazardly washes his brush against his egg’s shell. His designs turn out formless, and his colors mix into drab shades of brown and gray. He eyes my egg and then looks down at his, and his cheeks flush. His eyes flash in warning as his idea is hatched in seconds. Still, I don’t move fast enough and watch in horror as he smashes the Easter Egg I painted for Nana to the floor, sending pieces of memory flying through the air; these things are fragile.
Continue reading “Nana Won’t Rise Up from the Dead by Margo Griffin”
literally stories 