“Put ’em on t’ side,” Grandad croaked. He must have heard the kitchen door click open and shut.
He’d sent me to Mrs Byrne’s on the corner of Wightman Street for twenty Senior Service. “You can earn yer tea,” he said. “But mind I want change.” He gave me two half crowns. “Should be a bob.” He jabbed the stem of his briar at my face. “Think on.”
Continue reading “Sixty a Day Man by Andy Larter”
My friends had always been transparently envious of Molly, even if they weren’t verbalising this. But it was obvious.
Continue reading “My Unimaginary Friend by George Oliver”
Saudade: (n.) a nostalgic longing to be near to something or someone that is distant; the desire to be near again to what has been loved and then lost, “the love that remains.”
Continue reading “Just Give It Time by Matthew J. McKee”
This week our most published writer, Tom Sheehan presents a little thing that is not exactly a short story but is wonderful it its own right. Tom is a master of the craft and language and we hope you take the time this Sunday to let him speak to you.
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The Lady and the Lumberjack
Lottie Littlejohn had worked the lone general store in Clint Falls, Montana, by herself after her husband fell across the counter and died from a heart attack, no family near enough to help her, now approaching five long years at the task. And she never looked at a man out of the corners of her eyes, not with hope, interest or hunger of the tricky sort, two ways of getting together, her to him or him to her.
It all popped loose one day when a lumberjack, a regular monthly customer, Daniel Ranford, brawny across his shoulders, forearms and wrists carrying near-emblems of his trade, took an extra look at the lady behind the counter.
If ignition was ever spontaneous, this did the errand at hand, cracked open another door as though it came loose of hinges, or the last swing of an ax sharpened for the deed.
In a manual world, lamp lonely lit when necessary for late hours or the darkest of days, it was singular, open, a notion or an idea on the run and delivered as such. For a woodsman whose life and success were explosions of energy, the drop of a tree was not the final act of the deed but there came endless splitting of logs and succeeding piles of stove wood or construction lumber in a daily mix. Destination went in every direction, sundry routes, defined needs as demands chased his energies.
Ranford fired all barrels of his attention, and managed to slip in an extra visit to the store to move the concentration, Lottie wondering if he had lost a brace of supplies or let sourness make an extra invasion.
Lottie began to pay attention to her appearance, stayed with an attractive hair-do, changed her clothes as often as she could, do a last-minute fix when she saw him coming or figured he was due for a visit; all possibilities checked and doublechecked to her satisfaction, and, hopefully, his.
Both ends made improvements, the way they would look at each other, without saying a word out of sync, like love warming up to a noble task for a lumberjack or a store clerk. She marked one minor problem with gout on one of his knuckles, and the other was an ear for soft country music in an occasional recording he purchased, as if every other visit had worn the records out, down to the nub, or, if possible, down to the last lonely tear in his eyes. the soft music finding a soft heart. And Lottie noting changes and impacts from her observation on the one man now attracting her attention.
When Ranford spun loose a soft country song from memory, “When Love Makes the Mountain Taller,” Lottie was home with a new energy, herself near drawn down over the counter, her heart now wide open with remembrance of a known love that carried her for lovely years, wrapped her in its hunger, let the topic rush the richness of old thoughts, new advantages for old souls.
Life on the upswing; nothing else like it, for storekeeper free of the counter, lumberjack free of the forest. The world can turn around in the smallest sphere; love and hunger make the drawing, the pairing.
Con-Fused Box
About ten years ago I wrote a book and wanted to sell it to a publisher. This is when I discovered the dreaded cover letter and outline–Evil Twins who walketh the literary hellword much like Beelzebub and Captain Howdy. Nearly all publishers who look at un-agented work ask to see these two guys.
At first I thought, no problem. I just wrote a book, I can produce a cover letter and outline.
I was wrong. I had written a book but I could not (and still cannot) compose a concise cover letter or a sense-making outline. The problem was that I did not want to do either of those tasks because they were the type of work that tripped the innards of my mental fuse box. Still, my life has always been heavy with unwanted chores that my mental machete whacks through on a daily basis. Yet the blade wasn’t up to either task. I emerged from the jungle, toting my mixed metaphor, defeated due to my inability to summon ‘Bub and Howdy on demand.
Later on I found myself warming up to a pair of what turned out to be highly uninspired and unoriginal notions. I figured I’d flout protocol and do as I saw fit–an action that nearly always is a recipe for shame and failure. I later found out that my big Ideas were as common as Dandelions in May. Yet at the risk of embarrassment, I will share them with you.
The first is the affectation of a “Breezy” demeanor. This usually happens in the cover letter only, when it is evident to the writer that she cannot create a proper cover letter. She adopts the guise of a “character” and writes a few contrary and wildly off the topic sentences in lieu of a cover letter–in vain hope that her “unique charm” will win the day: “When Leila isn’t murdering publishers and their families late at night with a machete she writes peerless fiction…”
Breezy doesn’t work out.
The other is the “Belligerent Genius.” She will lower herself just this once to do as asked. Especially troublesome in the outline: “Here the complexities of the plot cannot be surmised in a few cheap words; some intellect will be necessary on the part of the reader…”
The Belligerent Genius never hears back from the publisher either.
I am ruefully guilty of having committed both sins in the past. And although we do not publish books, nor ask for more than a basic informative email, I have discovered that there are a few (very few) fellow sinners in submissions–who cannot even do that correctly and will opt for Breezy or even Belligerent instead. I will not chastise people who engage in familiar folly (that’s my word of the week-folly), because it would be hypocritical of me, even though I have seen the light. But with that said, such behavior never works out well.
I’m also deficient at segues. You’d think that through sheer repetition I would improve. But I am the sort of person who walks fifteen-thousand steps a day and puts on weight. It’s all a part of the natural disorder of my system. Still, if I head the next section with a positive word and jump into it, the damage will be controlled and the minor segue faux pas (hopefully) soon forgotten.
Winners
This week featured number thirty-four by a long-time site supporter, the quick second appearance of another (which has happened a lot lately) and we welcome three first time contributors.
David Henson opened the week with The Man Who Pulled Himself Together. It is one of those rare things that works in stretched realism and as a metaphor. David has pulled himself together thirty-four times and also with his daily comments on the works of others. I feel that this one was as hard to do as tapping your head with one hand and circling your stomach with the other. Yet David was able to make this unlikely scenario work; the flow is perfect and it is easy to buy into as well.
Adam Kaz made a quick follow up to his his first story that appeared last week (Random Roommate) with How I Made the Greatest Rock Concert Movie Ever. That is a bold claim and certainly in the eye and ear of the beholder, but there is no denying the youthful energy and fun of this piece.
Wednesday featured what can be called an expanded folk tale by first time contributor Iván Brave. Karass is both imaginative and charming. It is always a great idea to examine the concepts of other places and other times; this sort of activity keeps the mind flexible and open. The Ferryman burning his fares, the eccentric (to say the least) “passengers” make this one both fun and enlightening.
Picture the Dead by John Cantwell is a well crafted, elegiac work that resonates and improves with each reading. It’s also one I can’t say too much about without tipping too much. But the overlapping of realities is brilliantly done, as are the idioms.
Our third consecutive newcomer to the site, Brandon Nadeau closed the week with Donn and the Mourning Moon. This one is impossible to describe. But it is unforgettable and doesn’t go more than three words anywhere within without doing something interesting or even amazing.
There they are–our five stars of the week. Only time and possibly decent cover letters will prove if each one has a long future in print. I think they should, but since I have no desire to live forever, I am in no position to make that kind of promise. Still, struggling segue-wise, I close with a list of ten tales that I feel have withstood the test of time. I encourage further suggestions.
Ten Great Short Stories of Yore (Proof that the Dead can still do well)
The Forest. 1995-Nov-07. Prince George, BC. 1805 hours.
Mom taught me the stories of our people, from the moon goddess, whose light enchanted the night, to the banshee, whose scream was an omen of death. She practiced the paganism and witchcraft she’d learned from Nana, who’d long since gone to be with Donn—Lord of the Dead.
Continue reading “Donn and the Mourning Moon by Brandon Nadeau”
The man carried the three-year-old boy on his shoulders hurriedly pointing out to him as they made their slow and winding way through a crowd of smiling faces, the large bonfire, nearly as tall as a church tower. They stood and watched with amazement a firework display burn and spark into a myriad of colours, exploding with a roar above their raised heads. A man, meanwhile, had shinned his way like a tailless monkey to the top of the bonfire and setting it ablaze shinned back down again. The fire crackled, building up like a silent volcano and sputtering sprouted high into the firmament with a sudden bright flash, prompting a round of applause from the enthusiastic audience gathered in the cobbled street. High up on his father’s shoulders, the oohs and aahs of the cheering crowd made the young boy feel uneasy and he stopped his ears, peering upwards at the blue sky now becoming home to rampant streamers of black smoke, blotting the soft colours of the landscape, and the growing flames frightened him.
Continue reading “Picture The Dead by John Cantwell”
After piling the paper bills from his last passenger and placing the square photograph of his wife on top of the money, the ferryman lights a match. He lowers it slowly, shaking. But just then a breeze blows out the flame, leaving nothing behind but a thin waft of smoke. There are no more matches, unfortunately. Now his hut—earthy, with a cot, a bucket, and a small shrine inside—feels emptier than ever.
Continue reading “Karass by Iván Brave”
Things really pick up at the fifteen-minute mark. Lionel Bottom, lead singer, is belting the chorus of “Baby Without Bottle.” He’s suffused in steamy shades of red and purple, highlighting the angularity of his spiky hair and turning his pasty skin pink. He holds the microphone like he’s choking it when he sings, “We are men we need no coddle / We’re like baby without bottle.” It’s a glorious crescendo, really marvelous, powerful stuff, exactly what The Scrum is all about. A crowd of five thousand worships the trio with bacchanalian ardor, yelling, dancing.
Continue reading “How I Made the Greatest Concert Movie of All Time by Adam Kaz”
I call my boss, whose texts I’ve been ignoring for days, and tell him I’m returning to work. He says not to bother. Serves me right. I’ve let everything go to hell since Arlene left. I vow to pull myself together. Tomorrow. I take a few diazepam and go to bed.
Continue reading “The Man Who Pulled Himself Together by David Henson”
literally stories 