Merry Christmas, even to the humbuggers. Today we present two in a series we call the Reruns of Christmas. James McEwan began this party yesterday, which will last through Sunday. And there will be no rest for the wicked because the new year begins with new stories next Monday.
Continue reading “Christmas Rerun – A Little Red Wagon, A Long Remembered Face by Tom Sheehan”
Merry Christmas Eve. And as foretold in yesterday’s post there will be Ghosts of Reruns past attending the site this week. Consider this very early site post by our friend James McEwan, a herald, who will lead off with this Rerun today, the first of nine replays over the next eight days. Enjoy!
Continue reading “Christmas Eve Rerun: The Lady in the Bauble by James McEwan”
Well here we are, Christmas. Today I choose to remember it well. My family used to include a Dachshund-Chihuahua mix named “Fang” who joined the team when I was in sixth grade (named after Phyllis Diller’s fictional husband). Fang was a fairly peaceful little guy but he hated Christmas trees. Every year he would attack the damn thing late at night at least once. His partner in crime “Rags,” a tiny Rat Terrier, would encourage Fang with little barks, but feign innocence when the light came on.
Continue reading “Week 460: Terminating The Tree With Extreme Prejudice and Welcome to the Holiday Rerun Fest”
Warm tones hit the mahogany bed posts, struck by the sudden light entering the room. The French door moaned as the veil curtain swelled, and a leaf spiralled onto the crochet bed cover, the terracotta tiles, the dresser table.
Frida held a deep breath, albeit restrained inside the cast, until her ribs complained. As if she could capture the light within her lungs, the gap of blue that she envisioned open in the sky. Something inside her had changed; the narrowest ray of light had filtered through the fill of her darkness.
Continue reading “Self-Portrait in a Velvet Dress by Ximena Escobar”
With most first dates, I knew within seconds that we wouldn’t meet again. I didn’t feel that with Janet. Except for a few wrinkles, she could have been years younger than me. Maybe her eyes were too far apart and her mouth too narrow, but when she smiled all her features worked together. That said, getting her to smile was a challenge. We exchanged questions about each other, learning nothing more than in our online profiles. I couldn’t help studying her again as she walked to the toilet – her bright floral dress showed off her figure (was she rolling her hips?) and her long hair was jet-black. Waiting for her to come back, I decided to raise the topic that the dating site matched us up with.
Continue reading “It’s Never Too Late by Tim Love”
The door opens, the day is warm and the sun is already rising burning off the last wisps of fog. The child moves over the threshold holding a tortilla she found in the pantry. Last week the food bank handed out tortillas and she had filled her backpack full of them. Tortillas were good with anything from beans to peanut butter. This morning it was plain but she did want to wake any of the guests from last night, still asleep on the floor.
Continue reading “Tea for Two by Rachel Sievers”
Yo, Skeevy! C’mere!
Skeevy!
Whatta you starin’ at me? You don’t like it when I call ya that in front of that skank you’re hittin’ on? (’Scuse me, honey, no offense.) Better I should call you Sir Vincent Schiavoni, your Royal Friggin’ Lordship? Get your ass over here, okay?
There you go. What’s ’a matter, you ain’t got time for your Uncle Sal no more? C’mon over to the end of the bar so we can talk.
Continue reading “Goomba Columbus by Lenny Levine”
Prologue
A psycho doesn’t need to explain her actions until the trial begins. And even then it is optional. Thus the answer to all things “Why?” in my make-believe land of Saragun Springs is almost always a case of a shrug and the words “shit happens”–a concept that is a byproduct of Free Will. Still, everything sounds fancier in Latin, and telling someone “Stercore Accidit ” gives one an air of scholarship; the following is a case of Stercore Accidit if there ever has been one.
Continue reading “The Giant Clock Radio by Leila Allison”
We often talk about getting lost in a book. It’s a beautiful idea. That someone’s prose is so convincing, so overwhelming that you lose touch with reality. One of my favourite authors of all time, the late great Sir Terry Pratchett, could make you believe. I was in awe of the Great A’Tuin, amused by the Unseen University and disgusted by the sluggish flow of the river Ankh through the capital city. But, much as I loved those books and the sites and sounds of the Discworld – how beautiful is the Rimfall?-I couldn’t honestly say I was lost in them.
Continue reading “Auld Author – The Bamboo Doctor by Stanley S. Pavillard by Diane”
Christmas is just around the corner and there is something that I want to ask.
I suppose I need to put in some sort of waver:
I, Hugh Cron have no thoughts either way but am interested to see if anyone has any comments.
Let me explain.
Continue reading “Week 459 – Love Affair Never Meant Tacky Merchandise, Is Basic Teaching Extinct And Ewan Links Two Souls Again.”
literally stories 