here we are just past October, or, Rocktober, as some of us like to call it. There’s something wonderfully reflective about that month (perhaps enhanced with an abundance of mini Three Musketeer Bars); and in such a mood I go all the way back to the Summer of 2016 for this Rocktober‘s rerun.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – When Planet’s Miss by Doug Hawley”
I did the Scottish translation thing a few weeks back and I had forgot to add in a certain phrase.
With these, some have some logic. For example,
‘Did you bring a piece’
Some of our friends in America would probably think we were asking if you had brought a gun, but no. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You see ‘A piece’ is actually a packed-lunch or a sandwich. The logic part is it comes from ‘A piece of bread and butter / cheese / jam / cheese and jam (A hidden delight I have mentioned before. It must be a red jam and it is even more delicious if the bread is toasted.)
Continue reading “Week 453 – FIENDALS (The spelling is for you Gwen), Eric Is A Legend And I Should Have Mentioned A Tattie Scone.”
Every bone in her body warned Ellie Snyder to turn Bertha Miller away at the door; still, she took the haggard woman in and brewed the tea, fragrant as a Balsam fir in December. Clay Miller’d already saddled her with five kids, and one more might just put Bertha in her grave. Only problem with saving the wretch was Bertha’s need to make confession—it was religion that’d trip her up. The woman was a walking apology, a sinner perpetually pleading for redemption. Ellie hoped to hell she’d confess to somebody other than her damn husband.
Continue reading “Tansy by Nancy Smith Harris”
The clap of sandals as I lick my fingers, chocolate gelato leaking onto my wrists. Should I Google heatstroke symptoms? A young woman lies topless on the rocks below, her stomach chalky with dried salt. I take a swig of lager, the bitter foam spilling onto my beard.
Continue reading “The American by Ata Zargarof”
Billy Bootle had loved music for as long as he could remember. He loved to sing along with tunes on the radio. He loved to sing with Grandma Bootle while she was baking, and whistle with Grandpa Bootle while he chopped wood. At school, Billy was the only child in his class who loved recorder lessons. Because of this, the other boys hated him. They hated him because he loved singing. They hated him because he loved books. They hated him because of his name, which they changed to Bootiful Bootle and scrawled in chalk on the playground walls with a drawing of a cross-eyed, buck-toothed, knock-kneed boy. Their hatred increased after the teacher, Miss Snafferty, asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. Billy told her he was going to be a singer. He was going to be a Rock Star. He was going to be famous.
Continue reading “Billy Best’s Mighty Metal by Sandra Arnold”
The night after maami was laid 6ft deep in the ruthless earth, Tunde lit a cigarette and settled at the backyard to smoke. I observed him from the kitchen window. No, I won’t go outside and pass judgement; after all, both of us have been engulfed in our own sins since maami’s death. I was angry, though I can’t quite put my finger on the source of my anger. Perhaps it was Uncle Ade’s bellowing, demanding more beers for him and his friends earlier today at the funeral service. Ever since father’s demise, none of his relatives reached out or showed up. But Uncle Ade had the audacity to come to this house for maami’s funeral, demanding beer to be served to him and his friends. I wished for him to choke on it, his body discarded like refuse on a dunghill. However, this alone didn’t trigger my anger enough; it’s something else I an’t quite fathom.
Continue reading “Red Prints by AJ David”
The children tumble into the church basement, pushing, dodging, and shouting. Good boys and girls, but wild with pent-up feral energy. Deacon Grumpus pauses at the top of the stairs. He understands the cacophony and approves. Good old-fashioned childish exuberance. So human, organically human, as it should be. Exactly what the Divine Order of Cellular Humans teaches its followers.
Continue reading “Sunday School by Marco Etheridge”
Today’s whatever is a beautiful piece of prose written by the legend that is Tom Sheehan. Anyone who is a regular reader will be aware of Tom’s enormous contribution to the site. Newcomers would be well advised to have a look at his back catalogue. All four pages of titles. Now, though we give you Winter Solstice 2016
***
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever”
The sixtieth anniversary of The Kennedy Assassination is rapidly approaching. It also marks the sixtieth anniversary of my memory because 22 November 1963 is the first certain date I remember (although I hold what are most likely older visions). It is also the sixtieth anniversary of the conspiracy theories that have dogged the event since.
Continue reading “Week 452: It’s All a Conspiracy; The Real Things and X Marks the File”
‘Tiredness can kill. Take a break.’
The sign expanded, glowing in the beam of headlamps, and was gone.
The lights in the darkness were beginning to blur; the flecks of winding taillights, the flickering ribbon of the lane markers, merging to one. He put on some Iron Maiden to drown the hum of the engine and lowered the window for an inrush of air. The icy blast stopped him yawning. He blinked and leaned forwards.
Continue reading “Tiverton Southbound by Matthew Roy Davey”
literally stories 