All Stories, General Fiction

Bill Adam’s Book, “Miles” (With Shan’t” (Shall not) by Tom Sheehan

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After much madness here, poor vision, medical visits, bulb switching and light removal/replacements, securing the slanted rays of sun over my shoulder allowing those uses to spill across “Miles‘” pages, and a mind that neither attends reading for long stretches as it used to nor retains what it once was capable of, I have finally finished the reading of a fascinating book. “Mile’s” captivated me, the characters, the language, the new arc of a different story, another story and drama between people, but an arc having the same beginning and the same ending as many other arcs of my reading … life, lives, loves on the very planet, and resounding in daily sight.

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Short Fiction

Auld Author John Fante by Leila

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I had never heard of John Fante until I saw an interview taped with poet Charles Bukowki in the 1970s. Bukowski had enough ego to support a planet, and when asked his favorite writers he spoke his own name three times. But he then thought about it for a moment before delivering energetic and obviously heartfelt praise for author John Fante. The man he said was his only influence.

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Editor Picks, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 450: Halloween Memories and Horror Heroes

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The Caramel Apple Orchard

Although I will probably have another Saturday post closer to Halloween, it is on my mind now. And since all my other current ideas have the charm of razor bladed apples, I will go with the cheerier topic.

When I was growing up Halloween was mainly for kids, but over the years it has been taken over by The Failure to Launch Generation. I was one of those children who put next to no effort into a costume. I was goods oriented; people were giving out candy no matter how shoddy I looked. So I’d get one of those cheap witch masks (the kind that always got sweaty and smelled like a runny nose after about a half hour of wearing), don a dark blanket for a cape and carry a whisk broom, which inevitably went missing early. The sack was the important thing. And I took the biggest one I could find–usually a pillow case.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Stopped Watch by Scott Pomfret

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“Your mother’s batshit crazy,” said Sister Loretta

“Madam’s not from the Valley, poor dear,” explained Sister Carmel. “That’s the problem. Your mother’s not grounded like we are. My family has lived here forever.”

Sister Carmel selected a cupcake from my tray. She pointed the cupcake at an ancient and rudimentary clock, one of a dozen in the room where the sisters were awaiting their assignations with that evening’s clients.

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All Stories, General Fiction

At My Feet by Michael Tyler

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And I’ve swallowed the pill only to have my friends bail and so I walk the streets alone.

 I am a streetwalker.

 I come across a hostel bar … backpackers, ‘Fuck it,’ I think ‘They’ll be up for a yarn.’

 There is a staircase leading upward and so I climb and enter a bar full of chatter in a multitude of accents.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Call To Arms by Julian Walker

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It was her father who first showed her. If you pointed your arms straight at two very distant points, features in the landscape, or clouds, or stars, you made yourself the centre of the universe. Everything was drawn into you, you were the fundamental point of a triangle, whose hypotenuse, a funny word at first but easy to remember once you had said it two or three times, could shift between any pair of objects, the sun and the moon, two trees, the chimney on top of the neighbours’ roof and the tv aerial on the top of her parents’ house, any two things, anywhere. It really didn’t matter, it was still a triangle, because of the one fixed point, and the two others.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Lonely Line Rider by Tom Sheehan

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Dutch Malick was lonely; for a deck of cards, a friendly voice cracking with warm humor or saddle gibes, for something that would tell him he was not the last person about in the world. For most all his life he was a line rider, low man on the totem pole, singular but almost invisible, a dot on the prairie or up a strange draw or wadie, a ghost of a person… him and his horse. His hands, in addition, were scarred from the very first day of line work years past, brutal scars from a brutal wire caught in the horns of a steer prodded wild by some unknown force. He’d never be able to draw a weapon with speed, even if his life depended on that quick draw. He tittered when he thought he was not in such good hands. Even a small laugh was worth the effort, self-inflicting humor went a hell of a long way when you were alone on the line, in a box canyon, out alone on prairie dog territory, “long as I don’t laugh at myself too seriously, poke too much fun.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

Remainders, Reminders by Bruce D Snyder

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Lyssum presses her fingers into her forehead, tries to push back the frown lines she can feel gathered like pleats behind her black round glasses. She scowls at the mail, grimaces at the news on her phone.  E-mail is worse, except for a funny note from her sister in Atlanta.  Catches herself, I’m the woman fed up with everything, she thinks. She drops her packages on the kitchen counter, a large garlic bulb rolls toward the sink; the green sheaf of parsley peeks damply from a sack. Lyssum sees herself reflected in the window: black hair pulled back severely and restrained with bands and clips, long dark clothes in layers set off by silver earrings and a pin. I look like a nun she thinks and pulls things loose so she can breathe.  

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All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

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Jane Houghton has been with the site for a long time now. Her work is always a delight and beautifully written. If you haven’t seen any of her stuff up to now just type her name into the search field and anything you choose will be a treat. her first piece – Walk on By will lead you to others in her catalogue.

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 449 – I Was A ‘Look At Me Hoor’ (I’m So Sorry!), The Literally Equivalent Of Pi And Lost In Translation, Or More’s To The Point, ‘Lost Initially’!!

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Before we start I have to apologise for my Q&A session last week. I did something that I never do directly – I self-promoted, not just one, but two stories.

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