All Stories, Fantasy

Sunday Whatever – Authorship Down by Michael Bloor

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Michael Bloor is a regular contributor and commentator on the site. When we received this piece we were amused and entertained. It’s clever and witty. However, we do realise that stories about writers can have limited appeal and so we thought a Sunday Whatever was the place to put it. Too good to miss so here we go:

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Authorship Down by Michael Bloor

I awoke, sprawled on the beach like a dead starfish in the morning sun. A hand gently raised my head and an old-fashioned enamel cup with a black-lined rim was laid beside my lips. My tongue was swollen and my throat was dry as cat litter. I drank and squinted up at my benefactor, a shimmering shadow haloed by the sun: ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 443 – Ben Lamech sounds Scottish, ‘Please Can We Call It A Tallywacker’ And He Sang On ‘Down To Earth’

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My brother-in-law has decided to retire at Christmas.

I have asked him over the last few years why he hasn’t given up already and he stated that he was terrified that he would be bored. That got me thinking why I would retire tomorrow if I could and that is because I am the opposite of George – I’m fucking bored at my work!

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All Stories, General Fiction

Working the Dirt by J Bradley Minnick

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Mighty Broom left the first notch in the dirt at three that afternoon: the first of hundreds of parallel lines exactly five feet apart across the width of the halls that started in front of the Janitors Closet and ran the length of Weatherspeake High. Wilson never had to measure the rows. He had the five-foot knack.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Courage Anniversary by Amita Basu

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I stroll down the promenade and onto the bridge. This one is closed to automobiles.

Between its dead-gray embankments, the river glows noon-gold. I’ve seen the river at its source: young, leaping motion-mad. Here, near its mouth, matured into inertia, the river drifts.  Over the river, past me this balmy June Sunday, people jog, stroll, power-walk, and bicycle. Dog-walkers discipline the curiosity out of their dogs with smart little leash tugs. Old couples, combining constitutionals with treat-shopping, have finally found all the time in the world.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Fantasy

Button by Joe Manion

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Mr. Randall prided himself on his ability to imagine a person in animal form, a technique he furtively employed, quite frequently it turns out, when he suspected the person might be smarter than him. This method reduced the individual into someone easier to deal with. As such, the small, long-necked man interviewing him from behind the desk in his bowtie and buttoned cardigan was perceived to be a bureaucratic turtle. The image, however, caused Randall to stew in disappointment. He had expected something more for his money—something out of The Sopranos—maybe a gorilla, or a bear. And that wasn’t all. Turtle-man’s office reeked of potpourri, for high on the wall a plastic dispenser spat out a staccato “phft,” and just about the time he forgot its annoying existence, it would “phft” again—signaling the imminent descent of chemical lavender.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Equal Rights by Frederick K Foote

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Lux Brandon is sitting at his kitchen table at 6:51 am, comparing a printed document to a Word file on his tablet computer. He writes on the paper to note a difference between the two sources. He rubs his shadow-bearded chin in frustration.

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Short Fiction

442: The Leader of the Dirty Dozen Disciples; The August Heat Times Five; The Next Voice of Choice

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The Mysterious Ways of Lee Marvin

I was with friends, waiting to be seated at a restaurant, and I kept hearing “So and so party of such and such, your table is ready” over the speaker. Since I cannot keep my mouth shut, I joked “Christ, party of thirteen, your table is ready.” This earned me a sour look from a lady across the lobby, whom God must have endowed with keen hearing. She was wearing a crucifix large enough for a rapper or eighties’ era Madonna. I sighed, for it seems to me that God probably has a sense of humor, although many of the faithful do not.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Disappearance by Michael Bloor

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There’s something about small islands: a bounded space, every corner familiar, memory-laden. I understand the attraction because I left and then returned. Like a lot of islanders, I joined the mercantile marine, but a bad fall left me lame in the right leg. So I came home to work as the harbour master. And now, in my sixties, I’m damn pleased I did.

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