The zen master sat on his tatami mat in the spare, spacious chamber of the temple. His eyes were half closed as he sat, deep in zazen, at one with everything. He became aware that he was at one with the universe and then realized that that awareness was a concept and that was an illusion. He took a took a deep breath, breathing in the universe. Then he exhaled. And thus he was at oneness again.
Continue reading “The Zen Master and the Genie by Rick Sherman”
Twist stories are wonderful little things when they work. But if you time it wrong the reader will either see the end coming from a hell of a long way off, or not “get it” at all. It’s a high wire act best attempted by writers who know what they are doing.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns Snow by Diane”
Liquifying Cherophobia
Cherophobia is the fear of happiness. Fortunately, it is a treatable if not curable phobia. I guess I have the condition, but I view it as more of an aversion to buying into happiness than the fear of it. Sort of like counting a Gift Horse’s teeth, certain that your free Pony has a set similar to those of a Great White Shark, and that they will be dripping blood–and not Horse blood, either. Cherophobics suspect good news and are constantly listening for the other Horse shoe to drop.
Continue reading “Week 440: Cherophobia; Another Sane Summer Week; Actual Site News and More Rejected Questions”
A man who is middle aged wakes up in a room . . . a middle-aged man wakes in an unfamiliar place where he has lived for the past 30 years, except that’s not right. A man awakens in a house where he has lived since getting married. His wife is deceased, his daughter leaves for college this afternoon (or tomorrow). I’m not sure which . . . but she leaves soon enough and I’ve waited a long time to tell this tale.
Continue reading ” 11:11 by Charles Sutphin”
When I am stressed, I sit on my bed and count five things. A booklight, melatonin tablets, black nail polish, faded jeans, and knitting needles. Name four things I feel: the dangling pillow tassel, the chilly windowpane, the geography textbook, my pinky toe. I cannot hear three things, because my uncle is working, and my mother is quiet. So I listen to the consistent hum of the heater three times as long as normal for good measure. I can smell the cheap air freshener and my soccer shoes. With the window open, my tongue catches the breeze and I taste cold.
When my mother is stressed, she slits her wrists in the bathtub.
Continue reading “L’amore di una Madre by Claire M Welton”
Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck Chuckata-thuck …
The rhythm of the boxcar rumbling down the track reminds Billy of a song he wrote a long time ago, back when he was still playing for nickels and dimes outside the lumber yards and cotton mills along the Mississippi River. Although he hasn’t sung the thing in years, he can still remember the words.
Continue reading “Boneyard Blues by John Vander”
First off, I’m a bra expert. I came by my bra expertise unwillingly. I was born flat-chested.
I understand that you, reader person, may not find my subject relatable if you personally have not experienced flat-chestedness – You haven’t walked around in my shoes. You haven’t walked around in my bra.
Continue reading “The Chicken Cutlet Bra by Lisa Shimotakahara”
By and large, old age doesn’t suit poets. I’m not saying that, once they pick up their pensions, all of them start to regret that they didn’t crash and burn in their twenties, like Keats, Shelley & Co. Or that they start experimenting with monkey gland injections, like poor old Yeats. Nor that there aren’t quite a number of poets, like Seamas Heaney, who could keep the pot stirring through all the transitions of age (indeed, I know a couple of pensioner poets myself).
Continue reading “The Ex-Poet by Michael Bloor”
This is another example of the sort of submission that we receive that don’t actually fit with the site but the writing is too special for us to reject it. This is a bite sized piece from a new writer and we were all enchanted by it.
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Mushroom Searching by Zary Fekete
These days there are many books, many pages, all promising, but the right way to begin is to ask grandmother. Which grandmother? Choose one. They are all correct and never lie. Nagyi or Nagyika or Mamikam. From Pest or Dunantul or the Alfold, they each have their secrets. They were all young once. Their routes led them from little country hamlets and acres of chipped Communist blocs, down through the decades, past wall after wall, papered with propaganda, each sign promising something just beyond reach, not quite true. But the mushroom recipe doesn’t lie. It just requires the right one.
Choose favorable weather. Just after a rain followed by a humid sun, hidden away in the shadows of the forest. Not a stir of breeze among the wet trunks. The only sound the drip drip of soaked leaves and the tiny scurrying of beetles and ants among the underbrush. Bring along a basket lined with embroidered cloth for collection and grandfather’s sharp knife for exploring beneath rotting logs, make sure you aren’t bitten by something waiting in the soaking darkness. Wear the right clothes. Tuck your tights into stockings and tie petticoats around knees, purposefully designating legs, so nothing can be caught in the grasping, greedy branches. Walk carefully. Hold hands. Pick a partner. Step where she stepped.
Watch the ground carefully. Remember the legend of the boy who wouldn’t share his bread while he walked with his friends through the woods. He had a full mouth every time they looked back at him, so he spit out each guilty mouthful. The bread-droppings left a trail. They transformed into mushrooms, and that’s why when you find one there are always more nearby.
Once your basket is full bring it to the village examiner. Some mushrooms are safe, but some carry poisonous secrets. Some promise succor but silently wound. Some sing sweet songs but echo with a hollow gong. All taste sweet and feathery on first bite, but some have dark pools in their past. Bring home the good ones, but throw the rest into the stream and watch them float away.
Finally, prepare your soup. Mix the mushrooms with the right broth. Thin-sliced for clear soup. Thick-chunked for heavy stew. The mushrooms will take on the flavor of their companions. In this way they make good neighbors. They don’t betray secrets. They keep what is given to them. They protect what is beneath them. The preserve the family lineage deep below the earth.
Believe it or not, throughout my postings I try and add a wee bit of writing content within. It may even be tips for submission / acceptance / rejection but there is normally something there.
For this one, which may seem a bit self-indulgent, I want to explore the things we won’t write. (Or in my case talk about, that is why I’m writing this!)
Continue reading “Week 439 – Sorry For The Self-Indulgence, Sorry Again And Back To More Hate And Fanging Next Time!”
literally stories 