A Hermit-Crab Hiding In the Shape of a Husband
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The Laws of Attraction by Carol Willis
The skirl of Citizens Arrest fills the stairwell of my walk-up. The electric guitar twangs and pulses through the walls; my key chain vibrates in the door lock, sending judders up my arm, rattling my teeth. I thump on my neighbor’s wall.
“Sorry, cielo!” Manolo yells.
The music stops but my head still throbs.
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Sunday Whatever – What’s in a name by Michael Bloor
Derby in the English Midlands, where I was born and raised, is an industrial city, famous in the past for its locomotives, and in the present for Rolls Royce aero engines. In my lifetime, an awful lot of its old buildings have been knocked down, even the ancient church of St Alkmund’s, swept away with its graveyard to make room for the new inner ring road. But it still has a lot of old pubs: The Dolphin Inn, for example, dates back to 1580. So the fact that The Noah’s Ark pub is two hundred years old is hardly noteworthy. What is pretty interesting though, is how it got its title. It’s not named after ‘the illustrious first navigator,’ as one Victorian local historian phrased it. It’s named after a locally famous character called Noah Bullock who had a house on that site, back in the seventeenth century.
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Week 427 – Having A Swatch, As You Can See, I’m Shit At Text Speak And Dirty Minds Rule!
Before I begin, I need to thank Leila for taking on my turn last week – I’ll come to the reason why in a moment.
I wonder what the difference is between me (Or those of my age / those who think the same) and some / most of those fledgling writers?
When I was first accepted on a site, I delved in and had a look. I was curious to see what and who they published. I wanted to read the stories of others and if there were any comments, I especially wanted to seek out those folks works especially.
It was a privilege that I was proud to be part of and I wanted to familiarise myself with as much as I could.
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By the Beautiful Pond by Harrison Kim
Dan Bonner used his right hand to toss two keys to the moss-covered forest floor of Happy Valley Forest. The keys lay there glinting among the twigs and dead leaves. The throw sealed his purpose, to set his mind and body free from chance. He stood naked, one foot and one wrist handcuffed to a birch trunk. The forest stood so thick here, he could barely see the sky. That was the way he liked it, all the empty blue blocked so he could focus on the shade around him.
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A Door with a Thousand Locks by Ed Dearnley
The usual doubts arrive as I cross the street, heading for the corner of Abbeville Road. This seemed like the right thing to do an hour ago, sitting in a pub on the South Bank, toasting our anniversary with a third glass of wine. But now I’m here, all I can imagine is another rejection.
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How Soul-Globing Works by Dino Alfier
When you die, you find yourself on a sandy beach strewn with sacks, some old, some in tatters, still others weathered almost beyond recognition. All your orifices have been stitched shut. First you encounter the Bookkeeper, who opens the Ledger on your double spread and pores over the left-hand page to total all the times you have hurt others and yourself, what here they call your hurtlings.
In the Beginning by Lee Stoddart
Nothing.
Nothing to see. Nothing to feel. Nothing to smell. Nothing to hear. No sense of orientation.
Nothing.
Not just the lack of anything tangible, but the absence of even the concepts to describe the lack of senses beyond the externality of… what?
Me.
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Burning Away Sin by J.J. van Schaaijk
The town’s children were eager to help. They would gather sticks and small logs from the forest to add upon the pile. It gave them purpose, a role to play in what was to happen. The town’s folk had long been gathered. Many held small crucifixes close to their hearts, whilst memorized prayers left their lips. Others stood patiently, echoing silent whispers of what was to come.
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Literally Rerun – Walk on By by Jane Houghton
Literally Reruns – Walk on By by Jane Houghton
A steady accumulation of the little things can crush the will to go on. A chore once too often; the incessant pecking of the distorted past; a great fatigue, boredom. It’s seldom the big things that move you to check out–but usually the steady drone of dead sins, memories over-handled to the point of nonsense and tired feet that get you.
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literally stories 