There are many Declans in this story, but let’s begin with ours.
Declan sits on the edge of his bed, absently sweeping his hands under the crumpled sheets in search of the remote. When that fails, he reaches beneath the bed without bothering to look, hoping his fingers brush against salvation.
Continue reading “Channel 7 by Gareth Vieira”
The Lemonade Stand materialized at the corner of Maple and Third like a memory made solid, and Cliff felt his foot ease off the accelerator. Through the windshield of his sedan, the sight struck him, not of this stand with its crooked cardboard sign and red plastic cups, but of something older and as familiar as his own reflection and twice as strange.
Continue reading “Seven Flowers for Lemonade by Daniel P. Douglas”
In 1601, James VI of Scotland (soon to be crowned James I of England) summoned Shakespeare’s company, The Lord Chancellor’s Men, to give performances of their plays in Edinburgh and Aberdeen. In Aberdeen at least, the visit seems to have been highly successful: on October 9th, the registers of the Town Council show that the company were awarded ‘the svme of threttie tua merkis’ and Laurence Fletcher, a shareholder in the company, was elected an honorary burgess of the town. It is not known for certain whether Shakespeare was with the company, but as a shareholder and owner of the company’s stage properties, it seems quite likely that he travelled North with the rest.
Continue reading “Shakespeare Meets the Macbeths by Michael Bloor”
Tuesday. It was as dead as a doornail Tuesday night in my bar, The Rusty Spur. No games, fights, or anything else worth watching on the TV. No controversy or shenanigans in our town or county worth the spit needed to talk of them. It was as if this part of West Texas was caught in a kind of dull-as-dust malaise.
Continue reading “Eight-Ball Blues by Frederick K Foote”
We went to a local theater production of Little Shop of Horrors. The talking plant looked like a guy in a beanbag, and the singing was off-key. I didn’t mind because I was with you. After the show, you mistook shasta daisies vs. ox-eye daisies at the restaurant. I chuckled and suggested you should learn your flowers — a modest proposal.
Continue reading “Say It With Flowers by David Henson”
Once more I see myself, 11 years old, standing at the corner of the lane, and gazing through the wire-mesh fence. My three companions stand beside me. It’s late summer, early evening, the sky a bold and ever-deepening blue, the day seeming to go on without end. But gathering in the alleys and in the eaves of the houses, around the doorsteps and the feet of the lampposts, shadows are thickening, and already a scent of autumn sharpens the air. And before us, harbouring its own shadows, stands the witch house.
Continue reading “The Witch House by David Calcutt”
Thor shall put to death the Midgard Serpent, and shall stride away
nine paces from that spot; then shall he fall dead to the earth, because of the venom which the Snake has blown at him.
Völuspá, Stanza 55
The Æsir gods sat around the great table in Valhalla’s dining hall, waiting. Some took desultory sips of the mead in their drinking horns, yet there was no wisdom to be gained from the magical mead, for all that remained to be learned was the outcome of Odin’s ride to consult with the embalmed head of Mimir about the meaning of recent portents. Had Ragnarøkkr, the day of the world’s final battle, arrived? Would evil god Loki and his children overcome the Æsir? What could the gods do to prevail against Loki and his cohorts?
Continue reading “The End of All Things by Matias Travieso-Diaz”
Every morning, the Archivist arrived just before the sun burned off the smog. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor of the Memory Tower…the east wing…Department of Significance. The lift doors opened and he unlocked his office with a key labeled VANITY in scuffed gold.
Continue reading “Ecclesiastes by Zark Fekete”
HOW WE MET
You have to understand that my first glimpse of her was mostly obscured. The bar was dim and crowded, and I’d already had more than my share of scotch. And wasn’t feeling picky, having struck out three times already — so, after that first glimpse, I sidled right up and said the first slick thing I could think of, which ended up being something about how her dress caught the light. Only then did she turn to face me head-on, showing me what she was and exactly what I’d just done.
Continue reading “My Relationship With Frances Marie Sauvegeot, 1973 – 2001 By Martin Reid Sanchez”
It was a backyard party with an announcement. Bev’s promotion had been long coming and George Filmore had broadcast invited her coworkers and as many neighbors as he could get hold of. The two groups, unknown to each other and with little in common other than Bev, exchanged oil and water chit chat, slithering off each other without really blending.
Continue reading “The House Guest by Edward Ahern”
literally stories 