The bride brought only a small bundle from home. Wrapped in a deep blue silk, she carried medicines and a small bone whistle. The bride was from a family of witches fallen from grace in a time of altered belief. Her home was an island dripping warm green forest into a wide magic river.
Two days ago there were still those who went about saying that Peter was a false Tsar, perhaps the Anti-Christ himself. But then, just as the hour of three was being struck, two long, thin clouds joined in the form of a cross above our village. It was a Friday according to the new reckoning. Marina, the serf girl, was the first to see it. She fell to her knees and crossed herself, then ran to tell the priest, my father. If he was drunk, as usual, he was nevertheless quick to realize how he could use this “sign”. Were the rumblings of those who opposed the Tsar to go unchecked, the soldiers would soon be set upon our village to leave behind the smoldering remains of peasant huts and bodies swaying from scaffolds. So I was ordered to toll the bell which summons the peasants to the village square where my father put them on their knees in witness to this miracle. Such a voice he had!
Continue reading “West 86th Street Time Machine by Patrick M. Butler”
Here we are at Week 192.
We have decided to try something new starting next week. There’s a chance for you to tick off a social / literal must from all of your bucket lists and have even more involvement on the site.
Continue reading “Week 192 – Nik’s Fear, Bikini And His Protruding Jut.”
My appointment is at twenty past eight. I stand waiting outside the surgery at half seven – when the receptionist opens the main door she fires me the same kind of look she would to a drunk or an addict but I pay no attention. In the waiting room I flick through an abandoned copy of the Observer and enjoy the sensation of being the only person here, the only person Doctor Matheson is preparing to see. I like to book the earliest appointment she has on any given day – I like the thought of being first on her list of priorities.
This Story is Dedicated to the Memory of Buster Dunlap
***
It was the summer of 1974, after I got out of high school. We were getting the machinery ready for harvest, and my dad was always in a hurry when it came to the process. Get the grain cut as soon as it was ripe, get it in the bin or hauled to town, out of the field, out of harm’s way before the wind or hail, wiped out an entire year’s work.
Author’s Note
Gertie McDowell, a naïve young girl from Turkey Roost, Kentucky, is serving five years in the Federal Prison Camp in Alderson, West Virginia. This came about because Gertie inadvertently distributed powdered meth throughout several states. Believing herself to be a dress designer, she was in fact delivering dresses that a drug dealer had laced with meth. Gertie remains optimistic and harbors a crush on Agent Jackson, the personable DEA agent who arrested her.
Continue reading “Crossing the Jordan (A Novel Excerpt) By James Hanna”
She wants to tie me up, but I’m scared, so I don’t let her.
So she gets on top, cowgirl style, bites me on the shoulder.
“OWWW!” I yell.
“I want to hear you scream,” she says.
“Just don’t hurt me.”
“Oh, be a man.”
She rides me hard, with vigor, rubbing herself until she comes.
Then she dismounts, walks away, goes to the bathroom, won’t say a word, just like a guy.
The rental car’s radio faded to static right as the interview started to get interesting. Of course, Nadine thought. The way inspiration had eluded her lately, she would expect nothing less.
Here we are at week 189, doesn’t time fly when you are having your last hour in your bed? Any other time it is just its usual slow mundane shite.
Now this has been done in a bit of a rush, but no matter what, I really need to warn you not to read on if you are a wee bit sensitive. I’ve got myself into enough trouble lately with my words so I thought I would give you all plenty of time to bail out.
If you like religion and cherish pregnancy, you may be a bit perturbed with a couple of parts, so walk away now.
If you don’t then don’t moan as you will just look like a twat.
Jim Elm knew there were no such things as happy endings. Someone lives, someone dies, someone carries on.
literally stories 