Well here we are at Week 184, it’s a follow on from 183 but it won’t be half as intelligent!
I’ve written quite a few times about double standards. This irony keeps popping up in life and it gives us a lot of ideas and things to write about.
Continue reading “Week 184 – Drinking Alone, Large People And Testicle Mutilation”
He often told his wife about his twenty-first birthday. He and his father had sat under a bright red canopy on a dark, starless night. They were at some nameless Chinese restaurant in one of the metropolitan corners of Atlanta, just a few blocks south of Terminal Parkway, where commercial airplanes stitched long blinking lines across the sky. A half block away, he remembered, a street cleaner inched across the asphalt, brushes spinning in a lopsided, broken rhythm.
Some decades ago the bishop of Evona discovered himself to be the victim of what in his opinion was a monstrous deception.
He didn’t feel the same way about being hurt that you or I would, that’s for sure. He treated each injury as an adventure.
“See this slash running down my leg? Got that last week at the demolition derby. Sailed clean across the hood. Just got caught on the tiniest edge of twisted metal buckled down from the roof. Gonna leave a beautiful scar, isn’t it?”
It’s sort of hard to put into words.
Well, it happened a long time ago. You’ll think I’m wasting your time. But I’ve been thinking about it, going over and over it. And it means something.
His wife Millicent had cheated on him and she would pay, but to Everett Harley it was much deeper than being unfaithful; she had constantly touched, with ridicule, what she thought was the most fragile element of his being, poetry; so, he made up his mind that he’d not allow her any pardon for her perils; no rhythm in leniency, no white space in the matter, no alliteration at all, at all.
Continue reading “Hence the Half-way House and the Poet by Tom Sheehan”
At some undetermined moment between me starting this draft and it magically appearing in your inbox or news feed via the wonders of the interweb, Literally Stories will have surpassed 200,000 page views.
Yes indeedy faithful readers in four short years we have reached a level of activity that a Kardashian nipple or a Bieber tattoo can expect to log in just under 4 nanoseconds.
If Hugh was here this week he’d probably say something like “fuck those limelight seeking, dopamine craving, attention hugging social media whore-bastards and all who ride on them.”
But he isn’t.
So I did.
Daniel sat clutching a coffee, staring into the blur of humanity. He wasn’t far from his parents’ home and had no need of a rest, he was here to put off the meeting.
He had read somewhere that the guns of HMS Belfast were trained on Watford Gap. He had no idea why, perhaps it symbolised those attempting to escape the capital. Still, he was not attempting an escape, he was heading towards his conflict, though that conflict was an escape of sorts.
Continue reading “The Naming of the Beasts by Matthew Roy Davey”
10:30, Sunday morning, 21 February 1970
-1-
It was one of those little lost lamb spring days that sometimes wander into the dead of a Pacific Northwest winter. The sky was as clear as the devil’s conscience, and the temperature would reach well into the sixties by mid-afternoon. By and by, almost everyone in Charleston would go out to grab a piece of that little lost lamb spring day; for everyone knew it wouldn’t be long until another dreary storm blew in off Philo Bay.
Continue reading “A Condition of Absolute Reality by Leila Allison”
What is the most important quality that your Soulmate should possess?
It was not the first question, or the last. It was somewhere in the middle. I could look it up but you took my electronics. It’s only memory I can look to now, and we all know what a liar that motherfucker is.
Honesty.
literally stories 