Sally didn’t think much of the Lyft driver. He wore his hat at a sideways slant. When he turned the wheel of the hybrid, he made fight noises like Sally used hear in those Shaw brother’s movies she watched with her dad.
Tag: fiction
Wait by Julia Retkova
Amanda would lie awake at 3am, swept under blankets, watching the darkest bedroom corners twist and snap spines and smile. And then she’d get up, and start the day like nothing happened. Like she didn’t know what it was like to be beckoned, to be wanted.
Butterflies & Lima Beans by Adam Kluger
“Yeah, so this is not such a big deal…,” thought Brad Whiskerton, “who really cares if Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable soup in a can (obviously) decided to do away with lima beans in their soup? (according to the back-label’s list of ingredients).
Week 176 – Piles Of Ironing, Blind Reads And How Much I Hate ‘I Just Called To Say I love You’
I’ve been thinking on how much we reveal within our writing.
I don’t mean this to be insulting but I think those that read can’t always spot something personal, whereas for those that write, it can be pretty obvious.
I will not be as crass as giving out examples but what I would say is that most of our writers have on occasion shown us more of themselves than they would probably admit. If anything is questioned, we all hide behind the ‘It’s a story’ argument.
Cornwallis Surrenders by A. Elizabeth Herting
It was amazing to him that at a time like this, he should feel so completely and utterly alive.
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All I Love Dies Alone by Leila Allison
Squirrel Pen Diary: First Entry
Last Wednesday morning I entered Our Lady Star of the Sea church during mid-week mass. While two dozen or so senior citizens went through the ancient, dusty rites (monotonously administered by an equally ancient and dusty priest), I rose unseen and snuck upstairs to a small balcony that communicates with the church’s attic. I climbed atop the guano splattered stone rail that hugs the balcony and balanced myself on one foot and held the other out as though I intended to take a seventy-foot step onto the marble walkway below. After I had done all that, there wasn’t much else to do except wait for someone to notice me.
The Dancer, Maria Elena Gonzalez by R Harlan Smith
Katerina Valencia Contrerez is an angry old bruja who lives outside the village of Dos Cruces. She hates her nephew, Cecilio. She beats him with her fists and chases him away. So Cecilio made her a beautiful walking stick to get in her good graces. Now Katerina beats him with her stick. The villagers say the lesson is, don’t arm your enemies. They say Cecilio is a great teacher.
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Week 175 – Perspective, Invective and Uncharted Waters
Hello again one and each.
Another busy and interesting week at LS and, as always, a few unexpected twists and turns.
It goes without saying that we’ve had five more brilliant stories (more about those in a bit) but we’ve also had a whole host of wonderful submissions that have already filled up slots for the next few weeks.
That last line requires context – or perhaps perspective – in order to carry its full weight. A theme we’ll be touching on quite a bit over the next couple of hundred words I suspect.
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The Funeral by Kevin Counterman
Sonny’s hand shook as he took a drag from his cigarette. Rain drops from the eaves above bruised onto Sonny’s faded grey scaly cap. He watched on as his lifelong friend Daniel reached the walkway to the funeral home. With his head down, and hands in his rain slicker’s pockets, Daniel walked down the cobbled path. “Sonny,” he said with a nod, as he reached the tall, twin hinged doors. The two men shared a moment of a silence, backs toward the funeral home, long faces towards the rain, as Sonny’s cigarette began to fade.
What Follows (The Chair) by R. Harlan Smith
On the night Frank Pearls died, he gathered his little congregation around his chair and gave each of them a little snack like a priest giving Holy Communion. They received their snacks gleefully and smacked their lips to show their appreciation. Then he settled back in his chair, swallowed another glass of whiskey, filled the glass again, and in his calm, pleasant voice, proceeded – sometimes he would read to them from Joyce, or Kierkegaard, or Al Capp, or sometimes he would just talk to them about philosophy, but he would never tell them it was philosophy. Tonight he would talk.
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literally stories 