We live in Gino’s Café, Beaufort South Carolina, Minerva and I. Here’s the reason why I called her that, before you start a-wondering too: the moment she came out of me, she already had this face like she’s thinking about something all the time, so Gino said to call her Minerva – ‘Like the goddess of Wisdom,’ he says – and I did. It’s not like there was anyone else around to offer me a different name.
I rob banks, and I always get away clean, except this one time when my old lady ratted me out to the cops. She wanted part of the money to pay for her smack addiction, and I didn’t give her any, so she went to the cops, told them about the heist, and I did time.
Continue reading “Progress, Not Perfection by Fernando Meisenhalter”
Peter crouched in front of the attic window and gazed down on old man Mueller’s cornfield. The plow, unhitched beyond the stalks, turned north like he meant to continue but got interrupted. Peter looked toward the barn, no sign of Mueller’s horse and buggy. The Amish and Mennonite neighbors, with their peculiar ways kept to themselves. Mueller only talked to his pa when he accused Rufus of killing his chickens, or a year ago, the day his brother’s mind broke when Gabe went screaming from the veranda twisting his ears as he ran into Muller’s cornfield. That day Mueller shot out of the house, the top of his unsnapped overalls flapping as he sprinted after Gabe, Mueller’s wife and five children dashed onto the porch, the boys still in their pajamas.
Hi folks we are now at Week 173 and getting closer to 200 000 hits on the site! All is good!
We receive a lot of stories about mental health. This should always be showcased, considered and faced. But let’s be honest, this has become a bit of overkill. We all have some form of mental health problems in the same way that we all get a cold.
A cold shows up a few times a year and we have to knuckle down and get on with it. That is manageable. But if it escalates into the flu, pleurisy or pneumonia, then that’s getting serious.
Mental health is the same.
‘I’m sorry but I’m feeling a bit anxious due to my last selfie looking a bit pish’ isn’t that serious. It may be the cold version of narcissistic PD but its shite compared to the ‘I’m mad and want to kill you through the head’ people. Obviously those issues may need you to talk to someone and take a wee pill.
I think we should take our lead from animals. Most of their insecurities end in violence but at least they don’t spend hours boring folks with their PTSD problems due to a ragged nail on the night their granny told them that she was actually their grandpa.
We are also inundated with child bearing mental problems. Again, look to the animals of this world. If they can’t handle their offspring they eat them. I know it may be radical but again it would save a lot of tears from those poor fucks who have to listen to the explanation of their baby blues.
This all brings me to my point. Is content distasteful to us all or does it depend on your experience?
If your Great Uncle Norbert was killed during World War 1, would that make you find all those stories offensive?
If your wee brother Lionel / Lionelmenna was a cross dressing dictator from Peru, would you never want to read ‘Paddington’?
If you went to school with Jimmy The Junky who OD’d would you never take a Tramadol?
If you have finished a bottle of Talisker and not had the money for another one would that put you off saving up?
And if your sister was very sociable, accommodating and enjoyed letting you watch, would that put you off relatives, sex, football teams, romance, plungers, farmers, water sports and Turkish Delight?
I can’t answer for them all but I am saving up for more malt.
I wouldn’t want to bore you with my therapy sessions but my therapist is very experimental and gentle. I may need therapy about that one day.
I just find it weird when folks get on their high horse and state that some stories are terrible and sick. They finish off their argument with pish like, ‘It’s not funny, my gran died in a tragic knitting and bubble bath accident and I don’t want to be reminded of this by reading about it.’
No offence folks but that is funny!
We have all suffered. We’ve all experienced death and trauma.
They should be commenting about their hurt due to loss not blanketing a situation whether it be ridiculous or recognisable.
OK guys onto this weeks stories.
We have a first, a second, a third, a fourth and a tenth time contributor. So shame on you Mr Clayton for being so successful and ruining my numeric link!
Our topics this week include a marital aid, positive / negative handling of friends, rebellion, an actor and another actor.
As always our initial comments follow.
On Monday we had the second offering from Tom Chambless. He started off the week with ‘The Great God Cernunnos‘
‘A darker end of the humour spectrum.’
‘I enjoyed the idea of his paranoia and her getting her jollies.’
‘The ending about him being discussed was concise and realistic.’
Nick Sweeney was next up with his fourth story.
‘Pavlov’s Dogs‘ was published on Tuesday.
‘I had to concentrate, this was a proper read.’
‘Carrie was an interesting character. She was deep and resourceful.’
‘There were all sorts of terror, friendships and reality – I liked this.’
Our only newbie this week was Vanessa Gonzales. We welcome her and hope that she has fun on the site and continues to send us more of her work.
‘Don’t Feed The Goat‘ broke the back of the week.
‘We knew that she was never going to make a break for it so any rebellion worked.’
‘The minor act was major.’
‘Nicely told and a good conclusion.’
On Thursday we had Roger Ley with his third story.
‘The Masquerade’ nearly finished off the week.’
‘Once I’d read this, I had a grin on my face.’
‘A fun piece.’
‘This made me smile and I found myself rooting for the MC. I think it had to do with my Mr Benn fetish. (Sorry Nik!!)
And now to Mr Spoil My Sequence! Well that is if we write 2,4,1,3,10.
Martin Clayton sure can immerse you into his locations. He finished us off with ‘The Curse‘ (I actually thought this was going to be a totally different story involving painters.)
Wisely it wasn’t! Brilliant he is!!
‘Good story and great tone.’
‘The ending was really well handled.’
‘I wasn’t expecting this to have a dark side to it.’
That’s us for another week. I hope that you have taken the posting as intended!
At the beginning of this I was trying to make a point on the outraged regarding content. That isn’t meant to take away from the one thing that no-one is allowed to say or consider regarding mental health due to the PC and Care Sector, Molly-Coddling, Cotton Wool Wrapping, Trendy Empathic, Ball-less, Colleague Incestuous, Nazi Fuckwits…
…Unfortunately all those actively seeking medication or benefit know what buttons to push. And this takes away from those in genuine need and crisis.
Not everyone is in need or crisis. They either have a symptom of life or their symptoms become a financial and medicated way of life.
These all need recognising for what they are.
…But they all give us something to write about!
Hugh
Sometimes investigative reporters come sniffing around for news of Lionel Fetlar. They’ve heard he’s living on the south coast now, a town that remains resolutely unfashionable while those nearby have undergone a modest transformation following the influx of the affectedly on trend from that London.
The seed was sown when Riley joined the amateur dramatics group. He had played a couple of minor roles, first in a Sheridan play then in a Dickens, when the email arrived from the am-dram group’s administrator. It was forwarded from a film company needing extras for a few days filming in the local market town. He arrived at the crew’s temporary encampment in the central car park and was told he would be playing a policeman. He hadn’t worn a uniform since he’d been a scout and was surprised by the feeling of empowerment it gave him. The helmet, the collapsible truncheon, the mock pepper spray, it was a new dawn, he felt marvellous, confident. He was somebody, he was a policeman.
A chunk of ash-blonde hair, not yet white like the rest, is matted to Willa’s perspiring forehead. Her body is pasted to the damp sheet that’s pulled off the bottom corners of the sofa-sleeper, eliminating the soft barrier between her bare calves and the rough mattress—she must have been thrashing in her sleep again. She does that when she travels. Her husband, Riley, is standing over her. “There’s a diner down the road. I’m going for fresh coffee,” he says, banging his elbow as he turns in the narrow walkway of the motorhome. “Don’t feed the goat,” he yells, slamming the door behind him. It sticks.
The others fled from the night in their own ways, and, though she could guess, Carrie never knew what they saw. Only one thing was sure in her night, and that was the road. Once she’d crunched them to a halt, Ivan was out on the red earth of the roadside, clutching his head and rolling from side-to-side. Ellie fell out of the front passenger seat and followed Ivan’s movements with her shoulders. Jacob stayed slumped in the back looking a shade of yellow that, Carrie felt, suited him.
Those women and his wife entered the coffee house and sat down. The girls’ day out shopping always ended at Yeoli’s. It was a gentrified coffee house on Banks Ave. It used to be a rundown storage facility. This was a smallish city, an old town. Pete sat outside Yeoli’s in his pickup truck, not directly in front, but down a short distance a little past the red brick trim. His wife couldn’t see him through the front glass.
Continue reading “The Great God Cernunnos by Tom Chambless – Adult Content!”
I’ve been enjoying the snooker this week.
I’m hoping that John Higgins gets his fifth world title on the twentieth anniversary of his first.
Continue reading “Week 172 – Fad Whores, Status Whores And Fuckers Who Want To Dictate.”
literally stories 