Charlie locked his bedroom door. There was no need, Mum was down stairs watching her television and she never came in without knocking. He had managed to train her in that at last. Anyway, turning the key and dropping it into his pocket was all part of the experience, part of the build up.
Continue reading “Memories are Made of This by Diane M Dickson”
The creature’s head punched round, leathery scales abrading his skin. Bomaru held tight, the sinews of his arms corded like autumn branches, slowly forcing the winged reptile’s head to the ground. Teeth sharp as spear-points snapped, close enough for the clash to shiver through his straining grip, and the stench of the creature’s foul breath to taint his nostrils. It was no ordinary strength that maintained his grip. He knew sweet Farlaine would die if he failed, and the knowledge lent him the force of ten. Bomaru twisted with a desperate might. With a sickening crack, the dragon’s body gave one last twitch and was still.
Continue reading “Bomaru’s Quest, Part IV by Neil MacDonald”
“Goddam, son-of-a-bitch, get the hell away from me. Buzzin in my ears like a damn mosquito, trying to drop ticks and vermin down my collar or in my boots. Damn you, to hell.”
The earplugs are workin, but I need earmuffs too. I feel like a damn astronaut, duct tape around my pant legs and boots and gloves and coat sleeves, dust mask over my mouth and nose, muffler around my neck, goggles strapped to my face and this heavy jacket, two pairs of pants and my wool watch cap. I can barely walk. Continue reading “East Wind by Frederick K Foote”
Bernie wheezed his way into the pub. He looked over and saw his pal Jamsie sitting at a table in the corner with a half drunk pint of lager. A full pint awaited him. He walked over, slumped down and gulped his drink.
Continue reading “The Girl Of My Best Friend by Hugh Cron – Strong Adult Content”
He was the houseman and smoked cigars thick as Baby Ruth bars, short as he was, and always wore green pants and red socks so people could laugh at him a little bit on the side. He’d pocket change while the laughter moved around The Rathole. We always knew something special was ringing in him, some other call or cause. There were times he would lend a guy a buck who had missed a great shot at billiards or One-Ball and was almost there, getting his dough back, and he never charged but a buck for a buck. He could listen as good as a bartender, talk like a barber, remember to the minute the start of each game at each table. He answered only to Smiledge, never to his Christian name, never to hey you or houseman or you over there by a newcomer. Smiledge, he’d say. Smiledge it was. It seemed to us that it was Smiledge forever. Then one day he was gone, but that’s ahead of me.
“Welcome to your new home down on the sixth floor, Mr. Smith…it may just look like a cubicle farm… but it’s really so much more”
“Call me Ted, please…otherwise you’ll make me feel older than I already am.”
“You got it Mr. Smith…I mean Ted…any questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of a million…but none right now.”
“Isn’t that always the case.”
I worked for Hart Zehen when I was sixteen, rising at four in the morning to bake bread. It was a great paycheck but my social life, such as it was, suffered. On the positive side, my muscles grew and I learned more from Hart than I might have expected.
Continue reading “Breezy and the Six-Pack Sneaker by Mitchell Toews”
A few things have really annoyed me this week and hence this inspiration. I decided to write on what annoys me most. I have a list, but will go for the doozy annoyance. I hate everything from Romance Novels to Polo-necks. I hate Gok Wan, cockatiels, most TV, Bieber, Sainsburys, South Ayrshire Council, Pizza, itchy trousers, mobiles, enthusiasm within the workplace, management, ratatouille, folks that read papers that they haven’t bought, politicians, the monarchy and sheep…To name but a few. But my biggest bug bear is adverts.
“Whatcha reading?”
“Moby Dick”
“Yeah, I like that one… read his others?”
My expectations and excitement were dampened by the cold coffee and replaced by a creeping realisation of an inevitable disappointment. I kept glancing around as people rushed along the pavement, but it was late – she wasn’t coming. We agreed to meet at the Café at half past six and in my jacket pocket I had an envelope with five hundred Euros in fifties, which I promised for the final payment for her painting. A piece of art that I found hypnotic, it was a scene depicting a battle of female sexuality and a vision of erotic conjecture. I couldn’t help myself, I had to have it. Last night, I paid her a deposit of three hundred Euros.
literally stories 