Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Please forgive me all my sins and transgressions. In the name of the Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit I promise if you help me through this I’ll never get pregnant again! Nine months of just pure, concentrated misery. And now this, this intense, unbearable agony… Never, never again.
There is – I wouldn’t call it a hole, rather a hollow – in the ground outside my house. When it rains it fills up to form a puddle and when the sun shines it evaporates, back to a hollow. The last few summers the puddle hasn’t dried away. Perhaps the sun shone less or perhaps the branches of the tree just above it grew a little thicker, but the puddle remained throughout the season. I can see the puddle from my bedroom window. The puddle, the tree and the green area around it, the little playground outside a kindergarten and a convenience store.
(Une tranche de vie, inbound)
This morning D’Espirito “Dez” Carmine knew that one of his passengers was in trouble.
Dez shifted gears of the twelve-seat bus as he came out of Revere onto the highway north, his eyes, as ever, studying the dozen passengers on their way to work, determining a snarl, a scowl or grimace, as a straight-out give-away. Oh, they were splendid facial characters, make-up aficionados, the mostly imperturbable cast for his play-going. Each one of them he knew almost intimately, their habits, likes and dislikes, their temperaments; how they showed impatience or worry. The lip biters were evident and the knee tappers, the finger squeezers and the puckered, silent whistlers. Who slept around, who was prone to wander come of an evening after work, he knew. Evidence of it came from eye flight or hair disarrangement, an early exhaustion showing itself off or a head yet rolling in a kind of rhythm. The morning body electric, he heard a voice say in the back of his head.
Continue reading “Driving on the Sausage Run by Tom Sheehan”
The thin penetrating whine dragged him from the warm recesses of sleep. He pawed at the air as he sank back into slumber but his swipe was ineffectual and the incessant drone continued. He turned on to his side. The insect followed. He sat up in bed, groaned and shook his head.
“Light”
The bedside globe reacted to his command painting the room a dusky yellow.
Where are you, you little…
He rubbed his eyes and scanned the ceiling. No sign of the intruder and no sound to track it by. Resigned to have to start hunting he stretched a lazy arm across his body to pull back the covers.
Ahh…there you are.
Laughing out loud.
Rolling on the floor with laughter.
Smiley face.
This last one was from Barb and Trevor’s heart-felt like supernova.
The night was going well. He was being charming, funny and confident. His body language advertised a great catch and a man who should be forgiven one honest mistake.
“I blame that Lord Longford muppet. All he did was encourage you do- gooder visitor pricks! You have sprouted up like a cancer since that old fuck died.”
James stopped, “Now this was an agreement! People know that I am here!”
There is a well-known truism you can take a horse to water but a pencil must be lead. I have waited an aeon to find a suitable juncture to slot this witticism into a profound piece of writing, but alas, had to stick it in here instead.
Whilst this observation might seem bizarre, regular readers will know instantly it is merely a shameless contrivance by which to segue seamlessly into the first of this week’s homages to the short story.
A week that began with a flight of fancy, or fantasy flight, depending on how you read it, ended in not dissimilar fashion.
Whilst LS newcomer Lawrence Buentello kept his MC’s feet on the ground he could not prevent her schoolgirl head being up in the clouds, in Wings.
James McEwan said of Friday’s story: “A subtle story, which leaves a quiet resonance in my mind, contemplating, yes, quietly contemplating.”
It wasn’t all about the mushy stuff. The cards, the roses, the poetry, meant nothing if you weren’t sincere. He knew many people whose love was only for show. Did he buy her flowers every week? Not at all. Did he profess his undying love for her in front of all their family and friends? Probably never. Holding hands and other public shows of affection was something that he never did, but no matter. He knew that this wasn’t what it was all about. He was being thoughtful. Even if it seemed stupid to other people, it meant something.
The Devil went down to Ayrshire…He was looking for a soul to steal.
He walked along the River Ayr passed the Auld Kirk and headed towards The Auld Brig. He had a snigger at the dead people and came upon a park bench where a Gentleman Of The Road sat.
Continue reading “The Devil Went Down To Ayrshire By Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
literally stories 