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”
4.3..
Beef, potatoes, gravy, fork and knife to the left, glass to the right. The volume set to eleven and the table lamp lit, not the standalone lamp.
4.6..
Switched detergent!!!
4.8..
Bianca’s visit was cancelled so I had to throw away the pies. Also if I’m being honest to myself I don’t like pies.
4.9..
A raccoon family found the pies. The two trash cans were open and garbage all over our driveway when he left for work. I need to learn! How can I be so stupid!? My shirt’s ruined now of course. A shower will clean my face, but my shirt is ruined. The gray-brownish liquid. It’s in my hair! I need a shower.
This is without a shadow of a doubt the most disgusting, pig sty of a tattoo shop I have ever had the displeasure of visiting. It’s in the bathroom of an abandoned Shell station about ten miles off Highway 99 just south of Fresno. It reeks of urine and feces and is littered with used condoms and equally used sanitary napkins.
The walls are smeared with what looks like dried feces and graffiti written in the same substance. I hold my breath as I address the two thin, bearded white men in immaculate white doctor jackets with name tags reading, Alphonse and Dupree. Despite the doctor jackets, they are somewhat lacking in bedside manner.
We invited Literally Stories author and friend, Vic Smith, to be Editor for a day and choose three great short stories from the site. Here is what Vic had to say about the three stories he chose and why he felt they were special.
This list of my three favourite stories from Literally Stories only crystallised as I set out to write it. These are the stories that meant most to me at that moment. At another time, when I’m in a different mood or when the weather has changed, it would be a different list. The depth of talent here is too great to be summed up in such a small number.
Maybe it was thoughts about Geronimo or the brick smokestack jutting up against the dark Milwaukee night that made me think about the lean times when I was a kid back in New Mexico. I stood outside my parent’s bedroom door and could hear them talking about money, how we’d be lucky to have enough food for the family through winter. My dad said he’d take me and we’d go to California to work in an asbestos factory. A bricklayer friend of his had called the week before telling him about the job.
Toffee-Head Tom was born to Caramel Jeannie and Jammy-Dodger Rodger. He wasn’t an attractive child and had no friends as such. In those days he was classed as special; now-a-days he would have had a list of names.
He lived happily with his parents. They would only eat pudding if the previous meal had included potatoes.
They spent their Sundays reading excerpts from the Pears’ Cyclopedia and drinking Rainbow Sherbet.
Anyone who has followed the progress of Literally Stories over the past seven months will testify to the fact there are no specific genres or themes favoured above any other in the choice of stories we have published. No subject matter has taken precedence over any other. There is no writing style which is de rigueur with the Editors of the site. Just good stories. At any rate, we, the Editors, like to think so. Not that every story is to everyone’s taste. You can please some of the people all of the time…
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