Once again Literally Stories was delighted to welcome three newcomers to the site this week.
Charles W. Bigelow, Frederick K Foote and Paul Griley.
Before I get to this week’s clutch of writers a small mention for tomorrow’s ‘In conversation with…’ slot, the second of which is entitled Tobias Haglund in conversation with Nik Eveleigh. A certain Mr. S. Crow puts in a guest appearance, too. Storming!
It is dark here, the floor is wet and the smell is dreadful. The window is barred and I can’t reach it to see out. There is nothing in this stone room, nothing except me and Alia.
The pain was indescribable. First had been shock and horror then disbelief and now all that was left was pain.
Alfie.
Jean walked over to the carry-cot.
“Ugly wee bastard, isn’t it?”
Graham began to laugh, “That’s whit you get when you shouldn’t have weans.”
She stared into the cot, the kid was sleeping.
“Do you mean about Kylie being a lesbo?”
“Aye. Why did she get herself pregnant, I take it wis fur the money?”
Jean pulled the shawl over the kid.
“Naw! Did she no tell ye?”
Continue reading “Alfie by Hugh Cron – Adult Content. This may be unsettling for some readers.”
Jenny looked down at Rob’s sleeping face, his open mouth dribbling peaceably onto the pillow that supported his head. She was dressed, breakfasted and ready to go. She was ambivalent in the mornings. Her husband could not win, although he did not know it. She felt resentment if Rob didn’t get up to mark her departure to the office. She needed him to fuss over her a little, and pay attention to her comfort: a reward for her stalwart commitment to the daily grind of work? On the other hand she valued quiet and solitary mornings when he overslept, listening out for signs that he was stirring and willing him not to. She planted a light kiss on his forehead and tip-toed out of the bedroom.
I glanced up from the screen, resting my eyes and easing stiffened shoulder muscles. This job, editing copy for a company based in London is easy but tedious. It fits in though with the other things I like to do, the beach walks and gardening and most importantly going down to the nursing home. I am not keen on the job but I enjoy being in my office.
I love my home actually, I am very lucky. It has been in my family for four generations now and after the horrible time over the last few years it has taken me back, wrapped its solid stone bulk around me and held me safe.
I remember sneaking into the old Saunders house with my older sister. The trees twisted into positions which during the night cast shadows, which still haunt me in my dreams. It was silly, but great fun. We were discoverers of occult. Patrons of good, as Father Hope called us. I miss him. Father Geary is stern and never lets anything go. He forced Jane to grow up too fast. Twenty years old and already mother of two and married to Hank. Hank ‘wooden-face’ Edison.
I still visit the Saunders house. I won’t get in trouble for going into the yard any more, but I still sneak, pretend that the shadows are moving in the moonlight. When Will and Joey are older we can play there. Hopefully I won’t be too old.
I’ve been in the park, lunchtime I went to sit in the sunshine. It was nice. I was on my own as usual and today I just had an apple. It was small, red on one side, green on the other and there was a small bruise near the bottom. I hadn’t brought sandwiches today. Partly because I was late up and didn’t have much time but mostly because I only had chicken roll in the fridge.
It’s Week 18 at Literally Stories.
A chilling psychological thriller. Philosophical science fiction. Addiction. History. Crime. Heroic deeds. But enough of the UK’s General Election campaign.
I’m joking of course. That was dull. The same old same old. Not at all like Literally Stories. No, the only thing you can predict for sure about Literally Stories, is another week; another five quality tales.
The same again next week then?
Yes.
How predictable.
And the week after?
I guess so.
And the week after that?
Hmm. Not if a bunch of sweet wrappers and an empty fag packet are the only things rattling around in our inbox.
This week’s review belongs to the reviewers.
Here they are:
June Griffin said about The Village by Tobias Haglund: The powerful laws of nature are at work in this brilliantly horrific tale told in three colors – the black heart of an inhumane father, the white snow of a freezing Swedish winter, and the drops of red blood from a slaughtered moose…
Vic Smith said about Unit 4207’s Failed Assignment by Piyali Mukherjee: Clever stuff, Piyali. I particularly liked the way that the unit had some of the designed-in flaws that humans have. I enjoyed reading this.
James McEwan said about Hugh Cron’s Reasons Don’t Matter: I thought we were in for a police procedural crime story, in a way it was. But I discovered as I read on, it was a reflection on the justice system, where the criminal couldn’t care less, yes I weep for the world we live in.
Vic Smith said about Ossie Durrans’ Zepps! (no longer available on LS): This is an interesting read, Ossie. I don’t know if it’s based on truth, but it certainly felt like it. It’s good that you showed the participants in war as individuals and not faceless armies.
Hugh Cron said about Tobias Haglund’s The Gulls Cry: You have a superb talent for finding beauty in tragedy. Your descriptions and tone in the story are perfect. You are a very accomplished, skilled and adaptable writer. I only hope that your future involves your talent with much deserved success!!
This week’s race to be top of the polls (Story of the Week) was well contested. Close. Witness cut and thrust. Thrust and cut. More key battlegrounds than you can shake a *swingometer at. What I ought to say about the contest is Nik Eveleigh is not a Dirty Rascal, he’s this week’s King of the Castle with his odd little tale titled The Old Man in the Park.
There’s tidy for you!
* It often pays to ‘ignore’ a spell-checker, but pundits, politicians and err, parrots, beware! During the next few weeks of electioneering it is less than likely you’ll hear/read the term ‘urinometer’. On the other hand…
And speaking of all things electoral… have your say about which of this week’s stories should come out a winner:-
Inspector Steven Young looked around the incident room. The pictures of eleven male children stared back at him. He felt so much remorse. He blamed himself for ten of their deaths. If only he had caught him after the first.
Continue reading “Reasons Don’t Matter By Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
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