The eighteen wheelers sound as if one may soon graze the edge of my bed, and the air conditioner rattles like farm machinery in dire need of oil. The motel rug reeks of mildew, and a distant whistle wails every ninety minutes or so. I’m almost home.
When my father passed away a month ago, I knew I was destined to see the farm where he was born during the Great War. Don’t ask me why, but like a butterfly hell-bent for Mexico, I sensed the fates had ordered this trek.
I can hear her, the woman upstairs. Especially on a Friday or Saturday night when she’s entertaining a guest. The two, the woman and her guest, trade small talk. Over drinks, most likely. I only catch a line here and there, especially if I’m watching TV. Eventually the small talk dies out and the entertaining goes horizontal – I can tell by the rhythmic squeaking of her sofa-bed.
When we thought about doing this I considered researching, re-reading and trying to come across as a damn sight more intelligent than I am. I therefore decided to do this off the cuff. That is what it is all about. In my lifetime I have read over 400 books and I would not be able to hazard a guess at the amount of short stories. Within all of the short stories published on Literally Stories, I remember some. Those are the ones that I would like to consider.
No shortage of venues for Literally Stories authors this week as the narrative landed readers on two beaches, Hawaii and the south coast of England (probably), the streets of Vienna, a hellish dystopia on the cusp of apocalypse, and Kipling’s Rottingdean study via Afghanistan.
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.
literally stories 