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.
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’sReasons 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’sThe 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.
”You see this meadow, boy? It was a swamp before we moved here. One of the conditions for buying the mansion and the adjoining land was that I paid to have it fixed and also the beach. You enjoy the beach, right boy? The restoration of the pier as well. How do the villagers repay us? They let their dogs shit on the meadow. They shit on the meadow, boy. They want me to pick it up… Look out the window! There’s Andersson with his ugly daughter.” Erik stopped and rolled down the car window. “HEY! Andersson! Pick up after your shitty daughter’s shitty dog! Or I will empty my septic tank all over your ugly house. I’d do you that favour. The shit glaze would probably raise the property value.”
When she left home Briony hadn’t meant to leave so – well, quite so permanently. She went to the shop to buy a cabbage. A medium sized drumhead was what she had in mind, although in fairness there was an option for cauliflower. Dinner was beef, already in the cooker, rich and redolent, herby and delicious. Beef, Beef in beer for Dick and to go with it mashed potatoes and cabbage. His favourite.
Toothpick balanced on his lip, just so. Hair slicked down with practiced precision. But despite the evil eye and air of menace he fancied he gave off, Rachel Duccini couldn’t help but smile. Gerard Marron, for all his sneering attempts at brooding ominousness, reminded her a hell of a lot of the Lollipop Guild Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. The way he squinted, the pant legs too short to cover his ankles, and the way he had his hands in his pockets, thumbs out pointing at each other across his groin.
It shone over Hayfield, South Dakota, and George Angus ran his hand through straws of Hard Red Winter Wheat. Cream colored leaves. He used his hand to shield against the sun and fixed his eyes on the old oak tree upon the hill. Then down again. Frail dryness. Like the touch of Mary’s hand. He looked at his own hands, dry but not frail. Quite sturdy. Sharp lines, trenches from a working life. He ran his palm over his scruffy wide face.
Nathan stood outside next to the elevator. We see each other sometimes across the floor while he smokes a rolled-up cigarette and sometimes drinks and I take out the leftovers.
‘Three weeks without a kiss,’ he said to me the last time I stood there last summer with my black bags, ‘but at least I don’t stink like you do right now’ and through the smoke he’d laugh, coughing roughly in the yellow glow.
He was dead before his eyes closed. That they closed was a blessing, the whole thing was so devastatingly awful that to have him slumped in the seat with staring eyes would simply have added to the nightmare.
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