Tag: free reading

Short Fiction

Week 336: The Words of Prophets and My Unsteady Jukebox

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The Words of the Prophets

I had lost the ability to hear The Sound of Silence until Disturbed brought it back brilliantly in 2015. My mind gets that way with songs; I can hear them too many times–at that saturation point they assume the guise of an echo that my mind ignores upon further soundings. But Distubed’s over the top yet somehow restrained remake of the Simon and Garfunkel classic brought back to me one of the truly great lines in the history of music: The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls…

I wonder what Paul Simon felt when he wrote that line in 1965. Did it excite him or was he so lost in composition that it was just more words to choose from. I also wonder what Da Vinci experienced when he finished Mona Lisa. Did he bask in the glow of his own genius or eat cheese? Now, obviously you can ask Simon the question, but I doubt he could give you the actual answer because time has a way of reshaping memories, and inevitably a legend of some sort will creep in and take the actual event’s shape. I’m not saying he’d lie, but there stands a chance he’d buy the mirage.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Danse Russe by David Lohrey – Adult content.

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It was late. I was ready to split. He had my keys. I’d given him them at the back door. I’d warned him on the phone. I had work in the morning. “Me, too. Me, too.” I figured we had an understanding. I hesitated to wake him. I’d been having a good time. I had been triumphantly unselfconscious. Now, not so much. I pulled a throw rug around myself. In my excitement over the phone, I had said something about my rule, that I wouldn’t leave until he’d come three times, but he didn’t seem too interested. He just said, “No negotiating, bro. Nah, house rules. You come into my home naked, you mine. That’s it.” I said okay. Now, I was stuck. It was getting to be midnight. Finally, I threw off the cover: fuck it.

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All Stories, Humour

This Ol’ House by Mark Gormley

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Sometimes genius isn’t recognised the first time around. It took until the year 2035 for the world to appreciate the song-writing force that was Shakin’ Stevens. Since his reign in the rock and pop charts, music had become formulaic and contrived.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

Swinging At The Daisy Chain by William Kitcher

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It wasn’t until about three in the afternoon that I got back to the bar. After the show the night before, we partied in the bar with the band until about four, then went to someone’s apartment, I think she was with the band, who knew or who cared at that point, it was a place where we could keep going. I left about nine and most of the band was still there, drinking whatever was left, blowing coke, pretending the night was still happening, ignoring the fact they didn’t have another gig lined up.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Cold by Yash Seyedbagheri

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My older sister Nan and I climb up our makeshift tree house armed with our latest swiped goodies. Vienna sausages. Saltines. Sardines. Plastic Merlot bottles. The Sutter Home brand, not anything fancy, but durable. Plus, it’s enough to give you a good buzz, but not enough to get truly, raging drunk. Not like Mom.

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All Stories, General Fiction

It’s All I Can Do by Thomas Elson

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Look closely. Near the walnut bookcase a friend built for my son. Can you see me? I visit here every day.  

A couple of weeks ago, I told my son it was time. There were no miracles cures for me – ninety-two years old – not really high on the list of miracle-cure candidates.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Artificial by Tabitha Pearson

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I hatched the plan for my sperm heist with my accomplice, James. I really wanted a baby and I had the uterus for it. But the only artificial insemination center in Mississippi had a rule. I needed an infertile husband before they would do me the honor of selling me three minutes of another man’s time.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Renaissance by Yash Seyedbagheri

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Spring breaks through my empty walls and drawn curtains, an impenetrable fortress. It spills onto cell phones where sisterly jokes about my old-school wardrobe and loving and laughing face emojis no longer wait. Sunlight taunts the charcoal-colored shadows that keep me company on empty couches that smell of musk, armpits, Malbecs, and sativas.

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