Dread comes with darkness. Bar your doors and windows, and keep out the evil spirits. That’s what people say. I hide under my blankets, but Mama says they won’t keep me safe. I’m not even safe in her arms. That’s why the mare took baby Bert when he was sleeping, and the blacksmith’s wife. You never know when she might come, but Mama says no night is safe.
Leila has been spending so much time down in the dungeons of LS Towers we are worried that she might be sleeping down there. Not to worry, we’ll make sure she has plenty to eat and drink. This week she has nominated a piece by an old friend of the site – this is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Trigger by Doug Hawley”
(Diane, I’m sure you are bored into distraction by my predictable childishness!!)
Well here we are at Week 288.
On last weeks post, I promised Diane that I would cut the title down to four words.
I, being a total nipple end had a look at the longest word in the English language and I found it to be the chemical name for a Super Protein called Titin at around one hundred and ninety thousand letters. What a piece of nonsense, surely there has to be an alternative, could I suggest we just use Titin. Who the fuck would give up the three hours of their life that would be needed to say it?
He plays the trumpet brilliantly on the corner of Grand and Victoria. He doesn’t look like he’s from this era. He’s impeccably dressed, from his crisply fitting suit to his smooth fedora hat. There aren’t many folks that can pull that off. He’s cooler than the freezer aisle on a sweltering summer day. He performs the type of yearning melodies that give you the goosebumps. I’ve never seen anyone put any money into his basket.
Eight o’clock and the tubes were on strike again. Graham started at the bus stop closest to his bedsit but after two 19s sailed past, both packed to the gills, he began to walk down Blackstock Road. He passed three more stops, all besieged, before reaching the tube station at Finsbury Park, the first place the 19 took on passengers. People were standing three-deep in the road, shifting for position, waiting for a bus to come and carry them off to work.
Everyone has played watching games. I’d taken it a step further. I played dead games. I visited cemeteries and I gave five of the dead my thoughts on their life.
I don’t know when my game changed. I wasn’t making up the stories anymore. I’m not exactly sure when the visions changed from imagination.
…They had no input from me.
A Learned Introduction
Spirits can’t lie. Still, as it goes in both life and the afterlife, honesty does not mean accuracy. That’s the trouble with telling the truth. In the living world, a great deal of truth telling is dedicated to giving air to erroneous beliefs, mindlessly echoing hidden agendas and giving credence to hallucinations in general. The same holds true at the Otherside. For instance, if you tell a Spirit that the Earth is flat, she might believe otherwise and will tell you so. In this regard, a Spirit is even more stubborn than a mortal when it comes to shedding ignorance. The dumb shit they believe in stays believed in, no matter how much compelling evidence you may present to the contrary.
Well now – Look at that. Lovely Leila has chosen an old thing of mine for a Rerun. thank you. This is what she said.:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Beach House by Diane M Dickson”
Well here we are at Week 287.
I had a look at the historical events of this week.
I see that Major Boaby Ross set fire to Washington. That wasn’t very nice and was a bit hypercritical. The British are still burning effigies of Mr Fawkes for trying to do the same sort of thing just over two hundred years earlier.
My older sister Nancy and I love funerals. We go at random every weekend, ingratiating ourselves into the crowds, the friends, the family. We pretend to weep with the mourners, while we absorb things with the coldness of detectives, me in an oversized suit, borrowed from Dad. Nancy in one of Mother’s nice black gowns. We love the darkness, the garb, the somberness. The people gathered together, mothers and children, cousins, nephews, people with connections we cannot fathom. Being so close to darkness, a kind of whirl, excitement. We don’t know dead people, the wildness of loss. Mother and Dad are divorced, but that’s different. They wear fedoras and lavender and false civility. Even our grandparents still live, regaling us with tales of meeting Teddy Roosevelt and other trivialities.
Continue reading “Funeral Crashers by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri”
literally stories 