A young man sat on a darkened stoop with a small child in his arms. There was lamplight at the head of the street and lamplight at the end, but the stoop where the young man sat was at the middle of the block. Only a bit of the light stretched down to where he watched with the child.
When you’re crawling in the dark towards a desperate destination you can’t drink or drug, you can’t play the guitar, the goal is to duck under the barbed wire fence, under the surveillance and arrive undetected to attain your purpose. You’re crawling with a swede saw round your neck, and you’ve driven all the way from the Rockies, a giant circle travel to this vineyard once again. To exact vengeance. You’ve filled five weeks pruning grapes for nothing, with an oral contract signed by two voices, yours and the owners. And the owner won’t pay. After three weeks, he said the job wasn’t complete. You knew it was. But you wanted the cash. So you did the extra work. Pruning the vines down to the nubs. You laboured two weeks more. And afterwards the owner sighed and said “the field must be weeded and the debris hauled away,” and you said “No. That wasn’t in the contract. I don’t have a pickup to do that”
Continue reading “In The Hills Of The Okanagan by Harrison Kim”
Miss Shaw, please take a seat. I’m Bill Nixon…So you’ve filled in your new claim and you’ve stated that you walked out of your last employment. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You do realise that you may be sanctioned and won’t receive any benefit?”
“I know.”
“Well in your own words, could you tell me what happened.”
Continue reading “Concealer by Hugh Cron Warning – Adult Content.”
Sometimes you just want to try something new.
Last week I embarked on a project – growing a beard – and tonight, instead of trimming the Christmas tree I never bought, I trimmed my new beard. The electric clipper vibrated too close to my ear, drew blood, and snagged a chunk of my hair. So tonight I also shaved my whole head. It’s fine. Waiting to go bald is exhausting. Now bristly black stubble covers my head and I resemble a mugshot on the news.
Continue reading “Instead of Yelling at the Television by Charlie Rogers”
Leila has chosen a hard hitting – no holds barred piece by Hugh Cron for this week’s Rerun. Adult content and down to earth grittiness – It couldn’t have been written by anyone else.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – A Bad Batch by Hugh Cron”
Here we are once again guys.
I was wondering about our physical development time line. I think it went something like:
Baby. Toddler. Kid. Teenager. Adult.
Now-a-days we have:
Baby. Toddler. Pre-School. Young child. Older child. Pre-Teen. Young teenager. Teenager. Older teenager. Young adult. Adult.
This is very apparent in attitudes, as in, it takes the fuckers a helluva lot longer to grow up.
You tap left but the phone doesn’t register. Touchscreen gloves aren’t so touchy after all. Instead, the story slides onto the next one, the one on the right, which glowed orange and black like hot molten metal. There’s a silhouette of a kangaroo.
Here! Follow my voice! Over here, I say! For God’s sake, man, come over to the fire. What in heaven’s name are you doing, out in such a storm? Come and warm yourself before you freeze where you stand. There, it is only a whistling nook amidst the snow and the cruel wind, but it affords us some small respite and the luxury of civilised conversation. Here we will wait for a break in the weather. I would share with you a morsel, but I have none. Rest and talk must serve as our sustenance. I note that you are hardly dressed for being so deep in the mountains. A light jacket? Such flimsy trousers? I know I must look a fright, unkempt and unshaven, but I am something of an exception. Those who linger in these hills generally know the value of good boots and a winter coat.
Continue reading “The Ragged Frenchman by Matthew J. Richardson”
But First a Word From Judge Montague’s Great-to-the-4th Granddaughter
Whenever a woman is constantly besieged by unseen faces and disembodied voices, it is for the best that she believes that the legions of non-violent hoo-doos and haints that only she experiences are real, and are not indicative of a mental illness (technical name for the affliction: scewious loosiest). Such is the case with Yours Truly. And although you may think that my thinking “it is for the best…” is misguided, I assure you that the hoo-doos and haints (whether they be actual or of my own creation) want only happiness for everyone.
The poster bore an image of a tiny kitten dangling from a clothesline, hind legs kicking desperately against the abyss. HANG IN THERE, the caption read. Horatio Salazar, Westside High School Appropriations Officer, had hung the poster in an attempt to reassure the students who were summoned to his office. Occasionally, it even worked. Xinyu loved that poster, Salazar thought, back when she was Consuela. Back before her third strike. A sweet girl. But she should have known that piñatas originated in China, and that they only became “Spanish” through cultural appropriation.
literally stories 