His name was Maxwell Max Dugan and this is his story, but only covers those disturbing and warful years between 1941 to 1947, just seven years chockfull of battles, combat, explosions, heroic people, deadly people on a world-wide rampage, and means of salvage, at least of the souls, if nothing else.
I love this piece that Leila has chosen by Nik. He writes these short emotional pieces so very well – especially when you consider that he also does the wonderful Stormcrow stories. – Time for another of those Mr Nik?Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Reinventing Amy by Nik Eveleigh.”
Here we are at Week 293.
I was wondering what constitutes a large amount of writers? What numbers are we talking about?
That made me curious to see if there is a collective noun. I couldn’t find any. I think I’ll use ‘A Scepticism Of Writers’Continue reading “Week 293 – A What Of Writers, Freeing Motivations And Fucking In Scotland”
(a sweaty tale of irresistible desire within remote salty environs)
Brigadier Robert D’Alby of those immaculate Glorious Roscommon’s was a fine figure of a man. As a Sandhurst officer cadet, it was crystal clear D’Alby was hewn from exactly the right stuff- possessing athleticism, but devoid of narcissism, & employing a military style of life, minus that all-too-familiar ‘boot-polish-up the-kilt’ mentality. Unerring devotion to discipline & Spartan indifference to discomfort made D’Alby a splendid soldier. Additionally, over time D’Alby’s ability to remain aloof- distanced from subordinates, enabled access to genuinely private thoughts beyond the appreciation of his rough & ready non-commissioned comrades. In fact, even fellow officers bored D’Alby: their drunken parties, latent homosexuality, imbecilic gambling, & tunnel vision interdicted any possible camaraderie. Yet, above all, he abhorred their collective disregard of cubic art. Still, such wilful blindness didn’t detract D’Alby from an admiration for their old-fashioned strength of character; nor could crude behavioural patterns, disseminated amongst his natural ruling-class, annul an esteem in which he held an intrinsic nationalistic existentialism pursued by élite English gentlemen.
“Quietness, at what cost?” Reid said as he swung in his hammock on Burnaby Mountain. He pushed his legs over the edge of the canvas. Then he put his legs back into the hammock. He wanted to live in the wild, to make a new start away from the city noise. “I’ll call for that teaching position at Pinantan Narrows reservation,” he decided.
Do not read if you may be offended by explicit sexual references.
The house keys fell from my pocket when I reached for my gloves. Attached to a silver ring, they clattered on the sewer grate, slipped through, and disappeared with a splash.
I cursed, threw my head back, and considered the enormity of the problem: it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s; my wife was at a yoga retreat with her sister, in upstate New York; my landlord was probably out of town; I had only loose change in my pocket; less than a quarter-charge on my phone; and my bladder was almost full.
After donning the gloves, I tried lifting the grate but it wouldn’t budge. Recovering the keys was unlikely, what I wanted was a hiding place from my shame.
An Epic Season Finale Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical by Leila Allison
Mary and the Photobomb Fairy
Mary was lying on a couch at a psychiatrist’s office, getting her head explored. It was your typical wood panelled and diploma-laden psychiatrist’s office, the kind you see in films, TV and New Yorker cartoons. There were the already described walls, the couch containing Mary, an occasional table on which lay a box of Kleenex, and a seated shrink, who, if she resembled Dr. Melfi from The Sopranos one atom more, might prompt a lawsuit. No creativity was spent on the presentation of this office, for it was borrowed from the Public Domain Library for use in this story. In fact the sloth in this paragraph alone is so prevalent that your author hasn’t bothered to look up whether Dr. Melfi is a psychiatrist or a psychologist. It’s because all that’s required of this paragraph is for the author to get across the image of a woman named Mary getting her head explored by a professional in that field (from here, “Dr. Morley”) at a place where such explorations normally take place.
How better to celebrate a milestone than to have a re-run featuring Mr Cron. Leila has presented this little gem from the dungeons and this is what she said:
This is one of those weeks where I haven’t a clue what I’m going to write about.
Talk amongst yourself if you’d prefer!!
I could sing a wee song…
‘A piston thrust
A moment shared’
Definitely not!! (I’ll come back to that)