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WEEK 543: The Struggle; the Week That Was; 2025 Playlist

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The Struggle

I normally begin writing a weekly wrap with nothing in mind. I start hitting keys and wait for something to pop into my head, which usually happens by the end of the second sentence. As a general method it might be lacking, but for me it works out. But, alas, tonight, I am as empty as a campaign promise. I should have been at “go” two sentences back, yet I’m still a flatliner; but that’s all right, I thrive on pressure.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Natural Man by T.A. Young

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 It was no one’s fault: a catch and a lurch as he sat in the back of the truck, legs dangling, half asleep. The planet stopped him or he would still be falling. No cars came by, but evening did – softly -as he lay there. A maple tree grew at the side of the road. The moon grew from a branch of the tree, detached itself and floated up to clouds where it became embedded in the misty horizontal filaments. But this was all a dream to him as he lay in the middle of the road.

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All Stories, General Fiction

At the Barn in Winter by Michael Barrington

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She was asleep now, her head leaning on his outstretched arm, her delicate, dainty fingers finally relaxing their grip on his huge, calloused hand. The musky scent of her beautiful, long hair, she was so proud of it, stirred up old memories of happier times. He knew every inch of her face, her lovely, big brown eyes that always seemed so full of wonderment, her delicate lips…. He was afraid to move for fear of awakening her, but he needed to relieve his numbing arm. And to do so quickly before being forced to make some abrupt movement that might disturb her. It was pitch black…. He mustn’t turn on the light.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

The Dog Who Could Draw by Stephen J Kimber

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The dog never speaks without a pencil in his paw. On good days he may draw for you a line, a rectangle, a box, a room that becomes; what do you want? Might it be a bodega in some Latin American country, a taverna, a shack where drinks and mescal are served, a room where women also give away their forgetfulness potions. He is never quite precise as to which, and the voice that accompanies the blossoming picture is merely shading pencil.

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All Stories, Humour

Heir by Sam Graveney

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Samuel Waggoner never used his own products. People admired that about him; Waggoner’s Wigs were so good, had he used them, no one would ever have known. An Australian, he fought in Vietnam and emerged from the jungles with a secret ingredient that turned dried-out hair from barbers’ floors into manes which shone like honey and lasted and lasted. He built a wig empire, became a rich man, he married a stage actress, Harriet, for love, he bought a big house outside Darwin. He was totally bald.

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 542 – I’m Too Old For Another First Day, Is This Shite, (Should Be Asked) And Why Not Use Three Bottles Of Absinthe???

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Well here we are at week 542!!

I went for an interview this week and just want to mention scripted questions – They only serve one purpose and that is the replies are scripted answers.

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All Stories, Fantasy

The Cursed Tree of Ingbian by Torsaa Emmanuel

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Once upon a time, there lived a community called Ingbian, meaning “Relatives.” The community was called so because they did things together in one accord. They were deeply rooted in their traditional beliefs and had not embraced the gospel early. They worshipped multiple gods, often visiting shrines and performing rituals. Many of the community members were so engrossed in their spiritual practices that they engaged in astral projection at night.

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Short Fiction

Over the Top by David Lyons

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I hear the curlew flying low over the misty bog on a late summer’s evening. The air is damp with dew and the shadows are black beneath the tall whitethorn hedges. A lone cow calls out for her calf in a field beyond view and then stops suddenly as her charge drains the pressure from her elder.

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All Stories, General Fiction

 Cycle by Frederick K Foote

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I was a son of segregation born in a small Virginia village. My heritage was discrimination without the possibility of assimilation.

At age six, on my first day at our all-Black school, I played the fool and set myself down beside a strange, weird creature named Bernice Lighthorse.

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All Stories, Romance

Just for Now by Tom Sheehan

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My son Jamie brought me to all my treatments at the hospital in Danvers,  a 7-minute drive for him as he says for more than three years (I am loaded with many ailments of various kinds) and I always noticed a lady who brought her father for his appointments, but dressed as though she was going to a ball, a fancy dress, and a marvelous pair of legs that could dance her across Broadway in her day, being the  knockout she was, and carried yet a boatload of her beauty into a few years of time.

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