Tag: free reading

All Stories, General Fiction

A Call To Arms by Julian Walker

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It was her father who first showed her. If you pointed your arms straight at two very distant points, features in the landscape, or clouds, or stars, you made yourself the centre of the universe. Everything was drawn into you, you were the fundamental point of a triangle, whose hypotenuse, a funny word at first but easy to remember once you had said it two or three times, could shift between any pair of objects, the sun and the moon, two trees, the chimney on top of the neighbours’ roof and the tv aerial on the top of her parents’ house, any two things, anywhere. It really didn’t matter, it was still a triangle, because of the one fixed point, and the two others.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Lonely Line Rider by Tom Sheehan

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Dutch Malick was lonely; for a deck of cards, a friendly voice cracking with warm humor or saddle gibes, for something that would tell him he was not the last person about in the world. For most all his life he was a line rider, low man on the totem pole, singular but almost invisible, a dot on the prairie or up a strange draw or wadie, a ghost of a person… him and his horse. His hands, in addition, were scarred from the very first day of line work years past, brutal scars from a brutal wire caught in the horns of a steer prodded wild by some unknown force. He’d never be able to draw a weapon with speed, even if his life depended on that quick draw. He tittered when he thought he was not in such good hands. Even a small laugh was worth the effort, self-inflicting humor went a hell of a long way when you were alone on the line, in a box canyon, out alone on prairie dog territory, “long as I don’t laugh at myself too seriously, poke too much fun.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

Remainders, Reminders by Bruce D Snyder

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Lyssum presses her fingers into her forehead, tries to push back the frown lines she can feel gathered like pleats behind her black round glasses. She scowls at the mail, grimaces at the news on her phone.  E-mail is worse, except for a funny note from her sister in Atlanta.  Catches herself, I’m the woman fed up with everything, she thinks. She drops her packages on the kitchen counter, a large garlic bulb rolls toward the sink; the green sheaf of parsley peeks damply from a sack. Lyssum sees herself reflected in the window: black hair pulled back severely and restrained with bands and clips, long dark clothes in layers set off by silver earrings and a pin. I look like a nun she thinks and pulls things loose so she can breathe.  

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All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

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Jane Houghton has been with the site for a long time now. Her work is always a delight and beautifully written. If you haven’t seen any of her stuff up to now just type her name into the search field and anything you choose will be a treat. her first piece – Walk on By will lead you to others in her catalogue.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Also Henry by Tom Sheehan

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Jim Hedgerow was the boss of Riverbank Cemetery’s burial crew, and this morning he was scratching to make sure he had enough help to “open up” a few places for “quick deposit.” At 7:30 the sun had jumped overhead, birds had their choirs in practice, and he had seen hard evidence of overnight guests in among the trees and full foliage at the edge of the cemetery along Fiske Brook.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Reflection by Mason Yates

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—other news, after multiple years of delay, a final date is set for the first manned mission to Mars.  This October, seven astronauts will embark to the distant red planet in a great scientific journey, a monumental achievement to welcome society’s next great leap forward.  A better era—

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Night the River Sang by Claire Massey

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Prelude: Native American legend has it that the Pascagoula tribe preferred death by drowning to lives of enslavement by their enemies. According to one “mist of time” story, men, women, and children were heard chanting to their ancestors while walking en masse into this Mississippi coastal river. Receptive listeners, recreating on these waters, have long reported phantom music. In 1985, historians successfully lobbied for a name change, from the Pascagoula to the Singing River.

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All Stories, Sunday whoever

Sunday Whoever

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Okay, strap in. Today is the turn of our beloved editor. Hugh Cron. Hugh is a founder member of the site and has worked incredibly hard over the years keeping it together in spite of personal and professional challenges. His Saturday posts are legendary and his cannon of writing extensive and diverse. So, who is Hugh:

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General Fiction

That Time When Cole Almost Kissed Jane by August Miller

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“Alright alright, I gotta tell you about this time Cole almost kissed Jane. Cole’s a good guy, a bit of a fucking nerd if you ask me, but a good guy, an accountant at this firm, just a little one downtown. Doesn’t look like a whole lotta money flows through it. Cole usually parks like a half a block down. Sometimes, it’s really nice out, then I think he walks the whole way to work, something like 7 blocks maybe, but it’s got that shit intersection off State.”

“Right, hate that fucking intersection.”

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All Stories, Horror

Corbin Harrows Moroccan Rug by Reese Alexander

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I am bleeding out on Corbin Harrow’s million-dollar, Moroccan, cream-colored rug because he raped a child in 1983. The blood rushing out of the hole just above my right hip-bone runs down my leg and pools at the rug’s edge. The spirit of my mother suddenly possesses me then, and I turn my head to Corbin, frozen only feet from me—still holding the fire poker he’s just pulled out of my side—to tell him that if he acts now, he can still get the stain out. After all, it’s only on one corner.

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