Here we are at the first of the New Year with Week 566
Well, that’s the festivities over for another year. I hope you all have had a restful or mad time or a bit of both. I had some beautifully wrapped presents this year. I received a life size Dalek, a lucky horse shoe, an inflated beach ball and an anchor. I was grateful but not one of them was a surprise.
Continue reading “Week 566 -Obvious Prezzies, Paul Newman Was Brilliant And A Nod To Johnny Kidd And The Pirates.”
Content that some readers may find upsetting – refer to the tags on the bottom of the page
Small towns are quiet places at night, especially the town of Hush. That’s what made it the ideal place for eight-year-old Sammy Keen to live in. The skinny boy with piercing dark eyes, a towering forehead, and large, floppy ears looked forward to bedtime every night, unlike his friends at school, who cherished the day and its fun activities under the bright sun. Changing into his pajamas, he’d jump into bed and turn off the lights. A smile would form on his face as he gazed at the open window and began to listen to the sounds outside, for Sammy was a gifted child with a wholly unique talent and the intelligence to utilize it.
Continue reading “Night Sounds by Tom Koperwas”
Weekends are for my brother. I try to see him on Saturdays, but sometimes it’s Sunday. He doesn’t know one day from the next, so I don’t guess it matters. They limit his time with the other patients. I wish they wouldn’t. Even if he doesn’t talk, he might like listening.
Continue reading “It Happened on Wednesday by Foster Trecost”
“Hey there pretty lady, lookin’ good!”
“Hi Chris, didn’t expect to see you here. Alone and on a school night!!”
“What the fuck, I needed a drink! And I really don’t give a shit about the job, so, so what if I go in half-mangled…What about you? Waiting for someone?”
Continue reading “Market Place by Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
There are many Declans in this story, but let’s begin with ours.
Declan sits on the edge of his bed, absently sweeping his hands under the crumpled sheets in search of the remote. When that fails, he reaches beneath the bed without bothering to look, hoping his fingers brush against salvation.
Continue reading “Channel 7 by Gareth Vieira”
Dale Williams Barrigar has been a blessing to every writer on the site since his arrival last summer. I dare anyone to find more sincere comments or an even more learned mind on the subject of literature on the site (although Gerry Coleman satisfies that condition as well!) Thus it is fitting that a painting The Old Guitarist should have at least partially inspired Dale’s first site story, today’s rerun.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns- The Old Guitarist by Dale Williams Barrigar”
(Editors’ Note: It’s a hell of an accomplishment to land one story for publication, but it takes special talent and courage to do this many–and we are only a small part of Fred’s overall canon. Congratulations Fred! You earned every word and sentence of this achievement–Leila, Diane, Hugh, Nik at LS)
Back in the day, when I was a snot-nosed little rascal growing up in the country, the old folks used to say stuff like, “Homer Hall, how you let all these kids keep up so much ruckus? Where’s your mind, boy?”
Continue reading “The Keys to the Highway by Frederick K Foote: Number 100!!!”
St. Peter knew the wide-hipped, big-breasted, large-lipped, brown-skinned woman was trouble the moment she arrived. She popped up outside the Gates of Heaven like a thunderclap. The hundreds in line turned to see what the commotion was all about.
Continue reading “Etta May Shoemaker by Frederick K Foote: 99–One More to Go!”
When I was six, my mother said, “Lloyd, let your little sister play with that truck. Kenya is only four. Be generous, she’s the only sister you got.”
When I was eight, my dad said, “Lloyd, you can’t do everything you see these White boys do up here. When you see them about to get in trouble, you need to head on home.”
Continue reading “Fairness by Frederick K Foote: 98 Cometh!”
Oh, them blues. Them blues done got in my shoes. Dancin’, dancin’ my fool self to death.
James Cotton makes me grab Big Mable, do the two-step, do the buck and run, water the floor with our sweaty salt. She shakes her money maker, tables wobble, bottles fall from the shelf. She bounce them bosoms, make a grown man cry for mother’s milk.
Continue reading “Them Blues by Frederick K Foote: Behold Fred’s 97th”
literally stories 