Harper Gillespie, newly fourteen, rode up to a place locals called Baby’s Bush to meet two of his friends: Dave Erich and Robinson Pike, both of whom were several years older. The bush stood in the middle of a field between two lines of pines. Almost as big as a house, they said every time someone tried to cut the bush down, they would have to stop because they heard a baby crying.
Continue reading “A Strange Way to say I Love You by Matthew Senn”
If I was better educated–or at least paid closer attention during what education I received–I’d know all the words the professors use to describe and sometimes drain the blood out of the written word. I am certain that there are fancy definitions for what goes on in Frederick K. Foote’s Peculiar Folk, but, really, in the end, no matter what something may be in the scientific sense, does it walk when you read it is still the most important thing of all.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Peculiar Folk by Frederick K Foote”
Her forehead stretched and arced into a pale rainbow and her hair lengthened into a dark mane. Her eyes and nose shimmered, while her mouth melted towards her sagging chest. Her clothes were random brushstrokes of ruby red and deep green. And then in a warped flash, she was gone.
Continue reading “The Peephole by Tim Frank”
Port Fairy, Victoria 1859
I am grown now; and the sperm whales and the southern rights that brought the ships here seeking their precious oil and the bones which make corsets for ladies in far-away places no longer visit. But still the people come, and the farming settlement thrives. Port Fairy, named for a sea captain who landed in this spot, part of the Port Phillip District in the great southern land.
Continue reading “The Seventh Wave by AJ Lyndon”
“It’s hot enough to taste the air and eat the summer,” Nana said. She settled herself onto the stoop’s top step. “Don’t worry child, he’ll be here soon enough.”
Continue reading “Waiting for Daddy by Serenity Marshall”
-1-
Mom was a world class liar. Once in a lifetime. She believed that a solid lie should have few moving parts; this theory allowed her to capitalize on the specious notion that true-sounding things are brief. Mainly, Mom got her whoppers over with a confident attitude,brevity and something in her eyes that told you not to fuck with it further.
Continue reading “Good News Club by Leila Allison”
He was in the sparse land between shifting sands of the great desert and the last tree bearing green when he saw the vultures descending from their high flight. Breward Chandler, “Brew” to friends back in the mountains where breathing was much easier than here in the midst of little life, sat bareback on an Indian pony he had freed from a natural corral behind a blow-down. Chandler had learned that the horse would obey pulls on his mane and in this manner he had escaped from sure capture by heading into the desert, with his pistols loaded and a lariat and a canteen he had grabbed on the run. He was not sure who was after him, either renegade Indians or renegade whites out for the kill, looking for guns, clothes, saddles, anything for free. He was hoping that they’d measure the little he might have against the rigors of a chase in the desert. Perhaps, he also hoped, they were smarter than he thought they were.
Continue reading “A Saddle in the Desert by Tom Sheehan”
Adam Kluger’s Pooboogle is a first class example of the ray of light finding a down and outer kind of story. A form probably first thought up by one of the girls on the Ark. Yet Adam has not only updated the shape to fit the times, he still manages to find something new to say. I can’t locate specific examples (maybe the six fingered guy) as much as I got a refreshing vibe from the story. Maybe it is because of all the sour tales out there which attempt relevance by conveying steady rain and suicidal tendencies.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Pooboogle by Adam Kluger”
There once was a race of authors who had achieved a level of celebrity similar to that of movie stars. Even people who didn’t read knew these authors by sight. They became the “must gets” for the swankiest dinner parties and were topics of discussion at all lesser gatherings. Then it ended. Just like that. Inexplicably. Alas, few authors turn heads in the wild anymore. Stephen King might–then again his face is hard to forget.
The mysterious mass extinction of celebrity authors is a phenomenon that only I have noticed or care about. Which means I am either a trailblazer or just another deluded soul, a couple of moments of clarity shy of the asylum.
Continue reading “Week 370: A Mass Extinction, Four Moral Authors and Nine Reasons Why I Will Not Go To Heaven”
Roscoe was a three-year-old Dachshund who had a problem: his “Associate Human” (A.H.)–though in most other ways acceptable–had a thing for dressing poor Roscoe in ridiculous costumes and posting the result on her YouTube channel. Dachshunds are uncommonly dignified, and things like being forced into wearing a “Frankfurter” outfit for the sole purpose of the A.H. gaining likes and subscriptions hurt Roscoe’s pride.
Continue reading “Roscoe and the Lightning Glory: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical”
literally stories 