I was attempting to hibernate through an atypical stormy November afternoon when my realm’s lead (and only) Imaginary Friend, Renfield, barged into my office, blinded the room with light and cheerfully yelled “Breaking news!”
“Can’t you see I’m hibernating?”
“Oh, you’ll want to know about this,” she said with a smile (always smiling). “Daisy and Peety are the greatest superhero team.”
Continue reading “G.O.A.T. by Leila Allison”
Dear Daisy
Greetings!
Leila caught a cold while composing this weekly update and claimed that she was only worth “two-thirds of my usual genius” (a statement which proves that the common cold has no ill effects on the ego). Instead of calling out sick and thrusting her duty on her fellow Editors, she asked that I, Daisy Cloverleaf, write the introduction to this week’s wrap and that she would handle the middle and end. Which is precisely what has happened.
Continue reading “374- Dear Daisy, The Week That Still Is, And Nine New Ways To Avoid Heaven”
Clara runs her fingertips across Rose’s palm and analyses her sweat. “You need food,” she says. Rose looks down at Clara, her small human-like daughter, and mutters her agreement. Hand in hand they saunter along in search of sustenance, checking each restaurant as they go. What they want is an elegant meal in good company for Rose, and a beautifully presented snack of kitchen waste biofuel for Clara. Up ahead, Rose sees a few friends, also hand in hand with their little helpers, walking into one of her favourite places to spend a lazy afternoon. Not wanting to miss out Rose speeds up. Clara tries to hold her back, but Rose drags her along until they reach the door. Clara resists going any further, but Rose gives her one almighty yank and Clara relinquishes her determination.
Continue reading “Be Aware, the Hand That Feeds by Stephen Oram”
The man who pit this roof against rain, his best friend and owner of the final store in town, the woman who pits seed against element to feed me all my life, our humdrum hay baler, two others I didn’t know and I sit in a circle in Shopkeeper’s empty store. These are our Friday nights now after the litany of systems failures. “Supply chain-issues,” Papa mumbles when it comes up. “Just the economy cycling again, actually,” Shopkeeper grumbles. “No one believes us about the mass injuries,” the two guests basically whisper.
Continue reading “Modern Entertainment by Megan Wildhood”
When I invaded the Bond Bread Factory, as a hungry seven-year-older, on a plank from a neighboring building, my sister Patricia, younger by a year, was my scout, my watch dog, my whistleblower, all to make sure we’d have toast off our kitchen stovetop which required bread to begin with, mystifying my mother about “Who in these days gives fresh bread to kids on the prowl.
Continue reading “Loaves of Life by Tom Sheehan”
Enter. Order. Eat. Pay. Leave.
The whole operation is streamlined; a seamless experience for staff and customer. The rules are clear and seldom broken: there’s to be no trespassing. People are here to nibble at sandwiches and sip coffee, not to have a stranger in an apron pry into their personal lives. So you serve them and leave it at that. That’s just the way it’s done.
…until it isn’t.
Continue reading “It’s Not About Her by Jaydan Salzke”
Leila and her lists are killing me!!
I am also a list lover.
So from that I’ve thought about one thing that saddens me about a story compared to a song…A song can make you smile straight away, a story, well you need to get into the crux of it. To be fair though, the ending of a story is better, a lot better, than a few beats of a drum.
Continue reading “Week 373 – The Difference Between Stories And Songs, No Place For ‘Whistling Jack Smith’ And What The Fuck Will We Be Writing About?”
Harvey looked out his front window, saw the real-estate lady pull into the driveway of the house across the street and get out of her car. She walked to the For Sale sign with Sale Pending pasted diagonally on it.
Another victim is moving in, he thought.
Continue reading “The House Across the Street by Robert P. Bishop”
Someone wins the lottery every day.
Lily’s grandfather used to tell her this when he would walk her to the corner dime shop for a candy and a ticket.
Continue reading “Lottery by Meredith Rohn “
Crossing the curved wooden bridge over a small river, I reached the Kutupalong Refugee camp. The temporary tarp and bamboo dwellings of the refugees stretched endlessly over the deforested undulating hills. The morning humidity settled, a cloak of haze, making breathing heavy and labored. Smoke from outdoor cooking curved and lingered in the air.
Swarms of children quickly surrounded me, holding my hands, skipping alongside me. My guide and I climbed up the dirt steps carved into the slopes. In the monsoon rain, these would all be washed away. It had already left its legacy; deep cavernous grooves furrowed the fragile slopes.
Continue reading “Still A Child by Kwan Kew Lai”
