Bells and drums – the jingle of a cavalry troop’s harness, the thump of hooves on a dusty road – announced the arrival of riders in gray at a bridge in Georgia in July, 1864. Most of the soldiers dismounted while their captain rode onto the bridge and halted before two figures, an old black woman holding a sack and a child.
Continue reading “One Stone by Robert Walton”
I rummage for footwear in the dumpster here at the train station, where all routes lead uphill. I carry a big pack with a sleeping bag and tarp, which I hauled from the bus after I forgot my shoes. When you have no shoes, you have no direction. My wife Samantha, left me as I bent over to take them off. She stepped down the bus aisle in a floppy floral hat and a blue chemise and when I looked up, she was gone.
Continue reading “Searching for Samantha by Harrison Kim”
The line of people stretched all the way around the block. It was 1983, it was Rome, and Mr. Castano’s sculpture work was in high demand for movie sets, fashionistas, and pranksters. The artist also reserved a certain amount of his time to help the injured or disabled with realistic or artistic prosthetics. I was a customer close to this latter category, though the only person I wanted to look right for was myself.
Continue reading “Pinocchio’s Puppet by L.A. Fields (Adult content)”
(published posthumously, 1927)
The list of writers nabbed or injured by tuberculosis is staggering. Even Charles Bukowski, at the time living well in Los Angeles, circa 1990 got a dose, and it appears to have opened the door to his death a couple of years down the road.
Continue reading “The Journal of Katherine Mansfield/Auld Author”
Here we go again. Another Saturday round up and we are now at Week 602.
A bit of wisdom I read this week. It states that we should never steal, never cheat or lie. Don’t be a despicable human being. This should be a given, but that’s not the reason! You see, our governments hate competition!!
Continue reading “Week 602 – A P.D. With Whiskers, It Wasn’t Even Porn And Could Be An Interesting Image Diane!”
Considered objectively, Alan wasn’t really one of the bad guys. Provided it didn’t cost him significant quantities of time and/or cash, he was okay about helping out unfortunate relatives, friends, or neighbours. He had a soft spot for rough sleepers, as long as they weren’t hallucinating. He claimed, with some justice, that when he was working he’d worn a hole in the arse of a perfectly good suit sitting on committees, but he remained willing to do the odd shift of volunteering here and there.
Continue reading “The Lingering Regrets by Michael Bloor”
Diane tilted her head back to find the top of the slide, one hand shading her eyes, and thought: that’s very high up for an eight-year-old alone.
“Mom, can I go?”
Her eyes followed the slide’s downward arc, its twists and loops. Bodies zipped through the tube. Muffled cries reverberated outward to the ground. Her chest tightened.
Continue reading “In a Flash by Marcus Delmont”
The legend about him, or I should say one of the many legends about him, is that he was nine feet tall.
No one now believes that the great Chinese teacher Confucius was really nine feet tall.
Nine is a magic number. That number was chosen for a reason.
Saying that Confucius was nine feet tall meant, and means, that his ideas, and his presence, were nine feet tall.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Confucius Still Speaks an essay by Dale Williams Barrigar”
My great great great great great grand daughter, Miss Allison, usually tends to the bi-weekly festivities at Literally Stories, but her continuous state of despair has created a temporary state of mental paralysis brought on by the conspicuous consumption of apple jack on an empty stomach, heart and soul. Therefore she beseeched Yours Truly, Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender Spirit, to fill in for her this bi-week.
Continue reading “Week 601: The Judge Steps In (It)”
As I pulled into an almost vacant lot in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with the cars of the few Saturday patrons and library staff parked, I noticed a pale woman wearing a cream-colored dress, its lace browned faintly around the cuffs. Her face possessed the pale stillness of old photographs. Her eyes shifted strangely, as if several people were considering me from behind them at once.
“Good morning,” I said to her.
Continue reading “Specificity by Ryan Scribner”
