So here I sit, awaiting the judge’s decision. Draft dodging’s a major crime for anyone, but these days, the court seems hell-bent on punishing the women. Equality – right? It’s a real titty-twister that the sexual revolution came full circle. How can you argue?
He picked up the phone and dialled. He thought that there would be no answers, no advice, just someone to listen. He wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted.
“Samaritans, you are talking to Sarah….”
He took a breath. He lifted the whisky and sipped.
Continue reading “Why Can’t She See The Difference by Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
“Thank you all for coming.”
Like I had a choice boss. You can fill the meeting invite up with all the pleasantries and corporate wank-speak you want, the real message says “Attend or be fired” so here I am.
“I’ve brought Dawkins in from marketing. He’s going to take us through our latest product launch. Real out-of-the-box thinking. Went live…this time last week eh Dawkins?”
The man in the pastel suit nods his sculpted head. He smiles a perfect, retina-scorching smile and fiddles with a laptop smaller than my phone.
Another week of fantastic stories from some old faces and a new one in JB Mulligan.
Welcome JB.
It’s not always easy to find a common thread linking five stories together. This week has seen us travelling through several continents. Graveyards, hospitals, tattoo parlours, lost in the woods. We even found time to go to the pub.
Five very different stories from five very different writers.
And the common thread? High quality writing.
I was baaaawwwwn. In a one way cul DE saaaaaac.
“Is that actually possible?”
“Is what possible?”
“A cul-de-sac being one way. How would you ever leave?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
I set my beer on the bar and give Frank the look.
It is an opinion held by many that there are no new stories in the world. There are merely endless variations on a set of themes. New ways of making them felt.
We reinvent. We deceive. We tell stories.
That was a person, right? That was a man.
Minka’s knee is already way too close to the steering wheel as she brakes hard. The car stops just short of a short tree. She knows that tree. Coca.
Shit.
She looks forward, not into the rear-view, because behind her is the curve. There’s no seeing around curves.
She hears thumping, dull, rhythmic. It’s her right hand smacking the map next to her, again-again, crinkling all of Colombia down into the seat cushion.
Shit.
Continue reading “You Don’t Say No to Ituango by Amanda McTigue”
For years after I retired I couldn’t change out of the freshly pressed suit that I always relied on to get me through the day, looking and feeling the best I could be. The only things that changed were the fit and the age of my hands when I looked down on them. Theresa had died a few years after I left the company and as such that left no-one but our sons Samuel and Beckett to tell me if my trousers were too long over the tops of my shoes. I was always indecisive about things and other people’s opinions mattered to me more than they should. Back when I was younger it was okay if you could feel the drag of the cotton of a tailor-made trouser leg way longer than it ever should have been behind you as you walked those long, glass framed, shimmering hallways looking over all of that success. I missed looking over it.
“We’re really so sorry Craig. She was an amazing woman.”
“The best of the best.”
“She was so sweet, so gentle. We all loved her.”
“Amy was one of a kind, she didn’t deserve for this to…”
“I broke your pie dish.”
He wanted the whisky on his breath. The cigar that he had just smoked lingered, he was happy about that. It would remember both those details.
He considered sexuality. He considered power. He didn’t give a fuck about either. It wasn’t as simple as that.
