Things happen overnight. Objects materialise that weren’t there before, popping up like mushrooms, taking their permanent place in the world. Sometimes when I wake up, I see trees on the street and boxy civic buildings in the distance, that weren’t there the day before. At night I hear the workers on hushed coffee breaks, pretending not to be there.
We invited Literally Stories author and friend, Vic Smith, to be Editor for a day and choose three great short stories from the site. Here is what Vic had to say about the three stories he chose and why he felt they were special.
This list of my three favourite stories from Literally Stories only crystallised as I set out to write it. These are the stories that meant most to me at that moment. At another time, when I’m in a different mood or when the weather has changed, it would be a different list. The depth of talent here is too great to be summed up in such a small number.
Everything in life is said to be separated by so many degrees, six, or is it seven? Something or someone is in some way connected to someone or something else such that you discover Genghis Khan is inextricably linked to your Aunt Mabel.
Uncanny, isn’t it?
No it is not uncanny.
“I’m very proud of you.”
The words echoed out of me. Never from the heart but the mouth. There’s never been much of a direct connection there, not until now. They rattled around against the few walls that hadn’t yet sunk into the tequila-soaked brain before enduring an awkward birth from out the hole in the middle of it all.
Toffee-Head Tom was born to Caramel Jeannie and Jammy-Dodger Rodger. He wasn’t an attractive child and had no friends as such. In those days he was classed as special; now-a-days he would have had a list of names.
He lived happily with his parents. They would only eat pudding if the previous meal had included potatoes.
They spent their Sundays reading excerpts from the Pears’ Cyclopedia and drinking Rainbow Sherbet.
FEBRUARY IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST often contains days that conjure up the image of what a chamber in hell might look like if one were ever to be closed for maintenance. The sky resembles an upside down pale kiln with scummy, pinkish streaks on its surface not unlike colonies of bacteria sprouting in rancid cream; the earth below assumes a grim, ragged face consistent with that of a person who is going through chemotherapy, and the Puget Sound—which the ancient Nisqually People considered their God’s moodstone—boils and tosses and recycles endless shades of gray.
Continue reading “It Happens Every Other Sunday by Irene Allison”
The following excerpts from *In Reality – An Autobiography by Emilio Ramos Junior also known as King FarOut, are reproduced here with kind permission of Joe Chip Publishing (*first published as an e-book in 2254.)
“In cyberspace I am King FarOut. A distinct consciousness from the real me, Emilio Ramos Junior, yet in some obscure fashion, still me. As if I trade places with an identical twin then forget my true self; an altogether unsettling aspect of the Virtual Reality experience which still worries me despite all the industry reassurances…”
Anyone who has followed the progress of Literally Stories over the past seven months will testify to the fact there are no specific genres or themes favoured above any other in the choice of stories we have published. No subject matter has taken precedence over any other. There is no writing style which is de rigueur with the Editors of the site. Just good stories. At any rate, we, the Editors, like to think so. Not that every story is to everyone’s taste. You can please some of the people all of the time…
My cat suffocated in my hair last night. I could not feel her struggle in my sleep, paralyzed by sleeping pills and anxiety. She loved me with all her life. I was followed no matter where I went. Even when I showered, she sat on the sink and waited. I used to set her on my shoulder while I planted celery seeds.
“Name?” the receptionist asks.
“Conrad West.” I study her face. No blink of recognition. I sign the waiver and give her the phone number of my wife, who will pick me up.
I look around the waiting area, deciding where to sit, and choose one of the sofas that face each other. Between them, a curved coffee table holds neatly stacked magazines. From here, I can look through window-walls that join in a 90 degree angle. The view is spectacular. In the distance, the Cascades, green from the spring snow-melt, rise against a blue, blue sky. Soon they will purple over with vetch and when they burn in the summer heat, we’ll call them golden. Below the hills, I watch cars moving along I-5. Picturesque, but closer I would feel the treachery. The noise, the smell, the speed of trucks that carry food, fuel, lumber into thirsty California.
