In honor of Remembrance Day (Veteran’s Day in America), and to honor those who served, currently serve and to those who gave all, we present a reworking of a story by Tom Sheehan first published in November 2017. Tom served in Korea and knows as much about the suffering of war, and its after-effects, as much as anyone.
Since it is an altered version, we will forgo the usual link and present the work right here and now.
All the best to the veterans and those who appreciate their sacrifices.
First, before the Big Announcement, our thanks go to Doug Hawley for taking the helm last week. We look forward to extending further invitations to do so to our frequent writers and site friends!
Next week will feature our annual anniversary post. This year is special because it marks ten years for Literally Stories. There will be the many special features we add to our anniversary wraps plus an abundance of new ones. We have been working on this since summer and we hope to see one and all next week. As always, bring the kids, show up drunk, clothing is optional.
The guitar player began. The two younger women, the singers, looked to the dancer, then to one another and laughed. Everyone knew the dancer was crazy. What would happen tonight? What madness revealed when, after standing stock still, face intense, concentrating, ugly, man-like, she would explode in sudden but precise movement. Arms and legs lashing out, a burning, erotic anger masked behind the frozen expression on her face. After moving across the stage, she would come to a sudden, freezing halt, slamming her foot down on the floor—loud. The women startled even when they knew it was coming. The dancer looked at the man—her partner. She always chose a younger man. He looked back, smiled but at a distance. She glared at him then suddenly moved again, whirling, white skirt flaring out to reveal a flash of the carmine lining.
As a kid, he was the one who found nickels, dimes, and quarters on the sidewalk, got two candy bars to fall into the well of the vending machine when he had only paid for one, and succeeded where so many others had failed in bashing open the piñata. Two or three times, when he wasn’t ready for a test, the teacher wouldn’t show up. Test cancelled. Stuff like that. His whole life.
The pub had closed, the last bus still hadn’t arrived, the thin drizzle gave way to rain of biblical ferocity. Jimmy stood sheltering in the entrance to the dress shop, like a novelty dummy, while Willie (his tongue loosened by seven pints of IPA) explained about the likely existence of A Deid Agnostics’ Processing Panel.
We were patrolling in the middle of nowhere during the late afternoon of another 110 degree day, with nobody around except a goatherd in the distance, tending a few scrawny goats. The IED must have been under a pressure plate in the road.
A slow-motion movie sort of thing is how I’d heard survivors describe explosions. Not me. One minute, I was in the Humvee’s right rear seat behind the vehicle commander, Staff Sergeant Bennett, getting my kidneys pureed on the rough road. Then I heard a roar like the sound of a passing locomotive. A white light filled the cabin like some nuclear camera flash and I felt a searing wind on my face. Then I was somersaulting through the air with my synapses flashing, envisioning how hard I might land. Pretty hard, it turns out. The ground rushed towards me, and I heard a crunch as I landed face-first in the dirt. And then the lights went out.
This week we are turning over the controls to another of our frequent contributors and friends, Doug Hawley. Doug has been a constant presence at LS for years as a writer, commentator and now as a Guest Weekend Wrapper. I have only awkward names for that position, because the hiphop industry has pretty much usurped the word rap and its homophone.
Regardless, Doug is an original, and we welcome you to his world.
Haunted
A Journey Through The Rodent Burrow
A few years ago, nearly as I can tell, I started to think about an isolated store that I used to pass going west in Portland before the West Hills. There was nothing special about it and I didn’t think about it for close to sixty years. For a while it obsessed me for no reason.
In 2021 after Clever Magazine had quickly rejected one story from me, the editor noticed I was from Portland. She was doing a wind-up issue and wanted a Portland story. I sent her something about the mystery store. She was originally from Portland, but lived in San Jose, and knew it was a Mode ‘O Day. As I dug deeper with her and other sources, I found that Mode O’ Day became a huge chain with affordable fashion, but then collapsed quickly. More surprising, the editor graduated from Grant High School in the same class as my now late sister. Neither of them knew the other.
An obsession about a building is weird. My others are more reasonable. Old girlfriends of course. A couple of years ago while reading obituaries (an old man thing) I noticed that the widow was my first serious girlfriend who lived seven miles from me (thank you internet). We ended on bad terms, but I called to offer condolences. She still hated me. There’s the one who had what could have been her last heterosexual act with me. Not a legacy I want. Prior to the attractive blonde wife and now editor, there was bright and beautiful one with whom there was a tumultuous relationship. Fifty years after she told me to leave her alone, I wrote her to ask what happened. She said it wasn’t me; she had some past trauma which caused her to change her life. Our difficulty was aided by my immaturity and insecurity.
Then there are our wonderful cat companions over the years, the last one of which, Kitzhaber, died in my arms. Despite our mouse invasion, no more cats to break out hearts. I thought Kitz might outlive me, but no luck.
Two days ago a cousin that I had been close to in the early years died. Several new friends have died since my return to Portland. The dead haunt me (covered in a story in Pure Slush), but the live ones as well. When we came back to Portland I tried to reconnect with no luck.
I largely live in my head, a condition that I would not wish on anyone with the exception of some politicians. What are your thoughts or obsessions before sleep and after waking? Serious question, I want to know. If possible, make me feel less weird. At least I’m less weird than a vice presidential candidate.
The Week That Was and Is
Hi There! We hope you are enjoying this glimpse into the mind of Doug Hawley. We shall hand this post back over to Doug after we extol the virtues of this week’s fine group of writers.
Christopher J. Ananias returned this week with his heart rending Where Everything Got Broken. Our lives can be ruined in seconds, and the echoes of the disaster may call until the last beat of our hearts…to those final thoughts in the dark. Truly powerful stuff.
Newcomer Landon Galliott completely changed the tone (save for quality) on Tuesday in his site debut Garf and the Purple Pickles. “Off-beat” is a term perhaps applied too often, but it truly fits here. And despite the quirkiness, there’s a sadness to be found in this–one that speaks to the random absurdity of just being.
Emergence Deliriumby our second site debut author, DanielleAltman is about thriving in the wild experience of youth, courting “death by misadventure,” always having something to talk about the next day. The reckless freedom is vivid in this one, as is wit and a bit of lament in this reader’s mind of times gone by.
Sarp Sozdinler was the third of three first time contributors. His tense and highly clever Marchkeeps you guessing. Sometimes the end of a story should mess with you. Sometimes impossible things must happen to keep the reader honest. Sometimes you want to corner the author and not let him go until he tells you what it means. Well done on all accounts.
On Friday we had the pleasure of meeting Ed N White, whoseThe Narrow Gauge is the first of three stories he has already had accepted. Like Tom Sheehan, Ed is a master of beautiful descriptions and restrained prose. Ed is also a fine gentleman and we are overjoyed to introduce him to our readers.
Well that’s the cast and we entreat you to give them a read if you haven’t already done so.
Now we will do the return of our guest wrapper like they do on the TV news:
“Back to you Doug…Hey how about closing with a list of your personal favorite horror films in keeping with the season?”
Big Finale: Doug’s Top Horror Films (each one is the original version)
Frankenstein – Obvious choice. I may have first seen it when it was rerun in the early 1950s.
The Thing From Another World – Notable in that technology at that time ensured the original shape shifter story was modified, but the old tech monster electrocution was good.
Halloween – Monster in a William Shatner mask. How horrifying is that?
Dracula – The Bram Stoker story that endures. Nosferatu good, but sued for copying the original too closely.
Night Of The Living Dead – They are ghouls, not zombies, but still.
Doug’s Bonus Music List
TheWreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald —Gordon Lightfoot – (Hypnotic and historic)
Roll With It —Steve Winwood – (See the video if you get a chance)
The Fat Man and Natural Born Lover – Fats Domino – (An early hit and a late hit)
I Wish and Superstition –Stevie Wonder – (Peak wonderful Steven)
Let It Rock –Chuck Berry – (I think this one was sent into space so aliens would know we rock)
Going Home Tomorrow –Little Richard – (Slows it down and grooves)
Reconsider Baby–Elvis Presley – (Means business in this cover)
You Win Again -Jerry Lee Lewis – (He covers a Hank William number and The Killer kills it)
On this first day of May, I return to the abandoned farm I once owned and stand in a pasture now overgrown with creeping jenny vines and clumps of brilliant yellow buttercups. Slatey gray clouds collide above me and fold into each other in a birdless sky. A whispering breeze ruffles the tops of the leafing red maple trees. Half a century ago, I found an abandoned narrow-gauge rail track set on hand-hewn locust ties at the back of the farm. I was unaware of their presence until months after the purchase and could only guess their purpose. Shuffling several ideas, I thought they might have been used to bring wheeled carts of fieldstone or firewood to the bottom of the hill. Or, perhaps maple sap to boil in large vats for spring syrup. I enquired at the local historical society and asked my neighbors, but no one had an answer, only more guesses.
March was a bitter month for everyone involved. Jodi was born into one, like Eric Clapton, her childhood idol. In another March, thirty years ago, Clapton’s four-year-old son ran into a hole in the wall. The hole was supposed to be a window, but it had no glass on it. A scream tore through the house, and the mother understood right away that it didn’t come from the boy; the boy was busy plowing through the air, down fifty-three floors.
They found me floating face down in the motel swimming pool, a seedy place off the Sunset Strip where we’d been partying. A janitor heard the splash. He dragged me up to the patio and slapped my cheeks, which was funny. I was already blue, and now some random guy was hitting me. We kissed. His breath choked me. I woke, briefly. Curled over, shivering on the lip of the deep end, my reflection rippling beneath as my lungs spasmed dry.
literally stories 
