“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,” the priest recited – as he did every Sunday – but today wasn’t Sunday.
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Tag: literally stories
WEEK 444: Bug-Bird And Dreams
DREAMING
Many writers are influenced by their dreams and nightmares–or at least that is the claim. I don’t dispute the possibility but if I had to lean on my dreams for material my stuff would be sparse and even stranger. A fine example of such happened just the other night when I experienced a dream I call “Bug-Bird.” My mind was in a white page and just ahead skulked Bug-Bird. Half Moth, half Pigeon and clad in a flasher’s raincoat and wearing a fedora, I could only see Bug-Bird from behind. But I spied antennae through holes in his hat, tail feathers and Pigeon feet. Bug-Bird staggered forward and I was gaining on him (only a guy would dare be Bug-Bird). I recall wanting to tap him on the shoulder and have a look at Bug-Bird but that is when I woke, with the words Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird, Bug-Bird chanting in my mind by what might be called a “sulfurous chorus” of demon voices. Hardly bestseller material there–and perhaps the only way Bug-Bird can get into print is through something like this.
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Jerry’s Last Problem by Jennifer Maloney
The Doctor is cleaning up Jerry’s mess, as usual. With a grunt, he bends, grabs the dead boy beneath the armpits and drags him toward the stairs. While the Doctor works, Jerry hides in an attic bedroom of their mind, eyes closed, fingers in his ears.
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Scans by Edward Lee
Contains references some readers may find distressing, please refer to the tabs at the bottom of the page.
In the library I see a woman photocopying ultrasound scans. At first, I am sure not sure what she is doing, though I can clearly see her take the scan out of a purple folder and place it on the screen of the photocopier, before closing it and moving across to the screen to input her instructions. It is obvious that she is photocopying the scan – after my eyes recognise the black and white image, they then pass over the slight swell of her stomach, the glance more instinct than choice – and yet, it takes a few seconds for the obviousness of it to make sense in my thoughts; there is also a suggestion that I am not thinking of them correctly, that ‘ultrasound scans’ is not the correct terminology, but as to what it might be I do not know right at that moment, and this misnaming is, I believe, contributing to the delay of the realisation.
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Sleepwalking Visions by Tim Frank
I’m sleepwalking at night again but my wife sleeps so deeply she can’t hear my cries for help. Tonight, I’m balancing on a boat on the choppy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I hear hungry seagulls gliding through the salty air. “You can’t make me jump!” I call out to the fleets of ships and submarines that have surrounded me. “I will never give in.” When I crack my head on the medicine cabinet and cotton buds fall to my feet like confetti, I realise the cold tap from the bath is overflowing and I’m standing on the weighing scales, waving a loo roll at the mirror.
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A Latecomer’s Guide to Release by Greg Golley
Release is real. These days there aren’t many left who’ll deny that. We’ve all had our glimpses. Maybe you caught someone’s eye at a bus stop in the rain, and when they smiled back it was like something heavy tearing loose inside you. You felt the future drain away through your fingertips. Not your future, the future.
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For Whom the Elm Toad by Leila Allison
Ancient starlight is a key ingredient in Magick. Forget sunshine; aged roughly eight minutes upon arriving at Earth, it’s too raw and is to starlight what prison wine is to hundred-year-old cognac. And culling the rays that bounce back off something like Saturn only adds a few meaningless hours to the photons. Yes, the older the better, all the way from Deneb and Andromeda, Rigel and Beteguese, the maniacal red-shifted glimmers that howl silently through the endless now, the insane shine of forever.
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Sunday Whatever – Authorship Down by Michael Bloor
Michael Bloor is a regular contributor and commentator on the site. When we received this piece we were amused and entertained. It’s clever and witty. However, we do realise that stories about writers can have limited appeal and so we thought a Sunday Whatever was the place to put it. Too good to miss so here we go:
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Authorship Down by Michael Bloor
I awoke, sprawled on the beach like a dead starfish in the morning sun. A hand gently raised my head and an old-fashioned enamel cup with a black-lined rim was laid beside my lips. My tongue was swollen and my throat was dry as cat litter. I drank and squinted up at my benefactor, a shimmering shadow haloed by the sun: ‘Who are you? Where am I?’
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Week 443 – Ben Lamech sounds Scottish, ‘Please Can We Call It A Tallywacker’ And He Sang On ‘Down To Earth’
My brother-in-law has decided to retire at Christmas.
I have asked him over the last few years why he hasn’t given up already and he stated that he was terrified that he would be bored. That got me thinking why I would retire tomorrow if I could and that is because I am the opposite of George – I’m fucking bored at my work!
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Courage Anniversary by Amita Basu
I stroll down the promenade and onto the bridge. This one is closed to automobiles.
Between its dead-gray embankments, the river glows noon-gold. I’ve seen the river at its source: young, leaping motion-mad. Here, near its mouth, matured into inertia, the river drifts. Over the river, past me this balmy June Sunday, people jog, stroll, power-walk, and bicycle. Dog-walkers discipline the curiosity out of their dogs with smart little leash tugs. Old couples, combining constitutionals with treat-shopping, have finally found all the time in the world.
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