I watch as Daniel sprints away. Head down. Arms pumping. Balance ready to fail him at any given moment. Adrenaline fires my heart as he skids on a pine cone at pitch-forward-and-split-head distance from the wooden bench. I breathe again as he thrusts his hands forward and climbs laughing onto the seat and gives the old man a hug who, in return, as usual, pats my son’s head and continues to stare at the trees lining the park.
“I got a book from the library today it’s about a dog and Charlie wanted it but I got it first and gave it to my teacher and…”
I’d left for the party minimally drunk and maximally desolate. Eva and I had argued earlier. “Laurie,” she’d said truculently, “why don’t you want to go? Who stays in on New Year’s Eve? Jenny and Pete are our oldest friends. But maybe you have your own reasons?”
For those of you who are wondering how on earth they missed out on such an exciting bunch of midweek Football ‘Friendly Internationals and are now contemplating whether or not Scotland blew a 4-0 half-time lead against the USA and did Australia send their cricket team instead of the Socceroos, I have news.
Wonder no more. No such fixtures took place this week. The ‘scores’ are – as you have no doubt already guessed – a tally of authors published on Literally Stories since our inception in November 2014 (an asterisk denotes new writers scheduled to appear on LS soon.)
For a review of this week’s stories I’ll hand you over to the readers.
The Number 26 by Diane Dickson. Fran Macilvey said: Very interesting and poignant.. Thank you, Diane!
Three Weeks by Todd Levin. Vic Smith said: Another good story, Todd, thoughtful and observant. I enjoyed reading it.
Honey Pie by Tobias Haglund. June Griffin said: Tobias, this beautiful story is so real, it left me hurting.
Len Cordy and the Lollipop Guild by Shane Bolitho. Des Kelly said: Nicely written. Filled with evocative scents, sights and sounds. You drew your characters well.
Sanctions by Hugh Cron. Vic Smith said: Another slice of truth, Hugh. You speak for those with no voice, without trying to turn them into saints. Des Kelly said: Nicely told. Full of despair.
Story of the Week for week ending Friday 13th March went to a photo finish. In horse racing the idiom would be it was that close you could throw a blanket over the runners and riders. Fine, but if you did that then horse and jockey might not cross the line at all. They might veer off at an acute angle, plough through the running rail and head straight for the nearest…I digress. It was close. But there are no horses or blankets. There is however a winner’s enclosure. Albeit a crowded one.
Three winners. Hugh, if you can just…budge up a bit Todd. That’s fine. Tobias if you could tuck your elbow it then…good, now you can all take a bow.
Don’t forget to vote for your favourite stories to choose the winner for next week:-
Nathan stood outside next to the elevator. We see each other sometimes across the floor while he smokes a rolled-up cigarette and sometimes drinks and I take out the leftovers.
‘Three weeks without a kiss,’ he said to me the last time I stood there last summer with my black bags, ‘but at least I don’t stink like you do right now’ and through the smoke he’d laugh, coughing roughly in the yellow glow.
It has been another week on Literally Stories. Began Monday. Went through several days and ended Friday.
I could review it all for you but I am inclined not to as I’ll no doubt make a hash of it.
Least said soonest mended is my maxim. Strictly speaking I didn’t actually think that one up.
Anyway. I’ll belt up. Keep schtum (I cannot repeat what my spell-checker suggests.)
Say nada, zip, or nowt as we say in my native city of Seven Hills.
Not Rome, Italy folks. No. Sheffield, England.
Say nothing and let others do the talking…there, I’m done now.
Talk!
Monday – The Hobby by LS Editor and master of dirty realism, Hugh Cron. Tobias Haglund said: A very, very interesting experiment with the format. Placing the unsettling feeling of discomfort in the head of the reader. Something unsaid or intangible is often scarier.
Tuesday – Cor Pulmonale by Todd Levin. June Griffin said: The river, the bus stop, the poppy designs, the constant cold and the broken heater were just some of the vivid elements in this fine story of two lost souls snatching at a comfort never meant to last.
Wednesday – Pater Noster by Bi-lingual LS Editor and master of a multitude of genres, Tobias Haglund. Some grinning buffoon who seems to have spent too much time in the sun said: PK Dick renowned as a science fiction author would have approved of this Tobias, the line: One misstep. Two paths in a forest. If both lead to the river how can either be wrong? There aren’t shades of darkness. epitomises the central, arguably spiritual theme to his philosophical writing.
Thursday – Son of Violence by LS newcomer, Michelle Assaad. Vic Smith said: Whatever happens next, it won’t be good, will it? I enjoyed this, Michelle, and I’m looking forward to your next story.
Friday – Ray’s Vision by LS Editor Adam West. Richard Ardus said: A very satisfying short; the pithy one line admonitions; the sinister identification of the protagonist with the son of God, knowing that there’s a kind of get-out clause – like Christ, he’s doomed.
Forgot to mention there is a poll. A new one (see link below), and there is/was an old poll and that poll was a tumultuous battle. Two T’s – Todd and Tobias – an Englishman and a Swede – went to war. And it was terrible. Titanic. Turbulent. Like two people called Titan fighting and someone (called Titan) had to win, and someone had to lose (unless it was a dead-heat then it didn’t have to end in defeat). Was it a dead-heat? No. Who won? Tobias won that’s who. But Todd won too. It was his third story to be published on Literally Stories which puts him one behind Des Kelly as most published author on the site.
Freddie knew there were some people you could disrespect and others you had to treat with reverence. He was in a restaurant looking at a man sat at the bar. He knew instinctively that this was a man who was not to be fucked with.
He looked back down at his bowl of spaghetti and ordered his wife to do the same. She did but every once in a while peeked up at the man from the corner of her eye.
I always had trouble seeing the signs despite the signs always pointing in the right direction. One day I left home and walked down to the next town and decided not to walk back. As it turned out this was a place that didn’t have signs and I was alone.
Sitting atop dunes looking out across the sea with wild breakers racing in like horses riding in upon the waves, keeping a watch for invaders; wild berserk axe men steering their longboats ashore to pillage, rob and kill.
The wild breeze whips the surface off the sand to send it spiralling like a crazy snake all across the ground; with sea weed patches scattered never to be redefined, spits and spots of rain cascade in the wind, some of it salt and some ill-defined.
Diving beneath the cover of walls built by hard faced men long vanished from the earth, searching out the hollows, collecting pebbles for one last dash & defence towards the approach to Castle keep, splashing through fast flowing water, scattering fat sheep and whooping a warning the boy drops breathless and excited onto the sandy soil.
The task of writing Week 13 News fell to someone (me) who has made a habit of late of staring at blank pages. Bereft of inspiration (I tidy up and make tea and send out a load of emails to make myself useful) I’ll leave the wordy stuff to the reader/writers of Literally Stories.
I stood at the bathroom door of The Shield waiting on Francis. It had been a long Friday night like most of them had ended up being. This old place had been standing longer than we had but somewhere along the path between here and the hospital visits it stopped feeling that way. But we were alive. More than can be said for our beloved Shield.
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