All Stories, Fantasy

Apparitionist by Geraint Jonathan

The art of projection, in this instance, involves an ingenious contraption that allows me to float above ground while speaking grave truths to those I’ve been hired to frighten. Or to comfort. Or to confuse, as the case may be. Sometimes silence is all that’s required, but silence of a special kind, needless to say, the kind they call ‘loaded’, the kind that towers, or otherwise makes a portentous impression. Ghost is what I do. It’s a living, if you’ll pardon the expression; and a good one too, in that those who require my services, being usually very rich, pay very well. I’m familiar with the interiors of castles, manor-houses, hunting lodges, theatres, the odd inn. I’m given the requirements, told what manner of ghost it is needs to haunt the place, and adapt accordingly. Doubtless, to your bodily eyes, at this moment, I appear little more than a tallish man, bearded, bald and middle-aged, but trust me, when I’m clad in dusty servant’s garb or bedecked in faded finery, my face moon-pale, I’m altogether more imposing, unsettling – especially if observed from a short distance. Should a haunting entail my having to speak, I learn the words given me, no matter the language, and intone or croak or mutter or bellow in whatever accent is most appropriate. I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Old French, I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Latin; I’ve cursed in Swedish, foretold ill fortune in Gaelic. I’ve been a judge who was hanged for murder, I’ve been a minstrel who drowned in a moat; I’ve even been a dead gravedigger, one said to haunt a particular cemetery adjacent to a certain cathedral. It wouldn’t do to be too specific. As I say, ghost is what I do. But never, never have I knowingly been party to any kind of plot or conspiracy or such like. My involvement in matters was always necessarily limited to brief appearances, a few words here, a protracted silence there. I was not privy to the wider machinations of those who engaged my services.

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All Stories, sunday whatever

The Shakespeareance of a Lifetime (Or Two) by Geraint Jonathan

There’s a quality peculiarly magnificent to certain enthusiasts, particularly those whose enthusiasm tipped over into outright crankery, or what was perceived to be such. It depends, I suppose, on what it is has gripped the enthusiast’s imagination; a person’s overriding obsession with, say, the history of mirrors may induce a groan or a shake of the head in those utterly uninterested in the history of mirrors;  similarly, an obsession with Shakespeare will send to sleep persons not given to worrying about Shakespeare. And Shakespeare, of all writers, has worried the minds of many. In the words of scholar Ivor Brown, “Shakespeare stands alone in his spawning of cranks and bores as well as of erudite scholars and devotees of genius.”  To which one might add a note of gratitude on considering the former. Certainly the byways of Shakespeare-lore would be marginally the poorer without its tales of the grandiose and/or driven amateur.

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All Stories, Historical

Shakespeare Meets the Macbeths by Michael Bloor

In 1601, James VI of Scotland (soon to be crowned James I of England) summoned Shakespeare’s company, The Lord Chancellor’s Men, to give performances of their plays in Edinburgh and Aberdeen. In Aberdeen at least, the visit seems to have been highly successful: on October 9th, the registers of the Town Council show that the company were awarded ‘the svme of threttie tua merkis’ and Laurence Fletcher, a shareholder in the company, was elected an honorary burgess of the town. It is not known for certain whether Shakespeare was with the company, but as a shareholder and owner of the company’s stage properties, it seems quite likely that he travelled North with the rest.

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Literally Stories – Week 59 – Somewhere Over the Rainbow

typewriter

According to Wikipedia no-one was born in the year 59. Two people died. They were Roman. Or possibly Greek. I have never heard of them or know anyone who has, therefore I must set aside any attempt to find some common ground, some tenuous link between the 59th week of publishing on Literally Stories and events1957 years ago.

Instead I will announce the forthcoming Author Galleries. They are happening soon. Coming forth. Pages and pages of head-shots of the writers who patronise LS.

If you have sent us a photo you will be there. Alongside another writer. Randomly situated amongst your fellow authors, each picture an alternative portal to the author’s published works on the site.

Opportune to ask anyone who has employed the services of a professional for the purpose of capturing their image, their author-ly avatar, to confirm whether that photograph is subject to copyright and if so to let us know if there is any attribution required to accompany it.

Copyright being what it is we don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Out of Place by Adam Kluger

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It was a snowy Saturday and I was headed to King Carol Record store on the Upper East Side to check out what new albums were in. Zig-Zag Records was nearby so I could swing by there as well.

It was the 1980’s and I was totally into music like the Talking Heads, Duran Duran and Devo and all the other bands that were becoming popular on a new channel called MTV.

It was late afternoon and I don’t remember if I was baked but I’d say the odds of that were 50-50.

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