All Stories, General Fiction

Memoir of a Fiction by Claudine Mussoto

The abortion wasn’t the commencement or the culmination. The termination wasn’t the central event.

1.

It was a day when a more fanatical human placard did not carry a gun with which to shoot and kill the adult female receptionist. The procedure transpired in the summer of 1982 on Beacon Street in Brookline, an upscale suburban sister to Boston and, across the river, to academic Cambridge and its proletariat neighbor, Somerville, where I lived. Human billboards displayed the evolution of the species through its bloodied protozoan, bird, and fish forms at a proscribed distance from the clinic entrance. I and my volunteer escort were unmolested up the short flight of concrete stairs and into the locked steel and glass door of the health center brownstone.

The one-night stand wasn’t the inception or the finale. The encounter wasn’t the foremost incident.

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All Stories, Humour

See You Next Year by Mark Barlex

Like all large things taken for granted, the North Atlantic Current knew the importance of what it did and thought long and hard before jacking it in.

An elemental system shifting oceans of warm water from Mexico to Europe slowed in protest at anthropogenic climate change then stopped altogether.

Nature’s last laugh. A landmass expecting to fry now pondered winters twenty degrees below average. No North Atlantic Current, no band of temperate air wrapping the Celtic fringe. Have another ice age, Nature seemed to be saying. Exactly what you didn’t order.

From Galway to Hamburg, people laboured through a winter of deadening snow and ice.

The next year, they stayed at home.

The year after that, they felt like staying in bed.

The year after that, they did.

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All Stories, sunday whatever

Sunday Whatever Escaping from Prison: A How-to Article By Dale Williams Barrigar

When I attended graduate school for writing in the midwestern USA in the mid and late 1990s, all the best classes and writing workshops were held in bars, pubs, and-or saloons. A slight exaggeration, but only slightly. It was the tail end of an era when drinking and writing, at least in the USA, were still seen by many as activities that go hand in hand. And hand in hand with drinking goes smoking, so most of the drinking writers in the writing workshops were also smokers too, either heavy, medium, or light. The second-hand smoke that was consumed along with the first-hand smoke along with the beers along with the shots of whisky while writing was being discussed in the writing workshops that were happening in the bars, makes me not wonder why I already have Stage One Emphysema nor why I’ve already had a stroke. I’m healthy as a horse otherwise (yes this is possible) and I’ve already done what you need to do to slow emphysema down which is quit smoking. I stopped drinking twenty-one years ago and there is no doubt that I would be dead now if I had not stopped drinking. Three of my writing teachers from those days are dead from drinking and smoking even though, if alive, they would not yet be 80 years old. All three of them died from some combination of chain-smoking cigarettes and alcoholism, the functional, working variety of it, that is. These men never stopped working. But they also never stopped drinking or smoking. And it put them in an early grave, just as it promises to do for almost everyone who goes too far with any of these activities. My fellow students in the writing programs were also alcoholics. One of them I almost married, except that she turned out to be an even bigger alcoholic than I was. It’s sad to see a brilliant brain slowly bludgeon itself into submission right in front of your eyes when you yourself have already done the necessary work that is required to save yourself from a similar fate. Keith Richards quit heroin in the 1970s before it killed him and his girlfriend refused to do so which is why he had to tell her sayonara, beautiful lady.

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All Stories, Horror

Danny by David Henson

After a groan of a day at work, Harmon Donovan riffles through the musty comic books he salvaged from his mother’s estate sale. He feels something under the stack. A beak? Of course—Danny. Harmon turns the toy over in his hands. About six inches tall, the wooden duck stands upright. Harmon traces his finger down the head where the blue-green paint is chipped and fading. The plaything transports him to simpler times. Before his boss, Mr. Murphy. Before—

“Harmon, are you going to mow the lawn or not?” His wife’s sharp voice from downstairs pops his daydream.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Beware the Wild Geese by Michael Bloor

June, 1971

Andy had messed up big-time in his final year at uni. He didn’t like his course. Economics, the ‘dismal science’ that ascribed a sovereign power to selfishness, thus scorning  as scientifically irrelevant altruism, paternal and maternal love, solidarity, charity, and every noble human impulse. He was repelled by his tutor, a posturing, pipe-smoking, bow-tie-wearing fraud. Andy had received an education there, but he had received it from his friends. He found Borges’ stories, Bergman’s films, Auden’s poems… You can fill-in the list for yourselves.

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 582 – A Wrecking Crew, Going For Five And Let’s Not Forget.

Here we go again. Welcome to Week 582.

Before I start, I’ll answer the riddle that I set on my last posting.

Off the top of my head –

Two letters make a male – He.

Add one to become female – Her.

Add another to become male again – Hero.

Add three to go back to female – Heroine.

Take one away and if you take this you won’t care what you are – Heroin.

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General Fiction, Short Fiction

A Body Without Organs by Miles Efron

Abdi barges into my craft room, without his glass eye. Which he knows I hate.

“Hey, Mom?” he says.

“Did that Zoom call already finish?” I ask. This homeschool group is such a jerkoff. Why do we even pay for it? I mean, I could teach him nothing by myself for free.

“I found this snowglobe eyeball online. It’s so cool. I could flip my head upside down and then…”

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