When I invaded the Bond Bread Factory, as a hungry seven-year-older, on a plank from a neighboring building, my sister Patricia, younger by a year, was my scout, my watch dog, my whistleblower, all to make sure we’d have toast off our kitchen stovetop which required bread to begin with, mystifying my mother about “Who in these days gives fresh bread to kids on the prowl.
Continue reading “Loaves of Life by Tom Sheehan”
Enter. Order. Eat. Pay. Leave.
The whole operation is streamlined; a seamless experience for staff and customer. The rules are clear and seldom broken: there’s to be no trespassing. People are here to nibble at sandwiches and sip coffee, not to have a stranger in an apron pry into their personal lives. So you serve them and leave it at that. That’s just the way it’s done.
…until it isn’t.
Continue reading “It’s Not About Her by Jaydan Salzke”
Leila and her lists are killing me!!
I am also a list lover.
So from that I’ve thought about one thing that saddens me about a story compared to a song…A song can make you smile straight away, a story, well you need to get into the crux of it. To be fair though, the ending of a story is better, a lot better, than a few beats of a drum.
Continue reading “Week 373 – The Difference Between Stories And Songs, No Place For ‘Whistling Jack Smith’ And What The Fuck Will We Be Writing About?”
Harvey looked out his front window, saw the real-estate lady pull into the driveway of the house across the street and get out of her car. She walked to the For Sale sign with Sale Pending pasted diagonally on it.
Another victim is moving in, he thought.
Continue reading “The House Across the Street by Robert P. Bishop”
Crossing the curved wooden bridge over a small river, I reached the Kutupalong Refugee camp. The temporary tarp and bamboo dwellings of the refugees stretched endlessly over the deforested undulating hills. The morning humidity settled, a cloak of haze, making breathing heavy and labored. Smoke from outdoor cooking curved and lingered in the air.
Swarms of children quickly surrounded me, holding my hands, skipping alongside me. My guide and I climbed up the dirt steps carved into the slopes. In the monsoon rain, these would all be washed away. It had already left its legacy; deep cavernous grooves furrowed the fragile slopes.
Continue reading “Still A Child by Kwan Kew Lai”
It doesn’t sound sexy at all, this medical condition that makes her fingers turn blue in cold weather. Dangerously blue. She worries constantly about frostbite and nerve damage, even amputation. Her fingers are long and slender, like twigs used to start a fire on a camping trip. Twigs do not sound sexy, either. But whenever Jennifer rubs her hands together, briskly, vigorously, you cannot help but think about the way her fingers would feel if they were wrapped around you. The palm of her hand feeling your heft, your warmth. Probably this should never happen because the two of you met in recovery and according to absolutely everyone you have ever spoken to, jumping into bed with a fellow alcoholic is a horrible idea. Still, you know that you will never forget the day Jennifer walked into the very same meeting that you were attending, snugged into a pair of hard rocker jeans and a scoop-necked t-shirt. Legs up to here, sun-kissed cleavage, eyes that were feline and feisty and hard. How in the hell were you supposed to concentrate on sobriety sitting across the table from all of that? Pretty soon both of you stopped going to meetings and started playing tennis on the local high school courts. Buying air mattresses at gravel-driveway rummage sales. Sitting on the couch watching movies from the 80’s, belly laughing at things that were funny at the time (and also at things that were not).
Continue reading “These Hands by Rob Vogt”
Yo yo yo, I’m here to tell ya about a boy named Sue.
Every day, Sue went into school, in the little pigtails his Momma put him in and his little blue bonnet on his head, and all the children sang, “FUCKIN’ PUSSY!” They danced around him in tribal fashion, and spit bubble gum in his ears, and tried to make him eat dirt. Every day he would soil his pretty little yellow dress, skin his knees and run home crying to Momma.
Continue reading “A Boy Named Sue by Scott Taylor – Content Warning. A subject that some readers may find upsetting.”
There are many amiable characters in the archives and there are guys like the eponymous star of Hugh Cron’s Hans.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Hans by Hugh Cron”
I just want to get to my flat up the road, hoping I don’t bump into any of my neighbours, but they’re all loitering out front, sweat trickling into their eyes, swaying slightly in the raging sunshine. The road is long and straight with oak trees lining the pavement, creating circles of hot shade. Birds perch on branches and shit on BMW’s. Everyone wants the trees cut down.
Continue reading “A Guide to Walking Down My Street by Tim Frank”
Hung: It would be wrong to say it was her favourite expression. Her favourite expression, my Mam, was “Hell’s Bells!”, which was short for “Hell’s bells and buckets of blood”. That was her idea of swearing. A jingle: just enough to keep a real swear word at bay.
When the real ones came, they were Dar’s, and they were like my brother, Davie, you know – thick, short, and fast.
So, no, “Be hung for a sheep as a lamb” was not her favourite phrase, but Mam said it a lot. It was shortened, but we somehow knew what she meant. Maybe the long of it had been explained to us once, or maybe we explained it to each other.
The sentiment was that if you are going to be hanged for stealing a small lamb, then you may as well steal a whole sheep. A jingle of wisdom passed down, like a pair of shoes. It was what families did then. They’d pass old sayings down the line, the blood line. They would settle, acting like silt, determining your depth.
It was hard to picture though. Where we lived there were no sheep. A lamb chop from the butcher’s maybe, that could be stolen, but I’d not have the courage. The butcher was a big man. Blood and blades were nothing to him.
No one ever corrected Mam’s grammar, not that I can recall. Hung it was.
Continue reading “some words ending in a sentence by Phill Doran”
