Well another week over and a new one is just about to begin.
I have sworn quite a bit this week. And you should have heard Diane! The oaths that lady doesn’t know are not worth knowing.
You know that phrase about ‘My giddy aunt’? Well, Diane adds the reason for the old dear’s giddyness.
I hate that eleventh step. It’s the darkest one. It always has been. I remember noticing it when I was around twelve years old but I couldn’t say anything, not to my parents.
I blamed them. I thought when they died it would leave me alone. It didn’t.
I’ve suffered that step for forty years now. But I don’t think I’ll need to for much longer.
Night Train
This is For the Sake of Soul. I’m Night Train on the internet radio riding the rails to midnight madness, badass blues, and views from the black side.
I’ve got news for you. I’ve got blues for you. I’ve got things for you to do too.
It’s good to be back. I’m glad to be black. Dig what I say. Hear what I play. Let’s get the midnight Blues show on the way. I want to hear what’s goin’ down with you.
I know you know this already but, damn, it’s one of the best of times to be rich in America. Can I get an amen? All you rich people out there are thriving and driving in Rolls Royce, thirty plus percent and better investment returns. Baby, you in the highest of the high cotton. But Keb Mo got you nailed to the Cross of Capitalism, all you, “Victims of Comfort.”
***
He looks long into her eyes, probably for the first time. He has focused, from the bottom up, on every part of her nude form, spending minutes, hours, on the impossibly smooth contours of her toes, her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, but this, he thinks, must be the first time he’s really looked into her eyes.
Hunger growled in him, clamoring for attention. The old man went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. There was one can of soup. Chicken noodle. A bowl and a spoon sat in the old man’s dish drain next to a small pot, the perfect size for heating soup. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of a shady elm tree and filled the kitchen with dappled light.
I kept my older sister’s cat-eye glasses in a drawer after she was struck down by a train. Nancy’s Chevy Bel-Air was stalled, like a truly cliché song on the radio. She was only eighteen and it was 1961. Nancy said they made her look like a freak. A nerd. She was embarrassed that she needed glasses to read and see the world’s problems highlighted. She’d get rid of these glasses, go with contacts if she just had the money. A scarlet letter, a reminder of what Nancy didn’t have. There was so much my sister and I didn’t have. We lacked parents like Ward and June Cleaver, the opportunity simply to relax and watch the world move past. Vast objects that were all our own, the finest frocks and suits.
Leila used one of her permitted outings during the great lockdown to sneak into LS Towers. It wasn’t a problem to be socially distant once she was in the dungeons – Only the brave or the foolhardy stray into those catacombs with all the captive energy there is down there. *There’s no Orang Utang but apart from that it’s not dissimilar to the Great Library at the Unseen University – but you can’t get a sausageinabun.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Between First and Final Breaths Kathryn H. Ross”
Well here we are at week 272. We thought it best as week 271 was last week and using that again would just be pish.
The weeks are fair flying in. We’re nearly half a year in.
Continue reading “Week 272 – A Norwegian Hero, Assuming Wankers And A Walloper With A Door.”
After seven days of intolerable confinement, Izzy decided that this foggy afternoon was the right time to free herself. And, if she could manage, Clara.
Continue reading “Plastic Breath by Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi”
“Hi, is this Mark? Mark Chance from Deakins High School?”
Shane was sitting in front of his laptop. On the screen, an image of two young boys standing in the shade of a half-pipe, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. A date, digitally imprinted in yellow, told Shane the photo was taken the spring of 2006. The boy on the right had a bloody chin and was smiling, pushing his cheeks up and squinting his brown eyes. His hair was black with brown roots and hung past his jaw. Red speckled his white Thrasher shirt. The other threw his head back in laughter, his half-black-half-bleached hair unkempt. This one wore black pants and a black The Clash tee.
“It’s Shane Lynch.”
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