The crowd of people standing around roulette table number fourteen was three deep. Only four people were placing bets, the rest were watching the high roller raking in piles of chips. Every time the ball dropped, a cheer went up, and more people left the other tables to have a look. I knew from experience that the lack of people betting cost the casino about 1-K a minute.
A pick this week from a writer with a growing catalogue. This was his fourth story published by LS. Dark and Disturbing this piece caught Leila‘s attention and this is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Ultra-Belfast by David Louden”
It’s difficult to get inspiration at this time.
Well I suppose it’s not but what is overkill should never inspire and be avoided at all costs.
The only light in the room came from the green numbers displayed on the digital clock by the bedside table. The numbers 3:47 were barely enough to cast a pallid blanket over the nose and forehead of the man sleeping on the bed. The only sound came from his breathing, which accompanied by the slow rising and falling of his chest under the blanket, also provided the only movement in the room. The girl lying next to him was silent and still; her thick black strands of hair spread across the pillow, stretching out towards him. Heavy curtains not only blocked out the orange glow of the city outside, but kept the room undisturbed from the sharp gliding sounds of taxis and the occasional drunken black car against the wet asphalt. The numbers on the digital clock clicked to 3:48. The man slowly sat up, as if he had responded to the ever so slight change in the room. He had been staring at the ceiling, and no longer finding it of any interest, now found himself searching the dark square outlines of the furniture scattered around. Soundlessly, he got up and moved towards the window where he pulled the curtains back to let in the glow of the streetlamp. He should have gone back to the ceiling, but instead turned the handle and stepped out of the cold air-conditioned room, on to the balcony. It wasn’t very high up, but he could see a fair amount of the city. The monstrous skyscrapers loomed over him in the pathetic menace of their palely lit and empty offices, and the great condominium buildings in the distance faded sadly in the background – their inhabitants had long since switched off the lights. He felt his naked body drenched in the humid air, and was suddenly aware of the thousands of windows, the bright and blind eyes taking in the sight of him. But the street was empty below, and the man seemed to exist only in the blind spot of life, and of all that was still awake at this time of night. He lit a cigarette, meaning to savor the quiet and watch the way the purple sky swelled up with each passing minute. He only took a few drags though, before deciding it was too hot, and going back inside.
Continue reading “Far from Geylang by Matilde Sorri Petersen”
But First, Noted Supernaturalist Miss Stoker-Belle, Unnecessarily and Inexplicably Evacuates the Contents of Her Mind
Before I educate the readers on the ways of the Footfallfollower ghost, I’d like to introduce an innovation to the world of literature; an innovation of my invention (here, I will allow the suspense to build). Of course no stylistic innovation can spontaneously occur without inspiration. Hell, even Shakespeare played Hollingshead for a stooge–Right? In my case the Big Idea presented itself in the otherwise useless world of modern pop music–specifically that dodge-word creators of such use to obscure naked acts of plagiarism–namely, “sampling.”
The shuffling line stretches out before Maurice and Estelle.
“Walmart on Black Friday,” Maurice quips. His face is red with effort and a drop of sweat is stranded in unfamiliar territory on the tip of his nose.
Daniel planed the final piece of timber. A few more shavings and he knew that it would fit. He wasn’t happy with one section so he spent another minute sanding it.
He admired his work.
The other two stood on plinths. He never considered himself arrogant. They were beautiful and in perfect proportion.
Tex and I rode the straight road south with a shaggy haired driver in a tight green shirt. Tex leaned over from the back seat. “We’re pretty hungry. Can you give us those food stamps on your dash?”
“I guess so” The driver’s voice quavered. He braked a little too close to the car in front of us. Then he lifted his head to look in the rear view mirror. “Maybe if you go swimming with me?”
“We need the food stamps,” said Tex.
Leila has rootled out a story from back in the early day and written by the founder of the site. Here is what she had to say about Adam’s story:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Madam Panagoulias and the Pithos by Adam West”
Well here we are at Week 270.
I heard the best example of the pot calling the kettle black this week.
There was some Politician or another (They are all the same to me) stating that we should never believe what we read in the papers. I agree but he did have more cheek than ten arses to say anything about believability.
literally stories 