Another week has come and gone!
I was interested to read Leila’s take on having nothing to write but having to write something.
I think the best tip I can give is, don’t think and then type, just type and then hopefully you will begin to think!
To be fair though, not thinking is my comfort zone!!
Continue reading “Week 544 -More Blocking, Plasticine Creativity And Turn Away From The Rat.”
The guy standing in the middle of the road is a writer, and he’s getting away with it too.
He can get away with it because he has been published but not self-published, and also because there’s no longer anybody around to give much of a shit anyway.
He’s also, to a comparable degree, getting away with standing in the middle of the road.
Continue reading “Epilogue by Jeremy Bader”
Alan stepped out of the shower, singing that he wasn’t going to work on Maggie’s farm no more. He threw on some clothes and headed off to the baker’s for a couple of Aberdeen Rolls (‘rowies’), well-fired. En route, he picked up a copy of the Saturday edition of the Press & Journal (‘Start the Day with the P&J’).
Continue reading “Keeper of the Snowy Owls? by Michael Bloor”
There was always a touched soul on the mental ward who thought they were God. Jonathan Clark was one such soul. He lingered in white pajamas offering consul and comfort, even the nurses came to speak with him. I met him on the 4th floor of the Behaviour of Medicine at a hospital in Elkhart Indiana. His departure, as spectacular as it was, affected Greg the most.
Continue reading “Our Lunatic Uniform by Christopher Ananias”
For the first time in our lives, we have come to know true terror, the kind that turns human beings into prey, hunted like chickens in the bush. The air in our village is thick with fear, the nights are filled with silence, broken only by muffled sobs and the hurried whispers of those who dare to speak of the evil that has gripped us. The weight of despair sits heavily upon our chests, making each breath feel stolen, each step feels uncertain. Every passing second is a countdown to an unknown fate, and every heartbeat is a reminder of our helplessness.
Continue reading “The Voice of the Poor- A Cry for Justice by Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman “
It was no one’s fault: a catch and a lurch as he sat in the back of the truck, legs dangling, half asleep. The planet stopped him or he would still be falling. No cars came by, but evening did – softly -as he lay there. A maple tree grew at the side of the road. The moon grew from a branch of the tree, detached itself and floated up to clouds where it became embedded in the misty horizontal filaments. But this was all a dream to him as he lay in the middle of the road.
Continue reading “The Natural Man by T.A. Young”
She was asleep now, her head leaning on his outstretched arm, her delicate, dainty fingers finally relaxing their grip on his huge, calloused hand. The musky scent of her beautiful, long hair, she was so proud of it, stirred up old memories of happier times. He knew every inch of her face, her lovely, big brown eyes that always seemed so full of wonderment, her delicate lips…. He was afraid to move for fear of awakening her, but he needed to relieve his numbing arm. And to do so quickly before being forced to make some abrupt movement that might disturb her. It was pitch black…. He mustn’t turn on the light.
Continue reading “At the Barn in Winter by Michael Barrington”
The dog never speaks without a pencil in his paw. On good days he may draw for you a line, a rectangle, a box, a room that becomes; what do you want? Might it be a bodega in some Latin American country, a taverna, a shack where drinks and mescal are served, a room where women also give away their forgetfulness potions. He is never quite precise as to which, and the voice that accompanies the blossoming picture is merely shading pencil.
Continue reading “The Dog Who Could Draw by Stephen J Kimber”
Samuel Waggoner never used his own products. People admired that about him; Waggoner’s Wigs were so good, had he used them, no one would ever have known. An Australian, he fought in Vietnam and emerged from the jungles with a secret ingredient that turned dried-out hair from barbers’ floors into manes which shone like honey and lasted and lasted. He built a wig empire, became a rich man, he married a stage actress, Harriet, for love, he bought a big house outside Darwin. He was totally bald.
Continue reading “Heir by Sam Graveney”
Well here we are at week 542!!
I went for an interview this week and just want to mention scripted questions – They only serve one purpose and that is the replies are scripted answers.
Continue reading “Week 542 – I’m Too Old For Another First Day, Is This Shite, (Should Be Asked) And Why Not Use Three Bottles Of Absinthe???”
literally stories 