Perhaps it was old Dutch Henry who started it all, but nobody really knows. Dutch was that kind of a guy who worked his mind to a fare-the-well, came out of his house one day with his hammer and started to build a porch on two sides of his house.
Tag: Short Fiction
Burnt Orange by Desmond Kelly
There’s a feral cat watching the birds. Sparrows mainly. The birds remain oblivious, searching for crumbs which the tourists scatter unheedingly in their tracks. There are a great many tourists. It’s hard to understand why this place should appeal to the average visitor. I should know, I’m there against everything I’ve practised in my life. And, I’ve been a sinner – if sinners remain a recognised species. But I had to come. Something inexplicable drew me. Even so, the vast numbers are off putting and I’m wondering if there’s something else. Something I haven’t yet understood. Is it a bank holiday, or is there going to be a local football derby?
Week 218 – Casserole Dishes, First Submissions And Mutant Eyebrows
Back to normal this week although we do have another two Saturday Specials waiting in the wings.
Continue reading “Week 218 – Casserole Dishes, First Submissions And Mutant Eyebrows”
Are We There Yet by Andrea Jones
Lucas stopped because of the compliment. It came from a PR girl, who was canvassing Oxford Street’s dense lunchtime crowd.
“Yes,” she muttered, catching his eye. “Definitely.”
Little Miss Twinkle Toes by James Hanna
Hi. My name is Gertie McDowell. I was born in Turkey Roost, Kentucky, which ain’t much to brag about. The town, if you want to call it that, has half a dozen streets, a whole bunch of bars, and a McDonald’s whose arches are always powdered with coal dust. Just a typical strip-mining town is all. On Saturday night, a girl can’t do much except stroll up and down the main drag. Or maybe gather a few girlfriends for a slumber party and watch movies on the Turner channel. I watch a lot of movies, and I like the old musicals best. My favorite is West Side Story—Natalie Wood sure could sing. But I’m kinda getting off the subject.
Town by Lauren Bilsborough
“Just follow me,” George said, “and you’ll know everything about Glastonbury, because I know everything about it. They all call me the king, everyone does, even mum.”
Tin Folk by Lauren McGarrity
“And then she invited him over for lunch! Her man’s not dead a year and she’s already at that bowls club on the prowl.” The old woman’s bonnet bounced up and down as she spoke. The rain continued to pound the pavement as she and her friend passed. Sam listened to her story, smiling a little. If they hadn’t been walking right in front of him he might have thought that they were speaking to each other from across the road, their voices were that loud. He wondered if they realised how loud they were, if they were both hard of hearing or just assumed the other was because of their age.
Literally Reruns – The Manufacturing of Sorrow by Bob Thurber
Ever reliable, even at great personal cost! Leila Allison has offered up another suggested Rerun which apparently focuses her attention on that which she would rather ignore, and this is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – The Manufacturing of Sorrow by Bob Thurber”
Week 217 – Stories, Requests And A Saturday Special
Here we are at Week 217 and we have a wee treat.
Onto the stories first and then I’ll explain.
Continue reading “Week 217 – Stories, Requests And A Saturday Special”
The Female Bukowski? by Kathryne Cherie
The night started out with 2 racists in the Middle East Nightclub & Bar on the South side of Cambridge. Each man on the wrong side of a real bore of an argument. The spit that flew off their tongues stained the fabric of this particular dimension. The one we selfishly call ours.
literally stories 