It occurred to me during our second date that Mike didn’t exist in real time.
When we first met, he was friendly—cruelty-free, like a human-sized rabbit. We ate at a sub shop, but first, he drove us backwards through the drive-thru of a shuttered restaurant. Big, white truck built for long hauls and first impressions. The perfect way to convey unspecified wants.
This story has been removed at the request of the author.
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The Year You Were Born:
Your mother leaned forward in an aluminum lawn chair, scrunched her toes into the grass as the hot wind blew waves through her summer dress. She took another fleshy bite of watermelon and let her eyes slide closed as she savored the cool sweetness that filled her mouth. Your dad sat at the picnic table drinking a can of beer. He cupped a match from the breeze and lit a cigarette, and when your mother leaned forward, he stole a glimpse of her swollen breasts through his exhale.
Leila Alllison has been rooting in the basement again and this time presented us with a Sci Fi story for another moment in the spotlight. This is what she said:
I never plan any of these weekly postings. I’m sure that you have noticed. Maybe if I said, I never plan any of these weakly postings, it may be more apt.
Continue reading “Week 213 – Wordcount, Liking Dick And Interestingly Placed Piercings”
“It’s time to go down to the surface.”
Mayli turned her face against the cabin wall. “I’m too tired.”
Tama took a breath. “I know you are. But you’ll like the surface, and it’s an easy transport.”
Mayli swiveled her head back to reveal a pale face, too thin, too creased for such a young age. “Easy?”
Of course nothing was easy for Mayli. The encroaching paralysis brought pain with every movement. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
We stared at the gravestone.
Tess Jones
A bad wife, but an adequate mother and grandmother
How all this got started was there was this guy Lee, I don’t think anybody remembers his last name. He hadn’t been in Springdale long. Quiet guy, late 20s. Decent looking. Beard, muscles, longish hair, bit of a mountain man way about him.
The voices of the three funny men occupy my headphones, and I rub my new, hastily bought gloves together. On a Friday afternoon, in early December, the central train station is naturally pulsating with luggage-burdened passengers. Their conversations are upbeat, their postures eager. I find it a nice change of pace; seeing faces that aren’t marred by frustrated creases. The train times are so far unaffected, and for the time being, civility reigns supreme. We’re all going home. And it is such a wonderful feeling.
A regular contributor to the site Dave Henson has had a root through the back rooms and come up with this gem from Leila Allison. This is what he said:
literally stories 