Tag: Short Fiction

All Stories, General Fiction

Who Knows Who Lived in My House, Built in 1742, or Your House by Tom Sheehan

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For history and legend sakes, certain attributes, character traits if you will, have to be appointed here at the beginning of This old house (B. 1742), home for more than half a century of my life, and This old room, dressed with computer by me for the last 28 years. Yet I swear thick-cut Edgeworth pipe tobacco bears its welcome as strong as my grandfather’s creaking chair, diminutive Johnny Igoe’s chair. This most memorable compartment was also his room for 20 years of literate cheer, storied good will, the pleasantries of expansive noun and excitable verb, and his ever-lingering poems, each one a repeated resonance, a victory of sound and meaning and the magic of words. Yet be of stout spirit, for the chair mocks time only in the clutch of darkness thick as the eternal void, and the tobacco’s no longer threatening in its gulp.

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All Stories, Horror

How to Raise a Monster by L’Erin Ogle – warning some explicit content.

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Are you taping this?

Figures.

Defend him?

Do you know what it’s like to raise a monster? No, no, you don’t. I see you looking at me like I’m trash. I see it, missy.

Did he kill all those girls?

Well, I’ll get to that.

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All Stories, Writing

Week 195 – A Milestone, A Legend And All Fred K. Foote!

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We have a celebration and a milestone for one of our writers. Fred Foote has joined the fifty club!

He has joined the legendary Tom Sheehan and one of the authors who has too much time on his hands to write pish!

Fred is an icon and we have had a helluva time working with him.

Many congratulations Fred and there is a wee spiel as an introduction to his story this week.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Thousand Little Benjies by Mohammad Sadegh Sadeghi

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I

A thousand little Benjies constantly talk in my head. A thousand little creatures speaking, some in subdued almost suppressed and some in apprehensive yet hollow tones, somewhere in my head. They all talk, all of them, together, simultaneously. Shut up, shut up, shut up. They keep repeating those words. Like parrots on cocaine, they keep repeating those words. Blah, Blah, Blah. Tickets please, sir. I was sitting, and the clock went one, then two, then three, then she came picked me up and then we were here and I was sitting again but we were moving. And we are moving, and they are moving, and those are moving, and maybe it was a bicycle and not a bike. Maybe we’re not moving at all, and it’s just my head horsing around. I have liquid memories and container moods, the latter follows shape and the former follows suit. I press my eyes against my palms, and I melt right through. They won’t let me forget. These bastards won’t let me forget.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Farewell Persephone by Virginia Revel

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“I see her always as she was then, lit with lucent yellow from a jagged tear in the eternal cloud cover, eyes locked with mine, mutely but unmistakably saying farewell.”

            This is the first sentence of the novel ‘Farewell Persephone’ by my uncle Marcus Carradine. Below the title he inserted a quotation:

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

 

I found the manuscript of ‘Persephone’ in my uncle’s house three weeks after he died. ‘Manuscript’ is a literal term in this instance; Marcus despised word processors and wrote his book in longhand. He used to tell me that the movements of his hand and arm made the creative juices flow. Literary composition was a physical thing. He said, too, that his aim was to ‘possess the world and make it gravid.’

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All Stories, Latest News, Writing

Week 194 – Reincarnation, Twin-Tubs And Diane Checking Out A Bell-End.

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I was wondering this week if I should offer my seat to older people when I am on the bus? What if they are younger and fitter than me but just don’t look it? Granted that might be difficult due to my white beard, fucked side, bags under my eyes, limp and general scowling.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Winter by Wm. Brett Hill

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When I was seven the world blew up.

I was in the depths of a nightmare when my mother, tears streaming down her face and her voice raspy like torn cardboard, shook me awake and dragged me from bed.  I was in the air before I knew what was happening, my favorite friend Fitzy hanging from my frightened grip as we bounded down the stairs and headed out the back door.

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