Here we are at Week 211.
I have had a bit of inspiration on my topics for this post.
Instead of me spouting my usual inane shite, I do have some more technical aspects to discuss.
Continue reading “Week 211 – Second Person, Tense Picking And Unforgivable Lines.”
There is no such thing as mundane disbelief on the wretched, glittering streets of New Orleans. No doubt lives among the connoisseurs of gin and light. No hesitation hides behind distorted Mardi Gras masks, only creatures moving lithely through the crowd of wayward travelers. The city breathes in a cacophony of sound. Even the steel factory rattles distantly, like a drum beat. Yet, as Thomas O’Clery stood in the braking trolley car, inhaling the piss and bourbon stench of the city, he felt only a cold numbness. Neither the driverless carriages, or the preternatural weight of hot summer jazz, like a voodoo queen’s curse, could frighten or arouse him. Not anymore.
Continue reading “The Tale of Thomas O’Clery by Jessica Powers”
Lelia Allison reckons she has found a cure for melancholy of huge proportions with this story. This is what she said:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – the Fifty Dollar Sewing Machine by Mitchell Toews”
Here we are at week 210.
I don’t know about anyone reading this but there is a tradition in Ayr that showcases all that is bad with writing. It is the weekly release of the local newspaper.
My promotional Facebook ad campaign is far from ready. An upside down, high resolution, Marlene Dietrich holding my self-published book awaits my intervention. I hesitate before choosing the rotate option or is it the flip? Marlene looks regal, confident in her fur coat. What would Marlene think of a book starting with:
She loved lemons and would squirt them on everything, their yellow rind reminding him of her sunshine. Lemons never tasted sweeter. Without her, his heart wouldn’t beat right.
The Mooney woman taught him how to do it. She was forbidden to be on the premises, but she called Alfie over one day when he was playing near the fence that bordered the lane. The call was a high fluttering whistle, dancing like a mountain stream. He had been building a den from old branches and bracken when he heard, and though he knew from whence came the sound, he was drawn there as though to a trove of sweets.
A small bird lands at the roadside, scuffing the hot dust, and she asks the tour guide what it is.
“Zebra finch,” he says. “They’re what you wanna see if you’re lost out here.”
Eilidh watches the bird dab at the earth with its orange beak.
“Must be water somewhere close,” the guide says. “They never stray far from it.”
“I wouldn’t either,” she says.
The wonderful Leila Allison is keeping us well supplied with Rerun suggestions and they are all superb choices. Thank you so much Leila. This is what she had to say about November Moon:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – November Moon by Sharon Frame Gay”
Well it’s been a busy week here at Literally Stories. We worked our way through forty odd stories (And some good ones!)
We have reached the quarter of a million hits and all is well in our wee writing world.
For once, Audrey was glad Mason had worn that maroon knit cap his dad had given him. The wind swept low around them as they sat on the park bench, chilling Audrey while the bare tree tops remained still.
Her son did not look up from doodling on his hand as he asked, “What did the people at the garage tell you?”
“They think they know what’s wrong, but they can’t fix it until tomorrow.”
“How much?” Now he started on the other side, turning his hand before she could look at the ink splotches covering his palm.
“Enough to cut into our hotel money. No continental breakfast for us, kiddo.” One transmission leak leaves us scrambling, she thought.
