Ask any shrink or probation officer, “What is the most troubling kind of client?” You will hear the same answer every time: stalkers. Not the run-of-the-mill stalker—the jilted boyfriend type—but the schizo who obeys no authority save the voice inside his head. Lecture him, he will not listen. Warn him, he will not be impressed. Put him in jail and when he gets out he is likely to stalk you.
One day I plan to dance on that asshole’s grave. The thought of twirling to music in celebration of his death soothes my soul. Sometimes you see men in movies peeing on graves of people they don’t like. I could pee on his grave, but it’s harder for a woman, and a little undignified. Dancing, having a party, celebrating life that still courses through my body while he is buried beneath me seems more of an affront. If I peed on his grave I would leave part of me with him.
First there was a smaller sail out on the water. And then there wasn’t any sail, as if it had been erased. Bartholomew Bagnalupus did not blink at the contradiction in his eyes. There were things like mist and eyespots and vacuums of sight. Been there, had that, he thought, as he swung his short-handled curled pitchfork into the earth of Mussel Flats. Another bucket of worms he’d have before the tide would drive him off the flats.
Continue reading “The Boy Who Dug Worms at Mussel Flats by Tom Sheehan”
Billy was upset that no-one spoke to him.
“Hi Billy, how’s your mum?”
“She’s fine, fine, she’s fine.”
“And how about you? Are you behaving yourself?”
“Yes. I’m doing fine, I’m fine, fine, I’m fine.”
“Tell your mum I was asking for her.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll tell her, yes.”
December 24. It began today. At the grocery store, I saw a man whose hands had disappeared seem to levitate a cantaloupe into his cart. Looked through a woman’s head in the bread aisle. Haven’t run out of SeeMe myself, so no invisibility infection yet. Going to write in my journal every day. Think it’ll help get me through this.
“I do not like Indiana. I do not like the weather or the politics or the terrain. Listen, Bubbles, when your Mom comes home we’re going to have a family council. All three of us and the only item on the agenda is, should we get the hell out of Indiana ASAP. Are you with me? Can I count on your vote? Alright! I knew you had my back.”
Another week over and another one begins. Welcome to our round-up of Week 92.
As I sat down to write this I had no idea what I was going to say. I decided to have a look back at some of the Saturday Postings to see if I had an opening that I hadn’t explored. As I tried to get myself comfy I realised that there is more of me hurts than doesn’t. Between that and looking back to something, that not long ago, I would have remembered, made me think on getting older.
Continue reading “Week 92 – Age, Health And Hardening Toenails”
It all began perhaps eight or nine years earlier, in a peaceful sleep, when a thin, shoelace-like string of pressure went around his chest for the third time in a week. Sixty-two year old Max Cargo paid attention to that string. It was three o’clock in the morning and his wife Pamela stirred casually at his touch. In less than an hour they were in the Emergency Room of the local hospital.
“We try to be flexible here at Literally Stories and when we have authors who send work outside our word count guidelines we are still willing to give them a fair shot. To get through in that case they have to be a bit different and stand out in some way. Adam sent us this and we were all really taken by it. It is way below our normal lower limit but being Adam he also sent in some art work to bring the thing even more to life. So, for one night only at a website near you we are proud to present Words and Images by Adam Kluger in “Are we Both Broken.”
My Grandma often told us about an adventure that she and Grandpa had in Winnipeg soon after my dad was born.
Continue reading “The Fifty Dollar Sewing Machine by Mitchell Toews”
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