(published posthumously, 1927)
The list of writers nabbed or injured by tuberculosis is staggering. Even Charles Bukowski, at the time living well in Los Angeles, circa 1990 got a dose, and it appears to have opened the door to his death a couple of years down the road.
Continue reading “The Journal of Katherine Mansfield/Auld Author”
Here we go again. Another Saturday round up and we are now at Week 602.
A bit of wisdom I read this week. It states that we should never steal, never cheat or lie. Don’t be a despicable human being. This should be a given, but that’s not the reason! You see, our governments hate competition!!
Continue reading “Week 602 – A P.D. With Whiskers, It Wasn’t Even Porn And Could Be An Interesting Image Diane!”
He finds it beneath the firewood, stashed amongst hickory and maple, wrapped in linen cloth and frayed pages of a Daily Express; by its side, ammunition.
It is long and unwieldy. Rowan has never held a rifle before. He examines its walnut stock, a Savage Model 110, rubs his palm along the shaft and looks around. As far as he knows, no-one has come to his grandfather’s farm in weeks but the item’s sheer menace beckons caution. Swallows swoop and warble, eyeing his catch, tending their precious nests in the rafters.
Does it work?
He turns it in his hands, holds it up, takes aim.
Is it loaded?
He has no idea how to use it. He googles Savage 110, allocates pieces and elements, slings the leather strap over his shoulder and walks to the far end of the barn. The swallows look on in silence. Rowan wonders what he looks like: stupid, no doubt. Yet he doesn’t feel stupid.
Considered objectively, Alan wasn’t really one of the bad guys. Provided it didn’t cost him significant quantities of time and/or cash, he was okay about helping out unfortunate relatives, friends, or neighbours. He had a soft spot for rough sleepers, as long as they weren’t hallucinating. He claimed, with some justice, that when he was working he’d worn a hole in the arse of a perfectly good suit sitting on committees, but he remained willing to do the odd shift of volunteering here and there.
Continue reading “The Lingering Regrets by Michael Bloor”
Brutal, late May. Wet blankets of hot weather, suffocating. When the midday heat receded, Thomas nixed the novellas (Mattie’s legacy), filled a tall glass with seltzer and ice, and padded into the yard. He sprayed the concrete and his chair, sat on the damp fabric facing east toward the fishtail palm and the privacy fence, looking up at the eaves of the cottages the far side of the street. Old Florida. Wood and stucco. Termites and social security checks. Not yet gentrified.
Continue reading “Ascension by Nigel Pugh”
Diane tilted her head back to find the top of the slide, one hand shading her eyes, and thought: that’s very high up for an eight-year-old alone.
“Mom, can I go?”
Her eyes followed the slide’s downward arc, its twists and loops. Bodies zipped through the tube. Muffled cries reverberated outward to the ground. Her chest tightened.
Continue reading “In a Flash by Marcus Delmont”
My great great great great great grand daughter, Miss Allison, usually tends to the bi-weekly festivities at Literally Stories, but her continuous state of despair has created a temporary state of mental paralysis brought on by the conspicuous consumption of apple jack on an empty stomach, heart and soul. Therefore she beseeched Yours Truly, Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender Spirit, to fill in for her this bi-week.
Continue reading “Week 601: The Judge Steps In (It)”
They always show the birds on TV. Black all over, matted, and unrecognizable. I wonder if the people watching even know what the birds looked like before. Vero used to track the murres around the sound. Their heads were always black, but their feathers were snow white. I told Vero’s kid once that if the fish stopped coming, we’d have to hunt the birds. She cried and cried. Stupid joke. Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead now, the fish, the birds, Vero. They never put Vero on the TV, only the birds.
Continue reading “Cordova, AK 1990”
The interview room was sweltering. Flies gathered around the one small window high up on the street-side wall. The Scottish summer heat didn’t seem to bother the old woman in the other chair. Archie’s first thought was how cool she looked. The tweed jacket remained on despite the heat and the pearls sat perfectly against the olive green twinset. Every tight white curl had been marshalled precisely into position. His own shirt had begun sticking to his back an hour ago.
Continue reading “Wee Florrie by Ian Ibbetson.”
When a farmer dies in Scotland, it’s the convention that he gets a big funeral. So, when auld Jockie Murdoch of Muirside died, it wasn’t just his relatives and his neighbours who turned up for him, but all the other farmers for many miles around, who’d known him from the auction marts and the agricultural shows, plus the contractors who’d shifted his animals, transported his fertiliser and lime, delivered his fenceposts and similar gear, the vet, the bank manager, the insurance agent, the auctioneer, the farmers’ union rep, and so on. There must’ve been more than a hundred of us.
Continue reading “A Life Well Lived by Michael Bloor”
