Prologue
Hello. The target audience for this humanly-written, essayistic mind, heart and soul exploration is: poets; creative writers; writers; artists and “creatives” of all stripes; spiritual people; people interested in history, and the future; anyone interested in any or all of the above.
If you can’t jive with that, this writing isn’t for you.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever: Fame; or The Queen of Crucifixion by Dale Williams Barrigar”
Well, hello there folks!
Hope you are all well and I am delighted to welcome you to Week 536!
I know that I have prattled on about snow-flakes and the enraged and the PeeSeee Brigade and I decided to look at it with some positivity.
…I couldn’t think of any but I did consider this.
Continue reading “Week 536 -Where Has All The Sense Gone? Did They Ever Have Any? And Don’t Cheat!”
May 1939
In the heart of Berlin, our family created and cultivated a magnificent bookstore—Wunderbar. Green and gold glazed tiles adorned the Art Deco exterior. Famous clientele such as Pablo Picasso, Josephine Baker, Sigmund Freud, Greta Garbo, Sir Charles Spencer Chaplin, and Hannah Arendt crossed borders to spend time in our shop. Some exuberant patrons described Wunderbar as a divine pilgrimage.
Continue reading “Under the Stars by Rachel Prizant Kotok”
An urgent knock on the apartment door woke him. He lay there, waiting for his mind to coalesce around a coherent thought. The knock turned into a thump, which soon became a rapid hammering, accompanied by yelling. Gustald recognized the voice. It was Gerti, a work colleague from Concept Compliance. He only vaguely knew her. Enough to give a polite greeting as they passed each other in the corridor, but certainly not sufficiently well to expect her to be banging on his door in the middle of the night. Why is she hitting the door with her fists at all? he wondered. Is the access sentry inoperative?
Continue reading “Lost In Thought by Dan Bell”
Evelyn stared out the kitchen window willing herself to ignore the breathing coming from the living room. It was a wet labored breathing. She wiped the last dish and set it in the rack. Another breath was pulled from the lungs in the other room.
Continue reading “The Breather by Rebecca Petty”
The bones spoke to Angelina the way other women heard gossip over garden fences. Snake vertebrae whispered of rain coming from the east. Coyote teeth predicted claim jumpers and cattle thieves. But it was the human bones that spoke loudest, and those she kept hidden beneath her floorboards, wrapped in red silk stolen from a dead Chinese merchant’s shop. Each bundle reminded her of her own lost child, the daughter whose bones she’d never found to read.
Continue reading “The Bone Reader of Tucson by Dana Wall”
Yesterday I walked another bit of the South-West Coast Path, from Praa Sands round to Marazion. I was with a friend, who is aiming to complete the entire circuit of the path, from Minehead to Poole Harbour. He does bits of it as and when he can, and invites people to accompany him if they live locally, or are keen walkers, or just feel like doing it with him. This was a short section, only about six miles – well, short for him; about the right distance for me to walk comfortably.
Continue reading “White Horse by Kate Mole.”
As Travis crosses East Hastings Street, he hears the high trembly voice of Sasha Asputi. She’s trilling a speech, waving her skinny arms in the air in the centre of a small circle of men and their shopping carts, “Tonight we homeless will take back our rightful space.”
Continue reading “The Wheelbarrow Man of East Hastings Street by Harrison Kim”
Aachen’s charred ruins lay shrouded in mist. Skeletal remains of churches and chapels jutted out like jagged teeth against the winter skies. Light snow swirled, mingling with ash from distant smouldering fires.
Vacation Bible school came and went. Proverbs learned and unlearned, a paper badge, and the Lord. Then came our family camping trip. Please, don’t think it was all bad. It wouldn’t be fair to my mother.
Continue reading “The Campground Dog by Christopher Ananais”
literally stories 