In the third year of the Sectarian War, Colonel Childress’ party arrived early to get the best possible position on the rocky outcropping above the weed-choked field. The battle was due to begin at 10 o’clock sharp, according to the colonel’s sources; although retired, he still retained his military contacts. He checked his large silver fob watch.
Continue reading “The Battle Below by Bridget Goldschmidt.”
Wednesdays were egg salad. Strong opening gambit from Linda: she was testing the waters. She and Clint were meeting for the first time. Her carer Lupe had shown her how to use the app which paired her with Clint, she explained, “just before she had to go back where she came from”. That left Linda alone, at the tail end of hip surgery recuperation, still prone to falls but with wits enough about her to click on Clint’s profile. Lucky for both of them, Clint was a fan of egg salad.
Continue reading “GranCel by Leah Mullen”
The Italian Renaissance is one of the crowning glories of western civilization. In Florence, Venice and other cities, men like Leonardo da Vinci shook off the centuries-old slumber following the collapse of the Roman Empire and blazed new trails through the intellectual firmament, sparking a fire in the minds of men and women that continues to this day. But even as they did so, village life continued much as it had for centuries. Our story concerns the remarkable events that took place in one of these villages.
Continue reading “The Pelanconi Flower by Jon Krampner”
Week 499 is now here.
Something came up this week that I want to address and that’s commenting.
This isn’t about any of you lovely people, it’s about my thinking when I comment.
This was brought to light when Dale commented on one of Leila’s early stories and I looked back to remind myself of the tale. I found that there was nothing from me.
Continue reading “Week 499 – Barefoot And Pregnant, Smoking Fire And Dave’s On Next Week!”
You haven’t been at work. That’s very unlike you. It’s been a few days. No, weeks. They couldn’t agree on how long but they all agreed it’s extremely uncharacteristic. You’re a model employee, always at your desk by nine, always there until at least five. You’ve been at your job for a few months. No, it’s been a year. A middle-aged HR manager named Dragwood (I didn’t ascertain whether it was his first or last name) looked through a file. He shook his head in disbelief. Wow, five years. She seemed like such a nice young lady, the man they called Dragwood said, like you I’m sure. I’m not at all nice, I didn’t say out loud.
Continue reading “Nice Young Lady Vanishes by Simon Nadel”
On Wednesdays, I take my trash down to the curb. You have to wait until 3 pm to bring it down. It gets picked up on Thursday mornings at around 8 am. Our setup is a lot like other New England towns. There’s a blue bin for recyclables, a black bin for regular trash and a brown bin for yard waste.
Continue reading “What We Discard by Gil Hoy”
The clouds moved quickly over the tops of the cypress trees. A storm came over the horizon and the sky darkened. They drug up the jug lines, checked the last of the crab pots, and made for the river. John jumped in the dark water, pulling the lilies from the rudder. He turned the engine on and off as the bay boat bobbed through the duckweed. Following the light, they came out of the back of the bayou, and the branches looped over the path and hung low for a while, then opened up to the Mississippi. The carp were leaping out of the water. The boat sat low and John drug his hand through the wake. The spray kicked up into Ellie’s face.
Continue reading “The Last Good Day by, Thomas Allen Hayden”
Syd walked along the narrow path of flattened grass between the gravestones just like he always did. On his walk home from work, on his way to the shops, on lonely days couped up at home watching the rain pour down his window panes he came to the graveyard. He walked through the melancholy bluebells that lined its edges, past balloons tied to pristine headstones and sad teddies left in the middle of graves to keep the dead company until he got to Liam. To the black marble with his date of birth and death, the little line etched across the bottom of it that was meant to sum up his whole life. Who he was. What he was. But it couldn’t, it was too small. Too dull. It blended in with all the other messages on all the other graves but nothing about Liam had ever blended in.
Continue reading “Lonely Ghosts.by Rebecca Disley “
James has been a valued friend of LS for a long time. His first story The Sicilian published in 2016. He is really great to have around and the responses to our, sometimes silly, questions reflect what a genuinely nice person he is. As an added bonus we have a tiny glimpse into the interesting life he has had. Here we give you Mr James Hanna:
Continue reading “Sunday Whoever – James Hanna”
The Bardess house was in Aboyne Court, a group of maisonettes on the semi-derelict edge of the Tanshall estate off Aboyne Drive, a half-mile of semis under schedule of demolition. You’d to go up a dozen broken concrete steps to get to the tarmac path to the front door. It was one of the areas of Glenrothes popularly reputed to be a dumping ground for Fife Council, houses to put problem families, or challenging clients, as we in the social work department would prefer to describe them. The iron railings still stood there in front of a square of unkempt grass but were no longer connected to anything. Some kindly soul had thrown a car tyre onto the scrubby grass which had accumulated all kinds of rubbish; used pampers and newspapers blown on the wind and worse, lots of plastic cider bottles, anchored to a thicket of weed by dried-out dog turds. The building had no outer door and a cold wind whipped through the hall especially if the backdoor leading to the back greens had been left open. The front door was on the ground floor on the left where some altruist had scrawled in a heavy felt pen all along the wall Slag in among the usual spraypainted graffiti tags. There was no sound in the close, a smell of urine and I saw a dried stain against the wall. The glass panel on the door on the right had been replaced with plywood, the name J. Quinn handwritten in biro on a small patch of space between obscene graffiti. There was a musty smell of dog but no sound, no barking.
Continue reading “Last Refuge Andrew Murray Scott”
literally stories 