Frederick K. Foote has been a steady contributor to the site for years. He has published more than eighty with us and it is not a matter of if but when he will reach the magic 100 mark.
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Tag: Short Fiction
Week 558 – News Stories, Ritchson Was Closer By A Mile And Come Back Next Week
Here we are at Week 558 which is just before the special 559. I’ll mention this later.
I had my usual look at the papers this week and a few things tipped my interest…Or should I say poked my anger!!!!
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The Wood Places by Ena Kaitch
“It’s great of you to come and hear me speak. I know that’s not actually what’s going on; saying that makes it seem like this meeting is the product of a request or a personal choice. I like that. I prefer it to the alternative of having to introduce myself and explain a little about why I’m here. We all know why I’m here.”
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A Nobel Ending by Steven French
Frank paused as he left the hotel and looked up and down Skomakargatan. With the sky shading into a deeper blue, lights were already coming on along the narrow street. To the left was Stortorget Square and Stockholm’s famous Christmas Market which he and Ellen had strolled around earlier that day. Exhausted from the jetlag and needing some rest from the bustle of the crowds, she was fast asleep in their room but Frank had too much nervous energy still and had decided to burn some off with a brisk walk.
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Most of the Things He Remembered Took Place Long Before He was Born * by J Bradley Minnick
Neither Mr. Dunner nor I knew which now-gone relative carefully placed the photographs in the chimneys. Had it not been for Mr. Dunner’s care, we wouldn’t have known the photographs existed. All that I know for sure is that Old Da, my grandmother, took up each newly discovered photograph and studied the emergence of her former self (portrayed in various instants), but there was more to it than that. I’ve come to believe that all the while she was either healing or dying, and I expect we were both waiting for some coda of presentiment.
Let’s go back to the beginning:
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Willie the Postie and the Humpbacked Bridge by Michael Bloor
I’d dropped into the Gordon Arms the other night, expecting to watch my team in a death-or-glory relegation struggle on the pub’s sports channel. Instead, they were screening some jaw-cracking yawn of a European game (how could you ever get excited about a team called ‘Borussia Mönchengladbach’?). I was just about to drain my pint and head home, when I recognised a familiar big red face grinning at me from a table in the corner. It was Willie the Postie, now retired, who I hadn’t seen for a couple of years. So I bought us a couple of pints and we settled down for a catch-up.
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Sunday Whatever – The Killer -An Essay by Dale Willliam Barrigar
“Honey don’t walk out – I’m too drunk to follow.” – Tom Petty
Written on October 31, 2022, and later recovered from the files:
Jack Kerouac, from his position as a marginalized, criticized, and rejected American prophet, wrote about the “big American night, redder and darker all the time.” He noted that the night was “closing in,” and concluded that “there is no home.” In his song “The Waiting,” Tom Petty sings, or screams, at least four times, “Don’t let them get to you,” and, “Don’t let it get to you.” The prophetic shout of American rock and roll came to early and lasting perfection in one of Petty’s greatest heroes, Jerry Lee Lewis, “The Killer,” the best of them all.
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Angela and the Balm by J D Strunk
Five hours. That’s how long Angela had been hiding in the basement. Five. Whole. Hours.
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Florian Is Totally Fine With This by Courtney Jean Day
*Adult content*
‘Where did you say Mum is this weekend?’
Florian is stretched out on the sitting room sofa, feet up on the coffee table, laptop in its customary position. Affecting nonchalance, he keeps his eyes on the screen.
‘She’s off for a spa retreat, sweetheart.’
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Days Off by Dylan Ng
Do you ever feel stuck? Asleep at the wheel of your own life? Each day a motion, repeated to the point of mental RSI, a means to an end? You must surely know the feeling. The same papers passed over your desk. The same documents read on a dusty laptop screen. The same dull drum playing on the surface of your temples. And you think to yourself: surely this ends soon?
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