The kid had this puffy bee-sting face I wanted to shove into the toilet bowl. I liked him as soon as he came, breathless and sweating, through the door. I liked him more when he offered me a cigarette.
Continue reading “The Clown and The Kid by Ashley Laughlin”
She keeps her eye on the clock while circling the room to peer over their shoulders. They’re working on collages, gluing items onto black construction paper—magazine clippings, pompoms, scraps of tissue paper and string.
Continue reading “Worthy by Sara Weiss”
The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues.
Our class lines up at the end of the court. The 20 meter pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. It’s that time of the year, again. I passed the stretching test handily––I like to tie my shoes standing up. Chin-ups and pull-ups I flunked, but it doesn’t matter. These results are for the state, not for a grade.
Continue reading “When Every Breath is a Blade”
After much madness here, poor vision, medical visits, bulb switching and light removal/replacements, securing the slanted rays of sun over my shoulder allowing those uses to spill across “Miles‘” pages, and a mind that neither attends reading for long stretches as it used to nor retains what it once was capable of, I have finally finished the reading of a fascinating book. “Mile’s” captivated me, the characters, the language, the new arc of a different story, another story and drama between people, but an arc having the same beginning and the same ending as many other arcs of my reading … life, lives, loves on the very planet, and resounding in daily sight.
Continue reading “Bill Adam’s Book, “Miles” (With Shan’t” (Shall not) by Tom Sheehan”
“Your mother’s batshit crazy,” said Sister Loretta
“Madam’s not from the Valley, poor dear,” explained Sister Carmel. “That’s the problem. Your mother’s not grounded like we are. My family has lived here forever.”
Sister Carmel selected a cupcake from my tray. She pointed the cupcake at an ancient and rudimentary clock, one of a dozen in the room where the sisters were awaiting their assignations with that evening’s clients.
Continue reading “Stopped Watch by Scott Pomfret”
And I’ve swallowed the pill only to have my friends bail and so I walk the streets alone.
I am a streetwalker.
I come across a hostel bar … backpackers, ‘Fuck it,’ I think ‘They’ll be up for a yarn.’
There is a staircase leading upward and so I climb and enter a bar full of chatter in a multitude of accents.
Continue reading “At My Feet by Michael Tyler”
It was her father who first showed her. If you pointed your arms straight at two very distant points, features in the landscape, or clouds, or stars, you made yourself the centre of the universe. Everything was drawn into you, you were the fundamental point of a triangle, whose hypotenuse, a funny word at first but easy to remember once you had said it two or three times, could shift between any pair of objects, the sun and the moon, two trees, the chimney on top of the neighbours’ roof and the tv aerial on the top of her parents’ house, any two things, anywhere. It really didn’t matter, it was still a triangle, because of the one fixed point, and the two others.
Continue reading “A Call To Arms by Julian Walker”
Dutch Malick was lonely; for a deck of cards, a friendly voice cracking with warm humor or saddle gibes, for something that would tell him he was not the last person about in the world. For most all his life he was a line rider, low man on the totem pole, singular but almost invisible, a dot on the prairie or up a strange draw or wadie, a ghost of a person… him and his horse. His hands, in addition, were scarred from the very first day of line work years past, brutal scars from a brutal wire caught in the horns of a steer prodded wild by some unknown force. He’d never be able to draw a weapon with speed, even if his life depended on that quick draw. He tittered when he thought he was not in such good hands. Even a small laugh was worth the effort, self-inflicting humor went a hell of a long way when you were alone on the line, in a box canyon, out alone on prairie dog territory, “long as I don’t laugh at myself too seriously, poke too much fun.”
Continue reading “The Lonely Line Rider by Tom Sheehan”
Jane Houghton has been with the site for a long time now. Her work is always a delight and beautifully written. If you haven’t seen any of her stuff up to now just type her name into the search field and anything you choose will be a treat. her first piece – Walk on By will lead you to others in her catalogue.
Continue reading “Sunday Whoever”
Before we start I have to apologise for my Q&A session last week. I did something that I never do directly – I self-promoted, not just one, but two stories.
Continue reading “Week 449 – I Was A ‘Look At Me Hoor’ (I’m So Sorry!), The Literally Equivalent Of Pi And Lost In Translation, Or More’s To The Point, ‘Lost Initially’!!”
literally stories 