Before my Hinge date I amuse myself by making faces in the mirror. I purse my mouth like an overripe strawberry, beckoning future rot. I slide oil through my hair, expensive oil that’s supposed to be very different from the grease that will seep through the roots after two days without a wash. A few minutes before sunset I slip on my combat boots and trendy trench coat and we’re out the door, me and the fragile home of my body.
Continue reading “Teeth by Amy Katherine DeBellis”
A Hermit-Crab Hiding In the Shape of a Husband
Continue reading “On Warmoesstraat, A Triptych by Antony Osgood”
The skirl of Citizens Arrest fills the stairwell of my walk-up. The electric guitar twangs and pulses through the walls; my key chain vibrates in the door lock, sending judders up my arm, rattling my teeth. I thump on my neighbor’s wall.
“Sorry, cielo!” Manolo yells.
The music stops but my head still throbs.
Continue reading “The Laws of Attraction by Carol Willis”
Before I begin, I need to thank Leila for taking on my turn last week – I’ll come to the reason why in a moment.
I wonder what the difference is between me (Or those of my age / those who think the same) and some / most of those fledgling writers?
When I was first accepted on a site, I delved in and had a look. I was curious to see what and who they published. I wanted to read the stories of others and if there were any comments, I especially wanted to seek out those folks works especially.
It was a privilege that I was proud to be part of and I wanted to familiarise myself with as much as I could.
Continue reading “Week 427 – Having A Swatch, As You Can See, I’m Shit At Text Speak And Dirty Minds Rule!”
Dan Bonner used his right hand to toss two keys to the moss-covered forest floor of Happy Valley Forest. The keys lay there glinting among the twigs and dead leaves. The throw sealed his purpose, to set his mind and body free from chance. He stood naked, one foot and one wrist handcuffed to a birch trunk. The forest stood so thick here, he could barely see the sky. That was the way he liked it, all the empty blue blocked so he could focus on the shade around him.
Continue reading “By the Beautiful Pond by Harrison Kim”
The usual doubts arrive as I cross the street, heading for the corner of Abbeville Road. This seemed like the right thing to do an hour ago, sitting in a pub on the South Bank, toasting our anniversary with a third glass of wine. But now I’m here, all I can imagine is another rejection.
Continue reading “A Door with a Thousand Locks by Ed Dearnley”
The town’s children were eager to help. They would gather sticks and small logs from the forest to add upon the pile. It gave them purpose, a role to play in what was to happen. The town’s folk had long been gathered. Many held small crucifixes close to their hearts, whilst memorized prayers left their lips. Others stood patiently, echoing silent whispers of what was to come.
Continue reading “Burning Away Sin by J.J. van Schaaijk”
Literally Reruns – Walk on By by Jane Houghton
A steady accumulation of the little things can crush the will to go on. A chore once too often; the incessant pecking of the distorted past; a great fatigue, boredom. It’s seldom the big things that move you to check out–but usually the steady drone of dead sins, memories over-handled to the point of nonsense and tired feet that get you.
Continue reading “Literally Rerun – Walk on By by Jane Houghton”
Taking the Dive
Recently, after nearly forty years of business, the nearby Social Club Tavern has closed for good. There’s a special sadness when the wild things in life die.
Still, it’s strange to feel sentimentality for something that was one hell of a long way from sentimental during its existence. The Social Club was rough and tumble. I saw some guy punch the window out of the front door after a fight with his girlfriend. A piece of plywood replaced the window for about a year. I usually like to glance through the window of a bar to get a feel for the situation. Since the Social didn’t have any other windows except the one on the front door, entering blind was a roll of the dice. Only hell knew who or what waited inside.
Continue reading “436: Farewell Neighborhood Dive; Another Week That Was; and the Debut of International, Interstellar, Interdimensional Cloven Hoof Shaking Day”
Wanda missed the bars that had surrounded her since she was fourteen. They weren’t really meant to imprison her, of course. They were meant to add to her mystique, to convince the carnival customers that she was wild and dangerous, that the fur on her face made her kin to the wolf that had eaten grandma. Turns out, she’d needed those bars to protect herself. Full-grown men, probably deacons in their churches, had growled and laughed and rattled the bars to get a rise out of her. Her mother had trained her not to respond. Middle America was full of idiots who stroked their shotguns like they stroked themselves in darkened movie theatres. Although she was on display, in truth she was the one who had a front-row seat. She’d sat behind those bars for nearly forty years watching a parade of men who grinned like fools when their crops came in and snarled at their families when they didn’t. She was there when young men started coming through with empty shirt-sleeves and even emptier eyes. She’d heard the grumbling when the law said that Blacks could come to the show “right alongside the upstanding White folks” of rural Atlanta. Two-years-ago, she’d reveled in the South’s dumbstruck disbelief when a Black man took a seat behind the desk in the Oval Office.
Continue reading “Beards by Ann Marie Potter”
