The Knowing of Which Way to Turn by Michael Grant Smith

It surprised no one when Bruce Feathers once again launched a torpedo into his own life. Ten years ago, the semi-retired auto mechanic earned a ticket to the slammer for diddling the brake lines on Nathan Polk’s pickup truck. Bruce insisted the disconnection was accidental, but everyone knew that Nathan, a semi-retired insurance agent, had been topping off Bruce’s future ex-wife’s fluids, so to speak.

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Lilly-Anne by James McEwan

When I heard the front door close I dashed to the window. From behind the lace curtain I watched Lilly-Anne skip down the steps onto the street. Palpitations fluttered in my chest, my arrhythmia raced like a motor-cross Kawasaki skidding sideways across sand. She walked along the street in black low-heeled shoes, light blue stockings and her coat flapped with each step exposing her knees, her handbag hung over a shoulder. Those lips glistened with gloss; no colour, such a pale face. She looked ill. I groaned, perhaps her boss will give her the day off; I wished. She made her way along the road out of my view.
I sat down and began my breathing mantra; in for five seconds and out for five until I calmed myself sufficiently to let the pulsating surge in my groin subside. My hands no longer shook and I could pick up my coffee.

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Week 168 – Prompts, Tangents And Afterlife Black Pudding.

Here we are at week 168. How time flies!

I’ve been asked millions of times how we decide on stories. It followed a billion questions about me literally exaggerating.

It all comes down to us discussing and being as fair and open minded as we can. We focus and are professional to a fault.

But sometimes our thoughts go off on tangents and my fellow editors end up giving me an idea that becomes something else.

With that in mind, which is me really explaining to Nik and Diane why they have read some of this before, I can tell you that both of them and Easter gave me the idea for this post.

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Love Triage by Jeff Blechle

The ridiculous battle, hopelessly lopsided in the enemy’s favor, sent deserters scattering into the flaming woods, shot hopeful messengers down in their tracks, and, perhaps as an afterthought, stuffed the triage tent to the flaps with wounded soldiers. The overblown histrionics, the saucy horse that trotted into the tent strapped with dynamite, might have struck a jaded audience as faintly humorous.

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