Hi folks, another week has came and went.
There’s a lot going on in the world but to be truthful it’s all so depressing that it’s hardly worth mentioning.
If you are worried, don’t be.
Continue reading “Week 170 – Comfort, Pride And A Rebellious Pish.”
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.
Continue reading “The Knowing of Which Way to Turn by Michael Grant Smith”
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.
They had teased about it often, but Sophia chickened out. Alone, I stand on a dirt road that hasn’t seen traffic for miles. I curse myself for not sticking around long enough to learn how to drive.
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.
Continue reading “Week 168 – Prompts, Tangents And Afterlife Black Pudding.”
Carly’s hair is falling out. She leaves gold strands everywhere, Gretel’s nightmare version of bread crumbs. We don’t talk about it.
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.
Somewhere along the line it all got out of hand. Somebody was robbing graves at Riverside Cemetery, sitting just above the Merrimack River on a flat hilltop. Stealing coins, too, strange as it seems. That’s the kind of thing can jerk a town right off its feet, even if the spread of the cemetery was closing fast on its capacity and a new site required.
Here we go again folks, Week 167 is thrust upon us.
‘Thrust’ was my inspiration.
Over the last fortnight there has been a common theme between Scotland and America. (This is grasping at straws and not the straws that choke whales, these ones are anorexic and used as sex toys for thread worms straws.)
Weird that! I’ve mentioned thread worms in my last two posts. There is no attraction, honestly, it’s just went that way.
Continue reading “Week 167 – Large Dongs, Wee Allegations And Big Black Choppers.”
Eight a.m. in San Juan, California and it’s already eighty-two degrees on this June morning. I’m in running shorts and a tee-shirt as I step out my front door to pick up the paper.
The black and white patrol car prowls my street like a predator looking for its next meal. The mechanical beast creeps toward my house, signals a right turn, pulls into my driveway.
literally stories 