Tag: short stories

All Stories, General Fiction

Our Hoyles by Kim Suhr

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“Nine hearts.”

Dang. My husband’s always doing that, overbidding me when he knows fool well I can make my bid and he’s got diddly-squat. Of course, nine hearts is the perfect bid—for Ed. If he wins the round, he’s a hero for pulling it off with a hand like a foot. That’s what we call it when our cards stink, a hand like a foot. If we get bumped, he’ll blame it on me, say I inkled wrong, made him think I could get more tricks than I could. Never mind that I bid spades. That won’t make a bit of difference when we replay the hand at the top of our lungs after Dan and Jean have gone home. Either way, nine hearts makes him look good and me look bad.

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All Stories, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 127 – Insignificance, Velvet Jackets And John Lennon.

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Before I begin this weeks round-up we have a couple of comments that we wish to make.

Our thoughts go out to our wonderful friend and fellow editor Tobias who sadly lost his father recently.

We all send Tobias our love and condolences.

And unfortunately, we yet again have to say that our prayers are with all those innocents who were caught up in the despicable events in London.

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All Stories, Horror

Playing in the Dirt by Z.S. Diamanti

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You must have spent a lot of time in the sun that your hair would copper so. When I was young, my Papa would bring friends home almost every day. Some were fat, some were skinny. Some were men and some were women. My favorites were the boys and girls about the same age as me. It didn’t matter who Papa brought home, I always loved meeting new friends. But none of them had such lovely auburn hair.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Afternoon Walk by Rachel Moffat

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There is a familiar quiet across the gardens, the usual character of a Sunday afternoon in autumn. Visitors are thinly scattered across the grounds, the tea room and the house. There is no guided tour of the house at this time of year; people wander round in twos and threes. They speak in low voices to each other so that they are nearly muffled by the sounds of their own footfalls. Their shoes knock slowly on the floorboards and receive creaking replies.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Historical, Horror

The Perfect Personification Of Religion by Hugh Cron

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“You expect me to speak to the Archbishop? Your ideas are somewhat radical Father. For you to get on in your career you need to know how to play the game.”

“Radical? I don’t see it that way Your Grace. I think we could do a lot of good. We would build bridges. We could now bring together two sides once and for all. We need to do this, not just with our religions but with them all! But we can start with what we know.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Solution for Camels by Merry Mercurial

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I always find her this one way, it seems: sitting on her bed, high on her knees yet hunched at the shoulders as she bends into her project of the day and fixes it with her hard, Catholic glare. She has been known to work up a sweat, just hunching and glaring. Peeking at her through the door-crack, I try to imagine what kind of exertion roasts her so from the inside out, but apparently, it is something not I nor the world can see.

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All Stories, Science Fiction

The Fly by Massimo Sartor

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Karl’s hand landed solidly onto Lola’s cheek.

She woke up abruptly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. There was a fly on you. I wanted to get it before it bit you.” Lola sat up in her chair and rubbed her face.

“There aren’t any bugs in space, Karl. They can’t survive out here. Nothing can survive out here.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Literary Evening by Steve O’Connor

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On Friday night, as usual, Mike Duchamps appeared at the back door with a few typed pages rolled up in one hand and a six pack dangling from the other. “I told you I have plenty of beer,” I said.

“Come on, Stan. I never arrive empty-handed,” he shot back, which was true. Mike is a fiction writer from Pawtucketville, which is a section of Lowell named after the Pawtucket Indians, who lived here for millennia and are no more. I live in the Highlands, which is another section of the city, and not a part of Scotland. I’m Mike’s only close friend who reads a lot, and so the only one whose opinion of his craft he values. He’s been reading me his stuff over beers on Friday nights for years. In return, he never comes empty-handed.

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