At nine years of age I met Monsignor Karavich up close when he invited me onto the altar during benediction alongside Michael Dolanski, the heroic high school halfback. Until then, the priest had been an other-worldly figure, an unreal actor on stage, looming above and orating as I knelt silently at a pew, trapped in place by my mother’s piety.
The last week has thrown up all manner of political oddities from around the world – and I’m not just referring to Donald Trump’s combover which must be standing on end at the news that Arnold Schwarzenegger (an immigrant no less) has stolen his old job on The Apprentice. The Labour Party in the UK has a new leader several light years left of centre. Australia is going through Prime Ministers faster than a stuttering sports team changes managers, and just this afternoon in Burkina Faso a very large chap in an army uniform locked up the President.
At Literally Stories we try and steer clear of politics. No military coups for us. No bloc voting. Just an oasis of calm, storytelling quality in a world of turmoil.
Today I know this face. I stare into the mirror and I know this face. It is me, not the me that it was when we bought my mirror all those years ago. Down in the antique market, Martin and I trawling for treasures to make our home and we found it dusty and forlorn, how pleased we were. No it doesn’t show me that person, but it is the me of now and of just yesterday.
It’s now three feet farther to hell for persons who’d jump off the Warren Avenue Bridge. The City of Bremerton has recently installed an eighteen-inch extension to the span’s rail. In my opinion, the city has wasted its money. The Warren goes up to a fatal height almost immediately, and at its middle it stands better than ten stories above the churning and hungry Port Washington Narrows. Only Serious Persons go over the Warren; less than serious persons, those who need just a little attention to feel better inside, never go to the Warren to perform on the off-chance that they might fall off. No, I don’t see a foot-and-a-half—in both directions—getting in the way of a well prepared and dedicated serious person.
Vancouver 1949
There’s a direction a city takes when kids go missing. The virtues of due process are quickly abandoned, and the closet vigilantes come out. Suddenly, everyone has an opinion and a plan.
Supposition becomes fact. The police become worthless stooges, in league with the perversions of dark and faceless perpetrators. Rights and freedoms become the sole domain of the self-anointed, raging against the printed word that breaks the news.
Down the street the girl with bright hair ran. She’s running still, in her own way. Trying to avoid the thing she was made to do.
It’s been years, and nobody knows. Except for her.
Hair streaming in the sun.
It reminds her of blood. She’d like to wash it away.
Slowly scrub the stain.
‘Salt.’ Granny would insist. ‘Use salt.’
There’s salt in her tears. It’s not the same.
We invited Literally Stories author and friend, Vic Smith, to be Editor for a day and choose three great short stories from the site. Here is what Vic had to say about the three stories he chose and why he felt they were special.
This list of my three favourite stories from Literally Stories only crystallised as I set out to write it. These are the stories that meant most to me at that moment. At another time, when I’m in a different mood or when the weather has changed, it would be a different list. The depth of talent here is too great to be summed up in such a small number.
For more than a month that horizontal plane, the cold, hard iron blade of the sea, has scythed around this lonely spite-filled ship, the Meeuwtje, the Seagull. Our only constant: that unwavering edge. If only we would come to it and tumble off into the void.
I am consumed with the vilest thoughts; acidic loathing, a derision that stoops my shoulders. This sinful, wind-blown bastard-mongrel pack with whom I share this stinking pile of creaking timber, rope and sailcloth!
Continue reading “Cold, hard iron blade of the sea by Shane Bolitho”
Pearce soon came to realise sleeping on the beach was not as romantic as it seemed, especially when a chill breeze swept in off the sea. The moon above remained bright, piercing the unshielded eye. There was the roar of waves to contend with; the whipping wind that sent a spiral of sand into his face and the ever-present danger of discovery or robbery. A young man out at night presents a tempting target for those aiming to do harm. Not that Pearce encountered any; he was simply paranoid about the possibilities.
He won’t do anything else. All he ever does is sit downstairs and stroke his violin. No one recognizes the notes he plays. Most of the time he makes no effort to play pretty sounds. Maybe pretty noises break his heart because he thinks he’s ugly inside and out.
Continue reading “The Violin He Played Downstairs by Ashlie Allen”
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