I know that there will be tears all round as you begin to realise that Mr West is tied up and not able to do this week’s round-up. There will be even more tears when you read this and realise that it is me who is filling in! Adam is excellent at tying up the weeks and giving us some excellent meaningful meanderings relating to the said week so I thought I would do the same.
That’s new. I sit in front of the green, perched on the verge. Broken car pulled up behind me, half jacked, tyre removed but not replaced. Puncture. Should’ve bought that new spare. Little white balls float through the air like gulls, wobble in the breeze before landing on the trimmed grass. They pick up the flag, one hits and the other hits and the last hits. They put the flag back and move on. More balls sail across the sky, more flags are hoisted.
and you won’t tell him will you? she said
She bought a maternity t-shirt that said “Friends Don’t Count Chromosomes,” and she wore it like we were getting just what we’d hoped for. I spent my time praying that the test had been wrong. I listened to Imagine and added my own verses “Imagine all the people, living without disease…”
This one’s for you, Skink, this solid and remarkable dream I had one night, just last week, still haunting me in this, my 88th year on the planet. It was so real I believe it really happened in a place so near us, we can’t see it, or so far away from us, we’ll never get to see it for ourselves, even though we know it inside and out, upside and down, from left to right, and all the in-betweens, the hereabouts that may occupy more than one place in this universe.
Three galleries of Literally Stories author head-shots went live on the site a little earlier today. Do take a look…
According to Wikipedia no-one was born in the year 59. Two people died. They were Roman. Or possibly Greek. I have never heard of them or know anyone who has, therefore I must set aside any attempt to find some common ground, some tenuous link between the 59th week of publishing on Literally Stories and events1957 years ago.
Instead I will announce the forthcoming Author Galleries. They are happening soon. Coming forth. Pages and pages of head-shots of the writers who patronise LS.
If you have sent us a photo you will be there. Alongside another writer. Randomly situated amongst your fellow authors, each picture an alternative portal to the author’s published works on the site.
Opportune to ask anyone who has employed the services of a professional for the purpose of capturing their image, their author-ly avatar, to confirm whether that photograph is subject to copyright and if so to let us know if there is any attribution required to accompany it.
Copyright being what it is we don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.
Continue reading “Literally Stories – Week 59 – Somewhere Over the Rainbow”
Brandt Colson silently watched his frenetic daughter as she flitted from room to room in her usual style, talking about ten different things at once and fussing over details and generally majoring in the minor. Brandt noticed the bored and frowning, mostly grown boy, his grandson, as he stood at the front door leaning against the wall. The boy took no pains to hide his sullen, brooding, teenage impatience.
She stopped flying around the room and paused in front of the chair. Brandt looked up. “Plenty to eat and all laid out. Your list is on the counter. Sure you feel up to it, Dad?”
“Feel fine.” He replied. The stroke was jumbled memory now.
San Luis Obispo, California – August, 1939
Inside a private screening room, MGM chief Louis B. Mayer and his right-hand man, producer Mervyn LeRoy, have just finished watching a test print of The Wizard of Oz. Mayer is not satisfied with the cut and has instructed the projectionist to run it again, this time with the sound turned off.
Continue reading “RuPaul Saves the Universe by Michael Patrick Marino”
Continue reading “A Walk in the Woods by Adam Kluger – Adult Content”
Every day I get to work and there’s dead guys all over the floor. I hate those fuckers, with their naked pink tails and stupid broken necks. Most days I don’t even want to come in. Dead guys, everywhere.
The kitchen I work at is in a busy corner of the city. It’s dirty but I don’t mind any, mostly because I’m a dirty boy myself. A dirty bird.
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