This is the strange story of my uncle, the writer Albert Palmerson, who died peacefully over fifteen years ago. I should put “peacefully” in scare quotes because Uncle Albert maintained that he died for the first time twelve years prior to this, and far less calmly.
Continue reading “The Fall and Rise of Uncle Albert by David Rudd”
I sit down at my desk to work on the script’s first draft and open my right-hand drawer. A 25 cm man leaps out and slaps my face. You might not think something that small could pack much of a wallop, but he does. In the beginning I could handle him, but he grows larger and more brazen every day. I put him in there to teach him who’s boss, but since that did not work, I grab him in my fist.
Continue reading “Is It Me or My Talent You See? By Cy Hill”
I was out of the waiter game, quit when a chef threw a cruet that just missed my head; oil splattered my new, old tux I bought from a formal wear rental joint. Only an asylum inmate would be able to summon a voice that said I’d bettered myself. I was working at a fast food joint, The Burger General, home of the Five-Star Half Pounder. I’d added eight published poems to my Good Knots chapbook so I wasn’t complaining about work conditions or pay. I kept a few copies under the counter in case I sensed kindred vibes from a customer. Jake Perez, the janitor found one in the trash. If a fry weren’t a bookmark he might have left it but he thought it was a hoot and shared his kicks with my fellow workers before returning it to me. A high school kid working the drive-thru told me my poems were baffling and so was I but she quotes lines occasionally and said her mom gave me a thumbs-up. Columbia University had recently published the freshly greased poem, “Ghost Shipping” in its literary magazine. Octavia’s Ristorante returned in sharp focus. Elise shanghaied my mind.
Continue reading “Dreams Away at Octavia’s by Thomas M. McDade”
“What’s your name?” James asked the hostess.
She furrowed her brow, “Claire. Do I know you?” She donned a small, professional smile.
“No. Readers like knowing the names of the characters. If I just call you the hostess over and over, they’ll get detached from you; it’ll annoy them.”
“What?” Claire asked.
Continue reading “Ellen and Elise by Brent Holmes”
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22 August. According to my Writer’s Calendar it was Dorothy Parker’s birthday. Mrs. Parker was famous for her wit, light verse, stories, book and theatre reviews, A Star is Born, dogs, as well as alcoholism, suicide attempts, failed romances and a hodge-podge of emotional problems of varying severity. She was the sort of human who was aware that she was human and desperately wished to surrender and join the other side. Although she already knew that such a thing was tantamount to squaring the circle, it didn’t keep her from trying.
Continue reading “Band of Barnyarders by Leila Allison”
The sun is a stanza in the sky – a well written first stanza of a poem, or a song. Perhaps, this is a first stanza that bears the misty wings of a dream. Perhaps, that’s why it rises and gently floats off the page, to settle in the azure folds of the sky . . .
But First a Word From Judge Montague’s Great-to-the-4th Granddaughter
Whenever a woman is constantly besieged by unseen faces and disembodied voices, it is for the best that she believes that the legions of non-violent hoo-doos and haints that only she experiences are real, and are not indicative of a mental illness (technical name for the affliction: scewious loosiest). Such is the case with Yours Truly. And although you may think that my thinking “it is for the best…” is misguided, I assure you that the hoo-doos and haints (whether they be actual or of my own creation) want only happiness for everyone.
My promotional Facebook ad campaign is far from ready. An upside down, high resolution, Marlene Dietrich holding my self-published book awaits my intervention. I hesitate before choosing the rotate option or is it the flip? Marlene looks regal, confident in her fur coat. What would Marlene think of a book starting with:
She loved lemons and would squirt them on everything, their yellow rind reminding him of her sunshine. Lemons never tasted sweeter. Without her, his heart wouldn’t beat right.
…testing…testing…one-two…one-two…is this thing on?
Ah. Great. There you are. Seems to be working.
Greetings one and all from a very sunny and warm Cape Town. Hugh is taking a well-deserved break this week, leaving the roundup in my (barely) capable hands – so, you can expect all the usual features of a Saturday roundup minus the wit and intelligence (although I do hope to retain some level of profanity).
Continue reading “Week 157 – Crises, Opportunities and Tequila”
For some time now the literary world has been speculating upon the delay between Sidney Shield’s 14th Gothic novel and the appearance of his long overdue 15th. The reasons being bandied about are quite preposterous, especially the more macabre ones, though Mr. Shield is not displeased by the latter. As personal secretary to the author, I have been authorized to give an explanation on his behalf. I hasten to add that the words used are my own.
literally stories 