Tag: writing

All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Exposed by James Hanna

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typewriterHe was a tall sheepish gentleman in his late fifties.  His eyes were gentle, his chin was weak, his shoulders were starting to stoop.   His legs were thin and wobbly, his hair was thinning and gray.  And he walked with the hesitant stride of a crane, his head bobbing forward with every step.  Watching him amble along the street, one would never guess him to be an artist.  A servant, perhaps, a beggar more likely, but  not an artist: a soul unencumbered by earthly snares and committed to only the Muse.  But an artist he was, and no mere artist at that.  He was an artist in the most gallant of mediums: the daring realm of street performance.

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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 95 – Nipples, Clowns And Balloons

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typewriterEveryone of us has a favourite book and no-one else might agree and that is perfectly fine.
For pure perception on growing up, Stephen King’s ‘It’ was the only book I have read as an adult and it reminded me of being a child with a child’s logic. If memory serves me right, the book is around 1300 pages. All those words are a story around one simple idea:

‘For every adult who thinks up the legend of the vampire, there is a child who imagines the stake that can kill the vampire.’

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All Stories, General Fiction

Time and Chance Happeneth to All Gods by Leila Allison

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typewriterHolly spots a lucky omen far downhill: every backlit tree in a row of poplars along a stretch of the Port Washington Narrows is clasped like hands in prayer, except one. A single, stunted, sloppily unfurled poplar, unloved in shadows, holds the luck. It watches out for the others; it allows them to be confidently pretty by giving the eye something less to compare them to. “Unpoplar,” as Ogden Nash might’ve put it.

The golf course trees, however, don’t say much of anything to Holly. Coddled elms and hand-fattened maples protected against the harsh November winds that howl down the Narrows like steamed souls passing through cracks in hell, have little in the way of luck. They might as well be painted onto the surface of the eye. Stage prop trees.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Newspaper by Frederick K Foote

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typewriterOne of the consistently pleasurable experiences in my life is reading the morning papers. I enjoy at least three physical newspapers a day. There’s something about the tactile sensation of holding newsprint and the visual expression of the news that works better for me in print than on any screen. Also, the newspaper has many other utilitarian uses, trash can liner, fish wrapper, glass cleaner, etc.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Counting Feathers of Life by Sergei Walnisty

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typewriterFirst rule of working with Brad Blackwood: improvise.

Second: get into your character’s skin.

Both hard to pull off–Brad Blackwood never shoots light flicks. Brad says, the plot should write itself. If so, the plot is one shitty writer. Anyway, Brad doesn’t write screenplays, so maybe it’s just an excuse.

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All Stories, General Fiction

You See, I’ve Been Thru the Desert by Carol Jones

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typewriterThe busted passenger-side wiper flops across my nice new windshield. It started hailing about an hour back, before Albuquerque. Then, on a mountain curve, one-inch ice balls became grapefruit sized, smashing into the windshield of my brand new 1975 Buick Skyhawk like big slushy softballs hurled from the blackness. I honestly don’t know when the wiper broke.

They pummel the glass with a splat. I flinch when the larger slushballs smack the driver’s side. Do I pull on the shoulder? Keep going?

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All Stories, Latest News, Writing

Week 94 – Golf, Holes And Dirty Pringles.

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Only one major thing to comment on this week and that’s for me to congratulate The American Ryder Cup team. To use a rather colourful local phrase, ‘We wiz humped.’

Since ‘Sky’ has got the rights to The Ryder Cup, I haven’t seen much of it as I only have ‘Council’ TV. I feel a wee bit put out as I can remember watching this thirty odd years back when it was a diddy tournament, that no-one really bothered with. It was the same with The British Open, due to the world domination of ‘Sky’, this July was the first time that I hadn’t see any of the golf in about 44 years. I remember as a young kid, waiting for my dad to come home from work so I could tell him who was leading.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Hell’s Half Acre by LaVa Payne

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typewriterTaos is huddled between two states, New Mexico and Colorado, holding dear to its heart the Pueblo Indians and mountain filled streams of daring rainbow trout. The forest dots the landscape like an eco-green peace bonnet.

The Indians moving west had found a home. But, progress came and brought with it pioneers. And before much time had elapsed this hideaway became an urban tourist attraction for the wealthy and tradesperson alike.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Place for Those Without a Place by Thomas Elson

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typewriterGerald Xavier Kilmer placed his cell phone on the corner of his walnut desk, breathed deeply, exhaled, looked down from his fourth story window, and saw for the second time that day, what he had experienced more than thirty-five years earlier. Kilmer turned, his eyes followed the long corridor connecting other executive offices, then he turned toward the window again. When he looked down, it was gone.

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