Tag: writing

All Stories, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 90 – Interviews, Scripts And Unrelated Diplomas

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typewriterI have been using all my writing skills this weeks folks. I have been creative, sparse with the truth, fantasised and down-right lied. Nope I have not been writing a novel or a new short, I have applied for a job.

It is always a difficult balance to get right. You do need to write yourself up but you don’t want to come across as an opera singer twat. (ME, ME, ME!!) However I think being the twat actually works when I look at some of the folks I have worked with over the years!

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All Stories, Horror

East Wind by Frederick K Foote

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“Goddam, son-of-a-bitch, get the hell away from me. Buzzin in my ears like a damn mosquito, trying to drop ticks and vermin down my collar or in my boots. Damn you, to hell.”

The earplugs are workin, but I need earmuffs too. I feel like a damn astronaut, duct tape around my pant legs and boots and gloves and coat sleeves, dust mask over my mouth and nose, muffler around my neck, goggles strapped to my face and this heavy jacket, two pairs of pants and my wool watch cap. I can barely walk.  Continue reading “East Wind by Frederick K Foote” →

All Stories, General Fiction

Eddie Smiledge, Houseman by Tom Sheehan

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He was the houseman and smoked cigars thick as Baby Ruth bars, short as he was, and always wore green pants and red socks so people could laugh at him a little bit on the side. He’d pocket change while the laughter moved around The Rathole. We always knew something special was ringing in him, some other call or cause. There were times he would lend a guy a buck who had missed a great shot at billiards or One-Ball and was almost there, getting his dough back, and he never charged but a buck for a buck. He could listen as good as a bartender, talk like a barber, remember to the minute the start of each game at each table. He answered only to Smiledge, never to his Christian name, never to hey you or houseman or you over there by a newcomer. Smiledge, he’d say. Smiledge it was. It seemed to us that it was Smiledge forever. Then one day he was gone, but that’s ahead of me.

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All Stories, General Fiction

The Sixth Floor by Adam Kluger

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Author’s image for The Sixth Floor

“Welcome to your new home down on the sixth floor, Mr. Smith…it may just look like a cubicle farm… but it’s really so much more”

“Call me Ted, please…otherwise you’ll make me feel older than I already am.”

“You got it Mr. Smith…I mean Ted…any questions?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of a million…but none right now.”

“Isn’t that always the case.”

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All Stories, General Fiction

Breezy and the Six-Pack Sneaker by Mitchell Toews

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typewriterI worked for Hart Zehen when I was sixteen, rising at four in the morning to bake bread. It was a great paycheck but my social life, such as it was, suffered. On the positive side, my muscles grew and I learned more from Hart than I might have expected.

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Latest News, Writing

Week 89 – Adverts, Cramps And Protests.

gwencron

typewriterA few things have really annoyed me this week and hence this inspiration. I decided to write on what annoys me most. I have a list, but will go for the doozy annoyance. I hate everything from Romance Novels to Polo-necks. I hate Gok Wan, cockatiels, most TV, Bieber, Sainsburys, South Ayrshire Council, Pizza, itchy trousers, mobiles, enthusiasm within the workplace, management, ratatouille, folks that read papers that they haven’t bought, politicians, the monarchy and sheep…To name but a few. But my biggest bug bear is adverts.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Forked Tongue by James McEwan

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My expectations and excitement were dampened by the cold coffee and replaced by a creeping realisation of an inevitable disappointment. I kept glancing around as people rushed along the pavement, but it was late – she wasn’t coming. We agreed to meet at the Café at half past six and in my jacket pocket I had an envelope with five hundred Euros in fifties, which I promised for the final payment for her painting. A piece of art that I found hypnotic, it was a scene depicting a battle of female sexuality and a vision of erotic conjecture. I couldn’t help myself, I had to have it. Last night, I paid her a deposit of three hundred Euros.

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Short Fiction

Rearmed by Frederick K Foote

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The pain jerks me up from the dark, spills bright red across my memory, shakes me in time to the artillery shells exploding around us.

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Voices, mumbling medical jargon, the hum, and clicking of some electronics, antiseptic smell. Bright, bright too bright, I close my eyes tight.

##

My arm. They amputated my left arm below the elbow. Shit. I reach across my body and touch my new left forearm and hand. A prosthetic, but it feels, feels flesh like, like dead meat.

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