Tag: writing

All Stories, General Fiction

Week 67 – Keeping It Real

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typewriterWell this was Easter week, which means some things to some and other things to others. My only thought is, I wish I could comprehend what type of reasoning allows kids to gorge themselves with chocolate. I don’t understand the relevance. Same with rabbits! Glad to see that some pet stores are not selling the poor wee beasties at this time of year to stop idiot kids getting them as presents from their idiot parents. Anyway, I can only hope that you enjoyed your holidays in whatever way you wanted!

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All Stories, General Fiction

Newt Logic by Alan Gerstle

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Did you ever wonder what it would be like to be a newt? To reside peaceably in an aquarium, rising every so often for a gulp of air, catching a worm in your thin amphibious mouth and being generally content? I often think about that. This is about a time when I thought about it a lot. It was the summer when I worked as a student intern at a senior center near Brighton Beach. I was pursuing a social work degree at Hunter College, and sharing an apartment in downtown Brooklyn with two other graduate students. It was a lonely time for me, and I kept several spotted newts in a terrarium for company, and a five disc CD player that I had on continuously when I was home to ward off the isolating silence.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Shadow Chaser by Culley Holderfield

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Aleppo, Syria (AP) — Prior to joining the Tawheed Brigade in opposition to the Syrian government, Anwar Addat was a computer technician who never gave much thought to politics or religion.  That was before a barrel bomb delivered by a government helicopter ignited a fire that killed his wife and two children.  These days he goes nowhere without his AK-47 and body armor, and looks every bit the insurgent warrior he has reluctantly become.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Code Blue by Tom Sheehan

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That morning, a May Saturday, when Fernando “Fred” Norstrand first put on the police uniform, solid blue deep as a line of defense, bright buttons shining gold-like running down the front straight as ideas cemented in his mind, his wife stood in the bathroom doorway in open admiration of the new spectacle. He had only recently taken off a Navy uniform, discharged from service because of injury. They loved each other that morning with a new and silent abandon, their baby son still asleep, the day already lopsided in their favor, and the man of the house about to start a new job. He had been appointed as a special policeman of the town, assigned to the lone local theater to keep the kids in line, Saturday being the toughest start of all;  popcorn, noise, kids away from parental control, let loose from their homes, very different from the few homes he’d visited during Pacific duty and the home he had grown up in.

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Latest News, Writing

Week 66 – While My Guitar Gently Weeps.

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We live in a sick world. No amount of our writing imagination could come up with such a sickness. From all of us here at Literally Stories we would like to pass on our thoughts to everyone affected by the events of the last few days. Just one observation when looking for blame…Only blame the bastards with the bombs!

Now folks…Week 66! Is that two thirds of the evil number 666? Or would that be 444? Or 44? I’m not sure! I have never attended a Christening in my life but if I had, I would have loved to write 666 on the kiddy’s head before the Minister / Priest got a hold of them…I don’t think 444 would have had the same effect!

Today I was pondering Bucket Lists as well as felt tip pens, tattooing babies and freaking out Vicars.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Decisions on the Ipswich River by Tom Sheehan

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I was fishing off the bridge over the Ipswich River, a few hundred yards from the Topsfield Fairgrounds. This was a day nothing was supposed to happen, but you know what they say about that stuff… it usually does, like Mike Murphy’s Law or Charlie Poulin’s Law or whatever they call it. Yet enough had occurred already in the last twenty-four hours and the odds were in my favor, or so they said.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Visitor by Kristi Davis

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He sits at Anna’s bedside, unnoticed, working a crossword puzzle. Sometimes reading. Sometimes just waiting. Watching. Counting breaths until it’s time for him to do his job. Anna knows He’s here. She’s been expecting him.

Even though she cannot speak, I can hear her words to him, “I’ve been waiting for you,” Anna says. Her eyes are closed but she sees him. “Why are you taking so long? I’ve been ready for a while now.”

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Author Part 2 by Frederick K. Foote

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Click here to read Author (Part 1)

The next morning I arrive at Judge Fong’s office at 7:30 am as ordered. I’m suffering a headache hangover. I’m mildly irritated to see the Judge’s Clerk beaming with excitement. “What’s up Bob? You look remarkably bright this morning.”

Robert “Bob” Mitchell gives me a classic shit-eating grin. “Tecumseh, your ass is grass. The Judge’s mad as hell at you for letting your client get killed. What the hell was that all about? That’s all everybody’s talking about is the Mayhew mess. The word is he was practicing voodoo–”

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All Stories, General Fiction, Romance

Chasing Josie’s Ghost by Domenic diCiacca

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There’s a wrinkle of land in Stone County, an isolated pocket valley so remote you can hardly find the sky. My wife Sarah and I were happy there. A nearly feral cat lived there too, a scruffy calico that hung around to avoid coyotes. Sarah called her Josie. That cat was neurotic, delusional, paranoid and pathologically afraid of me though I never gave her cause. For three years all I ever saw was a flash of motion or the tip of her tail disappearing around a corner. The exception was anytime my wife ventured outside. Josie would glare death at me and sidle by on stiff legs, back arched and tail fluffed, to get to Sarah’s lap. I didn’t resent it. Sarah could talk tadpoles from a puddle, chant clouds from the sky, charm ticks from a mule’s hide. She surely charmed that cat, and the cat was good for Sarah. I’d leave them to practice their healing magics on each other and go find something useful to do.

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Latest News, Writing

Literally Stories – Week 65 – Getting Nowhere

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The grass needs cut and I’ve returned to work after a week off. I hate gardening and I especially hate working. So I apologise for the depression that is oozing from my pen. I have watched Bambi’s mother being shot fourteen times in a row to try to cheer me up. It just made me hungry. But that soon stopped when I remembered I was heading to work. It takes the notion of food away from me. It also takes away any thoughts on being sociable, helpful, understanding and committed. I don’t think I like working with the public.

Anyway, I thought about what to write. It came to a choice between this posting and a suicide note!

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