Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
The Busboy part I
Friday, 13 February 1981 It had been a tough shift, an odd one for the opening of the weekend for Cyril Litton. Normally there were two busboys working during the week and three on Friday and Saturday, but the other guys scheduled weren’t there. And one of the bartenders was out, too. That left Cy as the only person bussing tables and he had to deliver ice and restock the bar. And, of course, the wait staff hadn’t bothered to help him out with any “pre-bussing,” getting plates and stuff off the table when patrons were finished. “Friday the Thirteenth, go figure,” he said to himself.
By L. Lane Bailey3 years ago in Fiction
Brown Sugar
I am inexplicably, unconditionally, irrevocably in love with him. The way he looks down when he smiles yet the corners of his lips turn up, its manic what he does to me its like death and life combined to form him in the image of their deepest desires in a manifested, physical form.
By Emma Ewart3 years ago in Fiction
Coming Home
Gramma always said the house had “character”. I didn’t remember ever being to the place as an adult. I’m not a young person anymore, so I may be wrong, but it does seem to me that I couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve the last time I laid eyes on the place.
By Paula Shablo3 years ago in Fiction
GALA
TW: Don't start celebrating me TOO MUCH yet. I'm kind of/sort of PROJECTING the day that my absolute favorite of all of my books gets picked up by a traditional publisher (oh; WITH an Amazon Prime deal on the way). This is all in good fun; and pay specific attention to the acceptance and thank you section. You just MIGHT know someone...
By Kent Brindley3 years ago in Fiction
Blue Rose
Rachel had finally finished her last session of the day. Today had felt like it went on forever, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She knew today was going to be hard, it would have been his birthday today. Rachel says goodbye to her client and swiftly closes the door behind them. With one deep sigh, she rushes over to her journal to process her emotions. She always got taught to practise what she preaches. He taught her that. This should make her feel better. It has every other time.
By Shauna Mullen3 years ago in Fiction
A Conversation
Sitting here in the neighborhood coffee shop, I see all these people being “social.” But there’s never any interaction. We’re attached to our phones and tablets, talking and texting, but never having a traditional conversation. It’s all about the latest email or text from that one friend or coworker or whatever.
By Megan Stewart3 years ago in Fiction
The Busboy part III
Monday, 1 June 1981 “Hey Tracy. You ready for your last book report of the year?” “I am, Cy. Let’s go,” she responded as she took his arm and walked out to his car. She waited a moment while he opened the door. She slipped into the seat, setting her supplies down on the bench between them, as she always did.
By L. Lane Bailey3 years ago in Fiction
Stupid Girl
He passed the small blue pipe to her, and she took it, making sure to brush her fingers against his in a lingering touch. She wanted his eyes on her, focused on the way her lips closed lightly around the base, how the fire from the lighter danced in her eyes, adding even more heat as she stared deep into his own.
By Megan Stewart3 years ago in Fiction
Not Safe For Work. Top Story - June 2021.
It is a Tuesday and on Tuesdays I feel strange. I once read an article of a man in Ireland who died “of a Tuesday”. He was in his eighties, old enough to die of old age but still too young to die without a more detailed explanation. Except the doctor gave no other reasoning, other than dying of a Tuesday, which still perturbs me to this day. Apparently, dying of a Tuesday is supposed to mean the man lived a full and peaceful life, an Irish expression... but James Joyce once wrote the actual words, “he died of a Tuesday” in a piece about hanging. Maybe it’s a quirky Irish saying I just don’t understand. Or, maybe, the fact that I notice it is some underlying sign that, I myself, will die of a Tuesday.
By Jess Sambuco3 years ago in Fiction