Kate Alexander-Kirk, whose Hit and run graced this site last month, has had several other pieces published recently:
Family Portraiture, about a troubling family photograph, on Mouse Tales Press
Say What You Mean, Please, a whimsical take on - well, read it and find out - on Winamop
Tea with Aunty, about a young girl's dream-downing relative, on Pure Slush
Check these stories out!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
**One of my poems, Rain day, was published in the latest issue of Apollo's Lyre
One of my older, mainstream poems, Rain day, was published in the Spring 2012 issue of Apollo’s Lyre. (This poem also appears, in altered form, in my forthcoming mainstream poetry anthology, Almost there: poems, scheduled for publication in autumn 2012.)
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Sinnerman
By dani harris
Copyright ©2012 dani harris. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story originally appeared in poetic form on the my heart's love songs site on February 16, 2012.
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If you like this story, check out dani’s other stories, published on this site: Bugged, Camellia, guardian angel {sorta} and haboob {another creepy tail}.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
dani {not a boy} opened her poetry blog my heart's love songs in February 2010 and is now venturing into prose, though terrified. It seems her terror manifests itself in much of the prose, becoming a short tale with an element of horror or fantasy. She also writes sensual poetry and is attempting to write humorous prose and poetry.
Ψ
SMACK... SPLAT... SLAP... SMACK...
Damn! They were going to hear the sound of his bare feet on the pavement even if they couldn't see him in the shadows of the old factory! What had happened to his shoes? His memory was a jumbled mess of blurry images... all he knew for certain was that "they" were chasing him!
CRACK... RUSTLE... SNAP... CRACK...
Running in the forest at dusk was too dangerous! He'd better stop until full dark if he didn't want to be discovered ~ every footfall crunched leaves or snapped a twig. Breathing heavily, he slid as far under the old tree root as he could get. He covered himself with the detritus of the forest floor and hoped that no animal would catch the scent of blood on him if he fell asleep.
SPLISH... SPLOSH... SPLASH...
Running through the stream under the full moon left him too exposed. The glint off of the blade of the knife clutched in his left hand might catch someone's eye. He paused long enough to bury it beneath a pile of rocks in the shallow water.
CRUNCH... RATTLE... SPLASH... SLURP...
Running along the narrow pebbled bank of the creek sent stones skittering off into the grass and tumbling down into the water. His foot slid along with the tiny rocks and, before he knew what happened, his left foot was sucked into the oozing mud. He fell to his knees in the stream and thrust his hands up to the heavens.
"Help me, Lord!" he cried. "I haved sinned but I am asking for your forgiveness."
But the Lord God refused, telling him "GO TO THE DEVIL, SINNERMAN!"
HISS... SPLAT... SPLASH...
The smell of sulfur burned his lungs... sweat burned his eyes. Trying to take shallow breaths, he waded through the stream as it began to bubble and hiss at the edges. His bare feet were already blistering on the hot stones beneath the water.
"Lucifer! Lucifer!" he called out. "I beg sanctuary! Tell me what I must do!"
The Devil sneered and said "OFF WITH YOU, FILTH! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
SHUFFLE... SCRAPE... SHUFFLE... SCRAPE...
They had set the wolves on him. He could hear the howling not too far away but his raw, bloody feet could not move any faster. Was it still the same night? Or had he lost an entire day like he had lost his clothes and his memories?
Blood spurting onto walls... onto the sheets... onto him...
Red, crimson, scarlet. What you called it didn't matter.
That bright vermilion spraying all over was the only clear memory he had.
Ψ
Clothed in naught but the darkness, ol' Sinnerman shook his head like a dog, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes. Not that it mattered if he could see. Rejected by both Jehovah and Beelzebub..... he had nowhere to go.
›·• Ψ •·‹
When e'en Lucifer
Has shunned ye..... Oh, Sinnerman,
Just what did you do?
›·• Ψ •·‹
SMACK... SPLAT... SLAP... SMACK...
Damn! They were going to hear the sound of his bare feet on the pavement even if they couldn't see him in the shadows of the old factory! What had happened to his shoes? His memory was a jumbled mess of blurry images... all he knew for certain was that "they" were chasing him!
CRACK... RUSTLE... SNAP... CRACK...
Running in the forest at dusk was too dangerous! He'd better stop until full dark if he didn't want to be discovered ~ every footfall crunched leaves or snapped a twig. Breathing heavily, he slid as far under the old tree root as he could get. He covered himself with the detritus of the forest floor and hoped that no animal would catch the scent of blood on him if he fell asleep.
SPLISH... SPLOSH... SPLASH...
Running through the stream under the full moon left him too exposed. The glint off of the blade of the knife clutched in his left hand might catch someone's eye. He paused long enough to bury it beneath a pile of rocks in the shallow water.
CRUNCH... RATTLE... SPLASH... SLURP...
Running along the narrow pebbled bank of the creek sent stones skittering off into the grass and tumbling down into the water. His foot slid along with the tiny rocks and, before he knew what happened, his left foot was sucked into the oozing mud. He fell to his knees in the stream and thrust his hands up to the heavens.
"Help me, Lord!" he cried. "I haved sinned but I am asking for your forgiveness."
But the Lord God refused, telling him "GO TO THE DEVIL, SINNERMAN!"
HISS... SPLAT... SPLASH...
The smell of sulfur burned his lungs... sweat burned his eyes. Trying to take shallow breaths, he waded through the stream as it began to bubble and hiss at the edges. His bare feet were already blistering on the hot stones beneath the water.
"Lucifer! Lucifer!" he called out. "I beg sanctuary! Tell me what I must do!"
The Devil sneered and said "OFF WITH YOU, FILTH! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
SHUFFLE... SCRAPE... SHUFFLE... SCRAPE...
They had set the wolves on him. He could hear the howling not too far away but his raw, bloody feet could not move any faster. Was it still the same night? Or had he lost an entire day like he had lost his clothes and his memories?
Blood spurting onto walls... onto the sheets... onto him...
Red, crimson, scarlet. What you called it didn't matter.
That bright vermilion spraying all over was the only clear memory he had.
Ψ
Clothed in naught but the darkness, ol' Sinnerman shook his head like a dog, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes. Not that it mattered if he could see. Rejected by both Jehovah and Beelzebub..... he had nowhere to go.
›·• Ψ •·‹
When e'en Lucifer
Has shunned ye..... Oh, Sinnerman,
Just what did you do?
›·• Ψ •·‹
Copyright ©2012 dani harris. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story originally appeared in poetic form on the my heart's love songs site on February 16, 2012.
#
If you like this story, check out dani’s other stories, published on this site: Bugged, Camellia, guardian angel {sorta} and haboob {another creepy tail}.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
dani {not a boy} opened her poetry blog my heart's love songs in February 2010 and is now venturing into prose, though terrified. It seems her terror manifests itself in much of the prose, becoming a short tale with an element of horror or fantasy. She also writes sensual poetry and is attempting to write humorous prose and poetry.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
**One of my stories, Vermilion Lounge: expunging, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site
One of my older, sexplicit and redemption-themed BDSM stories, Vermilion Lounge: expunging, was republished on the Every Night Erotica (ENE) site.
It was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site in February 2001.
Check this story out!
It was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site in February 2001.
Check this story out!
Thursday, April 5, 2012
**Microfiction writers: I will be guest-editing the Leodegraunce site in April 2012. Submit a story or three!
I am the guest co-editor of Leodegraunce’s May 2012 issue – normally that honor is Jolie Du Pre’s – and the theme for that issue is cinema. I will be co-editing with my good friend and Leodegraunce associate editor, Gary Russell.
The deadline is April 30, 2012.
If you’re interested in submitting a 200-word-or-less story, and want to get an easy pay $5 (as well as get your work anthologized next year), check out the guidelines. Get your entries in as soon as possible, as this site receives a lot of submissions, but only publishes three or four.
Here, again, are the guidelines. I look forward to reading your work!
The deadline is April 30, 2012.
If you’re interested in submitting a 200-word-or-less story, and want to get an easy pay $5 (as well as get your work anthologized next year), check out the guidelines. Get your entries in as soon as possible, as this site receives a lot of submissions, but only publishes three or four.
Here, again, are the guidelines. I look forward to reading your work!
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Assembly
By Sandra Davies
He had seen their like before. Hungry men, men beleaguered by the harsh words of their swollen-bellied wives, the thin cries of their ailing children. Men beset by exhaustion, who had given every year of their strength and knew that it was never going to be enough.
He understood, his future once was as theirs had proved to be; his boyhood had after all been spent with them.
But he had escaped, had known what was needed and had done it, done it all and yea, he had thrived, while they had not.
He emerged from the doorway, took three paces to the top of the steps, and as the light from the cressets identified him he both heard and saw the winnowed murmur of recognition, of hope pass from the front to the rear of the crowd. Saw that they regarded him as their demagogue, one who would know what was due to them, would know where to lead them.
Silence fell. He raised his voice, and spoke a single word.
‘Tomorrow.’
Copyright ©2012 Sandra Davies All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story was originally published on Sandra's site, lines of communication, on February 16, 2012.
#
If you like this story, check out Sandra's other story, published on this site: In days of olde. . . when knights were absent.
#
Sandra Davies is an artist printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, who regards flat estuarine and sea-edged horizons as essential for well-being. Regularly published on MuDSpots, Thinking Ten and Six Sentences, less so Camel Saloon, Pygmy Giant, Pigeon Bike, and currently working on her fifth novel – a romantic detective tale. More writing at lines of communication and prints at Print Universe.
He had seen their like before. Hungry men, men beleaguered by the harsh words of their swollen-bellied wives, the thin cries of their ailing children. Men beset by exhaustion, who had given every year of their strength and knew that it was never going to be enough.
He understood, his future once was as theirs had proved to be; his boyhood had after all been spent with them.
But he had escaped, had known what was needed and had done it, done it all and yea, he had thrived, while they had not.
He emerged from the doorway, took three paces to the top of the steps, and as the light from the cressets identified him he both heard and saw the winnowed murmur of recognition, of hope pass from the front to the rear of the crowd. Saw that they regarded him as their demagogue, one who would know what was due to them, would know where to lead them.
Silence fell. He raised his voice, and spoke a single word.
‘Tomorrow.’
Copyright ©2012 Sandra Davies All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story was originally published on Sandra's site, lines of communication, on February 16, 2012.
#
If you like this story, check out Sandra's other story, published on this site: In days of olde. . . when knights were absent.
#
Sandra Davies is an artist printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, who regards flat estuarine and sea-edged horizons as essential for well-being. Regularly published on MuDSpots, Thinking Ten and Six Sentences, less so Camel Saloon, Pygmy Giant, Pigeon Bike, and currently working on her fifth novel – a romantic detective tale. More writing at lines of communication and prints at Print Universe.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Falling star
By MorningAJ
Dirk Blaise looked hard into the mirror to check the crow's feet around his eyes. "Time for another tuck, Dirk baby," he muttered, as he continued to brush dye onto the canescent patches around his temples. "Or they won't be casting you as the varlet much longer."
He smiled his youngest-looking grin, revealing his newly re-whitened teeth.
"You CAN still pass as the juvenile lead," he asseverated, at the face that grimaced back at him.
But his reflection looked unconvinced.
Copyright ©2012 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on February 11, 2012.
#
If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Helen's dilemma and Jetsam.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.
Dirk Blaise looked hard into the mirror to check the crow's feet around his eyes. "Time for another tuck, Dirk baby," he muttered, as he continued to brush dye onto the canescent patches around his temples. "Or they won't be casting you as the varlet much longer."
He smiled his youngest-looking grin, revealing his newly re-whitened teeth.
"You CAN still pass as the juvenile lead," he asseverated, at the face that grimaced back at him.
But his reflection looked unconvinced.
Copyright ©2012 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
#
This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on February 11, 2012.
#
If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Helen's dilemma and Jetsam.
#
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.
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