an excerpt

Winstrop   “Winstrop?” He was seated on a stool, sharpening a sword. He turned his head, cocked an eyebrow. “Winstrop!” He sighed, hung his head. He inhaled deeply, leaned the sword against the wall, exhaled. He rose from his stool to stand at attention. Lethargic attention. A disengaged civilian, not interested in standing to anyone’s…

Smell That Bird: A Thanksgiving Comeuppance

Holidays for us were always a Steven King book. An overly long and sickening affair. My sisters, upon hearing of our brother John’s plan to leave the country for Thanksgiving, called him a traitor and used him as target practice for their eye-daggers. He left in mid-November for four weeks. There was only one problem…

The Hunger

Our penultimate guest post comes from rosiebooks2009 of La Tour Abolie, an eclectic mix of essays, stuff about writing, stuff about books, and far out philosophy. She edited this down to under the word limit, but in doing so it lost a good bit of a lot of something. For example, the first sentence, which, to…

Riding Bikes With Ghosts

Right after dinner after getting the girls in bed I get to the garage and grab my bike and I’m ready to go. Rode it yesterday after not riding it for years and stuffed it in the van and drove it to the QT to inflate the tires for free and rode that bitch. It’s…

Cat

Strange happened. No, something strange. Something happened and that is strange. Yes. Nothing happen here ever. Write because happened twice, once today earlier and then once before today. Day before today. Two days it happened, had visitor. Furry and small. Cat, I think. Hard to find right name. Not thought of names in long time.…

Less Than Plain

“What are you writing?” The young man clapped the notebook closed, looked up to find her smiling down at him, felt his stomach do somersaults. “Nothing, really.” “It must be a bit more than that,” she said, twisting the cap off a bottle of water. “Or you would not be blushing.” The young man’s face…

The Ref’s Whistle

Charlie tended bar. He had worked for the state once, was a movie theater manager for a while. He read a lot, sometimes took a class at the local university – in drawing, or piano. But mostly he tended bar. It was a dark, smoke-filled place. Had a couple of pool tables, dart boards, a…

The Simple Life

Some nights were busy, some were not. This one was not. The man on the bar stool swiveled and moved his lips as he read. He looked up from his pages, thinking, then said, “What’s a channeled whelk?” The bartender pulled his head away from the television. A moment later his eyes followed. He scratched…

Simulated Bird Strike Number Three

What follows is the chicken story referenced in They Say This Is Great Writing. Now, the chicken story is not an example of great writing. But a couple of people expressed interest, and it does have some good laughs, so here it is. Page breaks are placed strategically throughout, but WordPress seems to be hiding them way down…

The Sproink-Thump of Love

Astute readers will note that with this post I am already breaking my recent pledge to stay under 1000 words. I apologize for my inconsistency, but inconsistency is one of the few traits I demonstrate with consistency. Also, my pledge was largely about me managing my own time, and since this was written before my…

The Plug Is Pulled

Ahoy. If you have read this, then you may understand why I’m abandoning poor Butterloins in the snow, just as he was on to something. Littlejohn too. Whatever the good doctor is up to inside that vile place, I don’t think we shall soon find out. I do hate to leave them like this. But something…