“Didja see that new offer on the television set?”
“Yeah, I seen it.”
“Sez we can get internets fer only a coupla bucks a month!”
“I said I seen it.”
“So, d’ya wanna?”
“Heck, alright. How’d we go ’bout it?”
“Offer sez order online.”
“What’s ‘online’?”
“Heck if I know.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @klancashire.
I hope site issues don’t come in threes, because if they do, we may be in for another one before long.
Having recently solved the “slow site” problem, I’m now trying to figure out why story ratings aren’t working. You can mouse-over the stars, but they don’t register a click.
I still have hope that there will be a way to solve this. So far reinstalling the GD Star Rating plugin from scratch (after backing up all of the ratings and settings) hasn’t worked, nor has reverting to an earlier version of the plugin. If I’m not able to find a way to get ratings going again, I’ll have to find some form of alternative, preferably one that allows me to keep the history of past ratings.
I’ll keep you updated. Until this gets resolved, you can always express your opinions about stories by leaving a comment, instead, or by sharing the ones you like using the buttons underneath each post.
He really didn’t want to go in.
He’d heard stories about this place, and they weren’t good. The person in charge was mean and scary.
He knew that once he was in, there was no way back: he would be trapped – at least until his mum collected him at three.
Mike Jackson is a retired primary school head teacher who is enjoying having time and freedom to write. You can read more of his writing here.
The gatekeepers see all, never blinking, no matter what the time.
Those who seek the angels don’t see them for they hide in plain sight.
With one foot in each world your fate is decided with the yowl of annoyance or the purr of contentment.
Those wonderful misaligned felines.
Gareth Wilson would call himself a serial reader, slayer of titles, leaving a woody (and shortly electron) swathe in his wake. Currently he is improving his writing skills by cutting his teeth on short pieces to work up to his own full-length title. He reviews general fiction here and YA and children’s books here.
You’ve probably noticed that the site has been really slow over the past few weeks. After trying a handful of different strategies for dealing with this (including hiding under the covers and hoping it would just go away), I finally opened a support ticket with my web host (JaguarPC.com, which has always been very good to me), and they pointed out an old, forgotten forum on an old, forgotten site of mine that was monopolizing the server’s CPU. The forum had gotten infested with bots and spam, so I went in, wiped it, disabled it for the future, and will be deleting it for good later today.
Now the site is loading at normal speeds again! Hooray! To celebrate, I’m going to post two guest stories this Monday.
He lived inside his phone, drifting from app to app and nesting in the dim recesses of the End Call button.
He’d been there since the rotary days. The passing years had drastically reduced his living space.
He had no idea how he’d fit his mattress into a Bluetooth headset.
She watched arrogantly as the valet flung the bags into the trunk.
There was a tinkling crunch.
She turned to her husband. “See? They broke. I’m packing next time.”
He feigned sheepishness. Packing sucked, and they’d both hated Aunt Gertha’s gift. As far as he was concerned, this was victory.
She chose him.
I think what hurt most was that she didn’t choose me. I have nothing against the guy. In fact, I’m happy for him.
But why not me?
Did I use the wrong words? Did I smell funny?
Whatever her reason, I’ll recover. The world holds many puppies.
The day Tom was born, his father wore a high hat.
As a two-year-old, Tom loved taking a ride on his mother’s knee.
When he was four, he watched his brother catch rabbits in a snare.
At six, a pony gave him a nasty kick.
Naturally, Tom became a cowboy.
I know, I know, explaining jokes isn’t funny, but… form your own conclusions.
Every Saturday morning the tables were set up. Goods new and used, handmade and home baked, were put out to browse through.
Every Saturday morning they came, tails tucked between their legs, cowering at the ends of their leashes.
The dogs would never understand the draw of the flea market.
This bonus story was written by Larissa Thiessen. It’s her birthday today, the last birthday she’ll have with the last name “Thiessen,” and that’s largely my fault!