Monday, 25 November 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'Radiance' A Micropoetry Collection by Stewart Storrar - Lore Publication

'Radiance' A Micropoetry Collection

by Stewart Storrar




Image credit: vuxoan via Pixabay


Illuminate


It was as if the glow of a thousand candles,
twinkled in the night sky,
The shroud of darkness curling round,
all that the eye may see.
However, all that the eye may see,
is not the twinkle of a thousand candles,
in the heavens above,
Nor the shroud of darkness.

It was the twinkle in the eyes of my love,
And the glow of her skin to match.





.although.


The fibre of my being,
Did not know,
The pain of separation,
As life's woe.

.although.

With the pain of separation,
Comes my value of you,
The only living soul,
To which I am true.




Hearts' Meeting


I can see that look in your eye,
Upon the eve of our meeting,
Our love sparks,
Our hearts' fleeting.

What is your pain,
That hidden sorrow?
Today marks,
Our new tomorrow.

So don't give into that fear,
See that tomorrow,
Live your life,
Forget that sorrow.




Blaze


Love her wild,
Or let her go.
There are no half measures.









This collection was written by Stewart Storrar, the founder of Lore Publication. With a love for poetry that dates back years into his high school days, Stewart has always been a keen poet as well as a keen creative writer. This week for Poetry Monday, Lore decided to put out another collection of some of Stewart's micro poetry into one post. The poetry above was written from one soul to another, for a person he loves dearly. Enjoy.



If you are looking to get poetry featured here on Lore, be sure to contact Lore via our email address or social media to talk more about it!


Saturday, 23 November 2019

Slight of Mind: A Psychological Thriller (Part One) - Lore Publication

Written by M. Sigurd Hall



Part One




She isn’t late. Stop being impatient. There’s nothing wrong with me. She just needs to know that. Then I’ll leave. It’s going to be fine. I’ll just say what I must then leave. 

I stare at the clock. Each second’s tick feels like forever. I don’t want to be here. But this isn’t my choice. I take a few, deep breaths and look around the room. The three people attempt to hide their stares. They must know who I am. But after what happened, I’m not surprised no one wants my autograph. That’s fine though. I don’t want to be here. It’s mandated. I tan, but not good enough to make faded orange work. The judge ordered this, and I guess it’s better than the alternative. Does anyone like confined spaces? 

Footsteps click against the wooden floor five minutes after the hour. At least this is better than a doctor’s office, unless these footsteps belong to someone else. Maybe they aren’t here for me. 

A woman appears from around the corner. She looks upset and passes us for the exit, her cheeks spotted a strawberry red. The door slams behind her. 

More footsteps force me to turn my head. I almost dig for my phone; I’m sure that this time, it’s someone else who had an appointment. The next woman who comes out looks studious with thick glasses magnifying her eyes and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She reminds me of those cartoons when they try to make bugs look human and attractive. It doesn’t work. She might as well be Jeff Goldblum in that old movie.

“Antonio Ramos?” she says, more at the other man then me. She doesn’t know who I am? Seriously? I was on three different news stations last week alone. Then there are my specials and the two books I’ve written. Even though I’m not thirty yet, I’m accomplished. My Mom is proud. So, the fact that I’m sitting here is surprising. But I am. He isn’t even Hispanic. This gotta be a joke. 

“Yeah?” I say, gripping my chair’s armrests. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Sure.” I stand. 

“Follow me.” We walk down the hall into an office this woman designed to make people feel more comfortable. The walls are wooden, and my eyes search for what to do next. She gestures the thick, leather chairs that look older than mi abuela. There’s even a couch. You want me to lie there? This is a joke, but who’s playing it on me. I’m not supposed to be here. “Sit wherever you like,” she says. I take a seat in the closest chair and don’t say anything. Not like I’m gonna be here that long. She sits across from me on the couch, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs under her. “I’m Kim. It’s good to meet you.” My silence continues. What do I say here? I’m not here because I want to be. “Do you want to start with why you’re here?” Don’t play games with me. 

“You know why I’m here. And call me Tony. I fucking hate when people call me Antonio.” 

“Well, at least you’re willing to talk to me. And I’m happy to call you Tony. But why are you here?” 

“You don’t know about the accident?” 

“I do.” 

“Then why are you asking?” It’s all I can do to stay here. I wanna leave. That tiny voice in my head tells me to stay. It sounds like Carla. If she wants me here, I stay. I’ll do anything for her. 

“I want to hear it in your words. Please. Tell me why you’re here.” 

“I got in a car accident.” 

“That’s what you’d call it?” 

“That’s what happened.” 

“So, you wouldn’t say you endangered anyone?” My face is hot. Choose your words. Don’t just start yelling. Don’t be like that asshole. 

“Not intentionally.” 

“But people were injured.” I shake my head and let my fingers rub my forehead hard. 

“Sure. Whatever you say, doc.” 

“I’m not a doctor.” When I look back at her, Kim’s hair is different, and her glasses are gone. That’s weird. I try to look for where her glasses are. I know I shut my eyes when I shook my head. Yeah, I was that disgusted, but did she have that long?

“Whatever,” I say. 

“What caused the accident?” 

“I was following someone too fast in my car. Why do you think it happened?” She ignores my question. 

“How fast were you driving?” she says. 

“I don’t know, maybe eighty?” 

“Downtown.” 

“Yeah. I had somewhere to be,” I needed to be in his grill. He begged me for it. 

“Where?” 

“I needed to catch up to someone before it was too late.” 

“Why?” 

“He-” I don’t know how to say it without making myself sound like an asshole or I’m crazy. 

“What?” 

“He’s destroying people’s lives.” 

“How?” 

“His business was built on the pain and suffering of people who didn’t deserve it.” 

“Would you give me details?” I don’t care if she’s feigning interest. It’s not like people want to hear what I gotta say. I tried that before. That’s why I’m here. Memories of Ricky Andrews smiling in front of his bank make me sneer. I’m not violent. But his face needs to feel the wood of a baseball bat against it. 

“It’s hard.” 

“Why?” 

“If you knew what I did-” 

“Tell me,” she says. Fine. She wants to know. I’ll tell her every little thing. I been living a lie too long anyway. Someone’s gotta know. Maybe she is special too. 

“He’s mystiker,” I say, revealing his secret to a stranger. That was stupid. But not like I can go back or nothing now. 

“So, he’s contemplative? You called him a mystic, right? It was just in another language.” I shake my head and say, 

“No. Mystiker are insidious.” 

“How?” 

“They can control you.” 

“What do you mean?” she’s concerned. Good. You should be, bug lady. These people are animals. Kill you without a second thought. Usually it’s worse though. Death is nice compared to what they do. 

“You know about mind control, right?” I say, not waiting for her to answer. 

“These people can put thoughts in your head, make you do things you don’t wanna. Some people would call it magic. It isn’t. There’s no fairies or pixie dust here. Just dickheads who want to have what isn’t theirs.” 

“And you know about it?” she doesn’t believe me.

“How? If people could do this, wouldn’t everyone know? What makes you so special?” 

“I am fucking special. I’m famous. Isn’t that the definition of the word?” 

“How are you famous, Tony?” 

“Don’t you have a TV?” I say. “I’ve had my own show and so many specials I don’t even know how many anymore.” I know she’s confused. I can see it in her eyes. “Almost ten years ago, I got famous for making some guy look stupid. Now, I do that for a living, making people look stupid.” 

“You are famous for making people look stupid?” she says, using my words like she thinks they’re a weapon. 

“I got famous being able to debunk magicians and other mysteries?”  

“You’re not famous, Antonio.” 

“Tony,” I say, a little pissed that she refuses to call me what I want to be called. I hate my full name.

“Call me Tony.” 

“Tony.” Her smile looks as fake as ever, but it looks strange. The way her face contorts makes her look like a different person than the woman who brought me into the office from the waiting room. 

“So, what do you call famous?” 

“Have you been on TV?” 

“You know I have. I just said I got my own show.”

“When?” 

“Three days ago, was the last time, I think? Sometime last week. Another interview is coming up. I don’t keep track anymore. You think I’m egotistical?” she shakes her head. “I gotta stay out of view right now. That’s what Melinda tells me. Wait for people to forget about the accident, you know?” 

“Who is Melinda?” she says. 

“My publicist.”  

“You’re eighteen, Antonio. You don’t have a publicist. What accident?” 

“What are you talking about? I’m not eighteen.” She’s nuts, not me. 

“How old do you think you are?” she says.

“Twenty-eight. I don’t think I am. I know I am twenty-eight.” 

“We can talk about that during our next session, but I’m not sure that is something that would be constructive to discuss today. We are almost out of time anyway.” 

“I just got here.” 

“You just got here almost an hour ago.” I shake my head again and refuse to shut my eyes in case something happens. Her office feels different. Yes, it’s older than when I entered, but even then, its design feels more updated. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. What is wrong with me? And the pictures of a family on her desk, they weren’t there when I entered. She doesn’t seem the type who would have them, those cute ones with kittens falling from a branch and sayings like ‘Hang in there.’ What’s going on with my head?

“Then, I guess I’ll see you soon,” I say. Ten more of these stupid things. That’s what I gotta do before everything gets cleared up with the lawyers. 

“Yes,” she says, standing. “Good seeing you again, Tony.” Again? What’s she talking about.

“You too, Kim.” It’s hard to stop the sarcasm in my voice. I just met her. What’s this ‘again’ she’s talking about? 

“Kim?” she says. 

“That’s your name. I’m good with names.” She shakes her head and says, 

“My name is Reiko. You know that.” 
“Oh, right-” I stare at her. What the hell is wrong with me? 

“You just said you were good with names. We haven’t had this problem before. Make sure to contact me if anything else happens, okay?” Raiko says.  

“Fine. Whatever.” 

“Promise me? I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” 

“Like what?” I say. 

“You aren’t going to harm yourself, right?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“And you’ll contact me if things get worse?” she says. 

“Fine,” I say, done with this conversation. 

“Good. Thank you.” I leave through the door that doesn’t look the same when I entered and see a long hallway that’s different too. But, something feels familiar. Why do I know where I am yet, somehow, I know I wasn’t here today? This is weird. 

The parking lot is no different. Where am I, and what’s going on? Everything is strange. I walk through it, trying to find my sporty sedan that I bought earlier this year. It does exactly what I want, and I’ve poured more money into it so that the four-cylinder engine will do two hundred if I push it hard. It wouldn’t surprise me if my COBB’d WRX is one-of-a-kind. Did someone steal it? 

I pull my keys from my pocket. There’s no FOB or even a Subaru key attached. What is going on? Something is so wrong. These are the keys to the Pontiac that has been sitting without a transmission or engine, just waiting for me to give it some TLC when I can. 

My cell phone rings in my pocket. It shouldn’t ring. My phone’s always on vibrate. That way, I don’t get glares when we’re taping. Why is it so obnoxious? I haven’t used this ring tone since I was a kid. I pull my phone from my pocket and flip it to answer it. Something is so wrong here. This isn’t my phone, not really. 
“Hello?” I say. 

“Tony,” I hear the voice on the other end say.

“Yeah?” 

“Where are you?” 

“I just got out of my appointment. Who is this?” I say. 

“Who do you think it is? Didn’t you look at your caller ID?” 

“No.” 

“This is your mother. You don’t recognize my voice?” It’s not her. There’s no way. We haven’t spoken in weeks. The sound of her voice makes my knees weak. That accident wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone, especially not the woman who raised me for years without any support. 

“Yes-” I say. There’s no way someone would pretend to be her. Why would they? 

“We haven’t spoken in so long. I just didn’t expect a call from you.” 

“What are you talking about?” she asks. Right now, I’m not too sure...





Hello and welcome to Lore Publication; thank you for reading! We want to take a moment to appreciate you for supporting Lore and the writers on our site. Without you at home reading, Lore wouldn't be possible. 


This story was Part One of the Lore Original Series 'Slight of Mind' penned by the wonderful American writer M. Sigurd Hall, check out his socials! Part Two will be out next Saturday (30th November 2019).

LinkedIn: /msigurdhall
Facebook: /HallofSigurdBooks
Twitter: /hall_sig



Author Biography: M. Sigurd Hall


M Sigurd Hall was born on July 27th, 1983 to Alan, a first generation Norwegian, and Connie, a Tar Heel reading teacher and grew up on his great grandfather's farm. Sig's first memory is reading the Wizard of Oz before he understood the similarities between writing and Oz, the great and powerful, a person behind the words.

He starting writing as soon as he could spell. Sig drew editorial cartoons at his university's newspaper until he wrote a scathing review for X-Men: the Last Stand and added editorials to his resume. His first two screenplays were optioned but not produced by independent producers, and Sig started his own New York based production company in 2010.

Multiple hospital stays brought Sig back to Seattle in 2015. He won an award for his short story, Faceless, in 2016 and it was published in an anthology in February 2017.

Sig focuses on character driven stories in the thriller/crime and science fiction/fantasy genres. His favourite authors include Elmore Leonard, James Sallis, Sergei Lukyanenko, Dasheill Hammett, Ian Fleming, Mario Puzo, Michael Crichton, and Alexandre Dumas.

He currently lives in Seattle with his wife Kristine.





Wednesday, 20 November 2019

Fat of the Land: A Free Flash Fiction (Science Fiction)

Fat of the Land: A Free Flash Fiction (Science Fiction)


Welcome to Lore Publication; a place where you can find insightful media for insightful minds. If you are new here, Lore is a publication that publishes free short stories and free flash fiction for all the avid book lovers out there! We focus on publishing mainly horror, science fiction, fantasy, thriller and mystery themed stories and invite you to join us and support our writers. Part of what we do at Lore is that we realize not everybody can afford new ebooks and free ebooks on the market are a way of combating this problem. Our free stories are no different! 

For today's post we are introducing another science fiction story from English writer Mark Huntley-James in which a new, dangerous pathogen has swept across the United States 💀👀
Enjoy!



Image credit: WikiImages via Pixabay



I blame the tourists — that’s what they always say. Personally, I blame the postal service, but Mary Reynolds blames her cousin. Forget the damned tourists. They’re vaccinated for everything. The real killers now are industrial spills and incurable human stupidity — Mary’s cousin has that in full measure.

Are they going to be OK? Mary asks that a lot, and currently she is my only source of information. Her husband, his brother, and their son are all comatose — patients zero, one and two, victims of our nastiest outbreak of obesity-related lipofungus.

I know everyone gets a dose now and then, no worse than dandruff from hell, unless it get under your skin. At least their family doctor spotted it and got the whole family into isolation. Then I had my first conversation with Mary.

It starts like this: have you been abroad recently?

“No, no, we’re going to Corfu next month…” Thin as a rake, so not a candidate for the lipofungus, and knotting her fingers together as an alternative to crying. “Put the deposit down.”
I didn’t tell her that plan was changed, and the deposit probably forfeit. The important thing was that none of them had been abroad. Nor did any of them work in or around any business using industrial lipofungus. I worked through the questionnaire, expanded the cast of characters to include friends and more distant relatives…

“Well, there’s my cousin over in Florida. Moved last year, but she ain’t been back.”

I would have skipped to the next question, but Florida? Really? The biggest outbreak of lipofungus in the world, all over the news…

“Has your cousin sent you anything lately?”

“Oh, yeah. Really silly. Sent us a snow-globe from Florida. Daft, ain’t it. Silly card as well. Saw this and thought of you.”

What sort of idiot drives from Fort Lauderdale to Jacksonville to post a parcel overseas, just because the Governor suspended postal services out of the area due to their lipofungus outbreak?

Equally, why didn’t the US Postal Service ask a few more questions, like where did this come from? And why didn’t Royal Mail ask should we be worried about parcels from Florida?

“Show me this snow-globe.”

The Reynolds lived in an old, terraced house, part of a row faced with a patchwork of external insulation, and similarly padded within. That’s the worst possible combination — a shiny new exterior over a maze of older material where pathogens and their transport can hide. As soon as Mary opened the front door it hit me — the certainty that this would be a long day, and the over-powering scent of dog. A soppy border collie snuffled at me, clearly too old and tired to jump, bark and check the stranger for snacks.

“Don’t mind Doris…” Mary patted the dog. “She’s just a bit low like the rest of us.”

I examined the snow-globe by eye and dropped it in a bag for more detailed inspection later. Mary pulled the packaging out of the recycling bags — a cardboard box, bubble-wrap, an outer layer of brown paper with all the postal service stamps and franking. I bagged everything.

“So, you opened the parcel Tuesday…?” I waited for a nod — we’d been over this, but it’s important to keep asking the same annoying questions in the hope of a sudden… no, wait, I almost forgot… “All the family together? And your husband got sick first on Saturday…?” Another nod, but then this was the easy, well-established detail. “And you called the doctor straight away that evening…?”

“Oh, yes. Straight away. As soon as the match was done.”

The match. Of course. Who cares what the sport was?

“So, straight away, after the match… so when did your husband actually get sick?”

“About lunchtime, I suppose. Feeling a bit hot, he said, but the match was starting…” I could see it in her eyes, the moment it clicked… if only she’d called the doctor sooner. “And then he got bit.” She waved at Doris — great, brown, soulful eyes… is it walkies time? “She’s overdue for her flea treatment, y’see? And he was scratching at the bite, and it went all weird and weepy, so I called the doctor and said it was an emergency, y’see?”

All weird and weepy — just the sort of secondary effects you get when those damned industrial fat-digesters get a grip on a human body. Those extra hours meant nothing. The lipofungus usually takes ten days plus to show symptoms, even in obese patients with a totally shot immune system. This took four.

I gathered up the evidence bags, patted Doris, and yes, she does need her flea-treatment. I scratched at a bite on my ankle and then stared at it– perfectly normal for a flea bite, but…

I patted the dog again and looked into those warm, canine eyes. I had missed the scattering of petechiae the first time.

“How old is Doris?”

“Two. Nearly three. Had her since she were a pup…”

A young dog, who ought to be full of life. I scratched that flea bite on my ankle again. So… Mister Reynolds got sick, got bitten, the flea then bit Doris… Lipofungus does not propagate like that. Just like it doesn’t colonise dogs, or humans with a robust immune system.

“Mary…fetch her lead.” I was in a hurry to get back. Figuring out how the lipofungus got transmitted could wait until I was dosed to the eyeballs with every anti-fungal known to medicine. This damn fungus was breaking all the rules.

“Doris, Doris… good girl… just put this on… good girl… damn fleas…”

Mary scratched a new bite, and then an old one on her arm. All weird and weepy. I noticed, but then I’m trained for this.

“Uh… Mary?” I had to ask the question. “How long have you had that?” I didn’t really hear the answer and had to ask again. Flea-bites — who would have thought it? The smart money in the office sweepstake was on mosquitoes as the next big carrier.

Mary, as skinny as a rake, and so obviously in the early stages of obesity-related lipofungus.
There was so much to do — quarantine the house, the whole Reynolds family, anyone who might have passed Doris in the park… and get myself treated, really, really fast. And time to rename this bug, because it clearly wasn’t obesity-related any more.

I’m too thin to die. I hope.



Writer Information - Before You Go!




This wonderful flash fcition Fat of the Land was written by Mark Huntley-James from England and was first experience at a live reading event organized by Virtual Futures before being published with Lore. Mark also has two books out on Amazon. If you loved his style, be sure to pop over and check out his novels; Hell of a Deal and Road To Hell to futher support his writing! You can check out Mark's Twitter page here for updates on his new releases!

Be sure to follow Lore over on Twitter too for our latest updates and follow us here on Blogger; never miss a new publication. Have a good day!

Monday, 18 November 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'The Song of Your Stars' A Poem by Stewart Storrar - Lore Publication

The Song of Your Stars

by Stewart Storrar




Image credit: Free-Photos via Pixabay



I am the voice of star struck poets,


The call of the enchanted singer,


The vision of the inspired filmmaker,


And the rhythm of bards alike.




What be I, I hear you ask?


I am everything and nothing,


The fate of a million dreams failed,


The destiny of a million more realized.

I am the wind to the sails of time,


The current to the waters of reality.




I am what you fear,
But also what you love.




I am life as you lead it.




I am the song of your stars.








This poem was written by Stewart Storrar, the founder of Lore Publication. With a love for poetry that dates back years into his high school days, Stewart has always been a keen poet as well as a keen creative writer. This poem was originally published by P.S. I Love You, an online medium publication that Stewart has also worked with in the past. Be sure to check them out too and enjoy! 



Want your Poems featured on Lore? Send us your submission now via email at: lorepublications.com


Monday, 11 November 2019

Poetry Mondays: 'Evanesence' A Micropoetry Collection by Stewart Storrar - Lore Publication

Evanesence: A Micropoetry Collection

by Stewart Storrar



a lens flare that looks like an eclipse
Credit: geralt via Pixabay




Live


Look to the ashes of what once was,
then to the foundations of what needs to be.
Build from the past, towards the future,
And don't lose too much along the way.




Only


Time is a unique enigma,
A resource of life one can never get back,
Yet a resource of life one can fail to spend.
Human nature is to want more of what we cannot have,
Yet time is never wanted,
Only wasted.




Sought


The pattern of love,
And the pattern of madness,
Are one in the same.

The love that drives us mad,
Is akin to the nature of madness,
In the loss of that which we love.

This is the true nature of love and loss.




True


From the depths of the deepest ocean,
To the crest of the tallest mountain.
The heart of the world awaits,
For those who are lost to discover.









This collection was written by Stewart Storrar, the founder of Lore Publication. With a love for poetry that dates back years into his high school days, Stewart has always been a keen poet as well as a keen creative writer. This week for Poetry Monday, Lore decided to put out something new; rather than one poem, we decided to collate some of Stewart's micro poetry into one post - enjoy! 


If you are looking to get poetry featured here on Lore, be sure to contact Lore via our email address or social media to talk more about it!




Monday, 4 November 2019

Poetry Monday: Our Tales by Stewart Storrar - Lore Publication

 Our Tales

by Stewart Storrar


sun rising over a beautiful scenic mountain landscape above the clouds
Credit: Dan Fador via Pixabay





Is it not that our tales are twined in the essence of fate?

Or are we merely pawns on the universal chessboard of life?

Maybe. But,

Fear not,
For it is watchful.

You have been chosen,
As have we all.



Are our stories forever told and twined?
Or do we carve our path like a river through a landscape?


What is love, if not a feeling?

Perhaps…
You may consider…


Love to be all that you want, all that you need,
Simply realized.


Realized in its purest form.

Or, if you like,
Or, if it likes,

Love is realized,
In our tales told.






Our Tales is a poem written by Stewart Storrar, the founder of Lore Publication. With a love for poetry that dates back years into his high school days, Stewart has always been a keen poet as well as a keen creative writer. Two weeks ago, Stewart ran a poll on Lore Publication's Twitter account and  you all spoke out! You want to see weekly poetry here on Lore as well as our articles and short stories. With that in mind, this is the second poem published for our Poetry Monday segments here on the website blog! If you are looking to get poetry featured here on Lore, be sure to contact Lore via our email address or social media to talk more about it!

Currently Lore is accepting any kind of poetry from dark, gothic poems to light haerted love poems (and all the good stuff in between). Get submitting!