Bookshelf
“Other Sister”: Stupefying Stories, October 2011 Issue
Soup becomes a much harder task with only two fingers. It’s tricky to pinch the spoon and keep it steady, especially with my hair tumbling past my eyes. I reach up to brush away my matted curls, regretful of the lacking ear that once kept the strands at bay. The grandfather clock counts the empty seconds in the dining hall as I muss about.
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“Prophecy Negotiations”: Space Squid, Issue 10 (September 2011)
I’m a farmboy and a jackass: They exist, I assure you. And they’re all still alive, I can assure you of that, too. Thing is, we don’t go parading off with the first wizard that waltzes into town, offering up prophecy and the like. No, that’s a do-gooder mistake. Half of those rookie do-gooders end up dead, and I’m of the belief that the other half deserve to.
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“From Alexandra to Amberglow”: Ray Gun Revival, Volume 2, Issue 8 (September 2011)
Allie’s mind was immersed in a simple, solitary thought: I never knew red was red.
The target freighter was enveloped in a brilliant fireball; crimson shrapnel left screeching marks against the darkness of space. She was caught for a moment, losing herself in the emerging patterns, wrapped in each detail of the explosion. Time slowed to the gentle pace of a flower’s bloom; her new eyes refused to let go.
“Stranded (with Pork Chop)”: Electric Spec, Volume 6, Issue 3 (August 2011)
Slowly, slowly, the pork chop turned in the microgravity.
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“The Pale Farmer”: Every Day Fiction, May 3rd, 2011
The moon caught the garden in its grasp, outlining the vegetables in blue twilight. Victor strode between the rows, his hawk eyes scanning the crop. Slowly he bent, fingers drifting towards the soil, hovering over a burgeoning weed. His eyes closed, his mouth pressing silent letters, the weed wilted away from his hand, curling into a dried husk.
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“Re: The Peace Treaty”: Everyday Weirdness, September 18th, 2010
To wit: It is not expected that your children (and I do use the word children, as my studies indicate it carries a greater positive connotation than ‘offspring’) grasp the English language the moment they exit the womb. Why, to expect such a thing would be considered preposterous by your own standards. Yet, for reasons I cannot understand, and which may be more indicative of a gap in my own knowledge, it is expected for our children to behave differently.
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“Full Circle”: Every Day Fiction, September 12th, 2010
I didn’t know quite what to expect when I arrived. Even more, I wasn’t quite sure why I came. To cheer him on? There was no ‘him’ anymore.
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“The Unseen”: Pill Hill Press: Haunted (An Anthology), July 2010 ed.
I remember the first night I tried to look. I remember my son John coming home from school, finding the innards of his German Sheppard splayed across the driveway. ‘Some animal did it,’ the police said. I knew and said nothing.
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“Origin: Primal”: This Mutant Life, July 2010 ed.
Adlan planted a tired foot outside of the city limits, his legs taking the final step beyond the pavement. The landscape opened to a view of the encroaching desert; fetid heat rolled from the sands towards the city walls, scorching the struggling greenery.
Adlan sighed, lowering his once strong shoulders, letting his hands fall upon the parched grasses. They felt brittle to his touch, their life tortured in the ever warming months. It had not always been this way. But time had stripped him of his youth, and in turn, the land had followed his path.
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“The Hole”: Golden Visions Magazine, April 2010 ed.
William sidled from foot to foot, casting furtive glances between the gaping maw ahead of him and the wrinkled man beside him.
“Twenty bucks, that’s it?” he asked of the old man.
“When ya get yer own hole, yucan charge what ya want.” The old man smiled his toothless grin, grizzled gums splitting his face in two. “We got sum waitin’,” he continued, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, “iffin ya got secund thaughts.”
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“Passerby”: Writing Shift, April 2010 ed.
“Just like that?” she asks, voice soft and sultry.
I turn to watch her rise, covers falling around her waist, dark hair spilling down her back. Bare, she faces me, lips pursed upon amusement, not contempt. It is a new scene to me, and with utmost curiosity, I pause.
“It’s past time,” I reply. Things have sped up once more; an hour is an hour, a day is a day. Time has found me again. Novelty has worn.
