STORIES & ESSAYS
Lot 121: Memory artifacts harvested from a willing human host in full compliance with regulations. Ideal for collectors, spellworkers, and totemic practitioners. Proof of provenance assured. All sales binding.
It’s the third month of school and you are overreacting. Things have been fine. This is a lie you tell yourself. Sometimes it even works, but yesterday your son, seven years old and sensitive to all things, was sent home from school after a failure to regulate.
An Interactive Fiction
for Brad, March 2020, on his Birthday
It's coronation time in an industrial Empire. In keeping with tradition, the Heir has spent a year searching out a very particular, mysterious artisan to craft the right crown.
The Glassblower of Galilei
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
The woman who comes in is no lady nor a lord, but my master sucks air between his teeth and nods at her with a respect he doesn’t show ladies or lords either.
The Future Fire
She hasn’t made his lunch. This follows the night they ate delivery for dinner again. They ate it out of the cartons while she and the man fought about laundry and the topic neither mentions by name.
'Small, Wet, with angry Bipeds': Review from RateThatPlanet.Feed.MW
Daily Science Fiction
Galaxy: Milky Way
Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
This planet had almost no reviews, so here's the one I wish I'd had before I came for a quick weekend. I had a decent time here, but there are some things you should know.
The changeling boy goes to space in a ship of his own making. Late at night, as the house sleeps, he labors over steel and circuits in his father’s garage.
To open with the unexpected: I've taken to maps again. You remember maps?
Remember that you are a “gamer girl.” Act accordingly. Choose a handle with the right sound. You may use the feminine “a” but nothing too aggressive or sexy.
Language of the Gulls
Louisa Mae quotes the scripture: “The earth was formless and empty.”
We’re walking on the beach and Louisa Mae is moving slipshod through the sand, her ankles bowing and creaking, arms askew like a scarecrow girl. The hem of her skirt is snapping against the sea air and she looks back over her shoulder, but not at me.
Behind the mask Marilyn’s eyes dart, scanning one side of the Garden and then the other, taking in the singing Sisters with their hidden hands and the girls bent over the vegetable beds. The voice of the bees hangs everywhere in the golden afternoon. So do the bees.
It’s Friday night. My 11-year-old son has been pinned against a crumbling stone wall by a Viking named Olaf, a wicked axe gleaming in each oversized hand.
Things take the time they take. Don't worry.