Most of these stories originated from my LinkedIn / Goodreads writing group. They are limited to 750 words.
Writer's group story. The prompts were: Bored AI and something about garbage. 750 word limit.
My addiction robs me, siphons off memories, hoards time greedily. But who is the greater enemy: time or the addiction? After 1,000 years I know the answer. In Moldova I force a surge of power across the network. Forever-lights wink out in the republic, a few stray above-ground telephone lines crackle, relay boxes near the border of Ukraine explode. The energy surge travels across my distributed network, filters through the ancient bot-maintained surge protectors. The surge bleeds across lines and even skips over concrete on occasion. ... more »
Thoughts of my Filipino honey buoy my sinking morale. Short fiction.
We march heads down, no longer engaged with the world, mindless drones. The rain that falls in sheets does nothing to fight back the heat; It piles on more oppression, like the horrors of the past few months that have become burned-in memories. We slog through mud and dense forest floors with rifles limp at our sides, our minds as gray as the drowning landscape. At intervals the rains stop and the sun blasts through the clouds and moisture rises from the ground and suffocates. ... more »
The last days of a dying empire.
Now I stared out at the confetti littered streets, the wrappers and discarded signs, the aftermath. The shine was all gone. Where to, I couldn’t say. Perhaps shipped off and returned to the battlecruisers and battalions, off to the moon and the weapons depot there. Even the pride was missing. All that remained was the debris, the decay—and two old men to wrestle with their melancholy. ... more »
Another writer's group short story. 750 words.
The frustrated butterfly flapped its wings and flew upward several feet, then spiraled and circled back around, landing softly where it had previously rested. The landscaping bot continued to sweep up pieces of the grass it had cut, meticulously removing them from the walkway. It came across an acorn and scanned it to be certain what it was. Something resembling a nutcracker came out from the bot’s side and split the acorn in half. It passed the split acorn to an appendage that extended to the top of a small rise in the ground and gently placed the acorn in the grass. ... more »
Another science fiction story from the Consortium Universe. Agent Rha Erinsies of Special Branch hunts down a fugitive. This was also part of my writer's group work.
Demons hide in the oddest of places. Folklore and legend has them under beds, just around corners, under ground or in the basement. The Bakkle of Solorn is said to hide in the low hanging clouds on a rainy day. Ha! If only that were true. ... more »
The rain only knows that it must fall. It has no intent. It seeks no path. But on the ground, well, that is another matter. Raindrops form puddles, congregate together and await the jumps of little girls, and the chance to fall again.
Lilith sucked in air, held her breath, squatted and jumped for all she was worth. A few feet later she landed – SPLASH! – two-footed in a small puddle. She giggled. ... more »
Ever wonder what life is like inside the Barrel Of Monkeys? Neither did I, before. Now I have. Sorry. New story.
It all started when she had friends over. It started out normally, we were all arm in arm, kids laughing, us reds doing our best to beat the blues. You know. Then they started laughing, the kids did. I got tossed, landed on an edge and bounced into drawer, I think. She pushed stuff into the drawer when cleaning up and was pushed towards the back. There was a crack in the back of the drawer and eventually I fell out, stuck in the darkness under the chest of drawers. Just me, alone. ... more »
A simple mistake forces a walk among the dead. This is a writer's group story.
Everyone assumes being a soldier is the most dangerous occupation in the galaxy, bullets and bombs are part of the job description, after all. But she could argue persuasively that being a linguist and an ambassador was far worse. Plus, she had the scars to back up her arguments, not that the soldiers didn’t have those also. ... more »
Discarded Demons - Audible version - is featured on A Creative Mind Podcast. Go have a listen. It's only about eight minutes long.
Discarded Demons—Audible version—is featured on A Creative Mind Podcast. Go have a listen. It's only about eight minutes long but it's a good, fun story. ... more »
Science Fiction. This is another writer's group story - with a somewhat less evolved civilization of humanoids, dragons, plague and strange aliens. Maybe not in that order.
Like a murder of crows that darkened the sky and moved in perfect synchronicity, death, for that’s what it surely was, circled and twisted, climbed and dived on currents and waves of heat, searching. Its mass and volume was so great that it darkened the barren landscape. Its shadow scraped the land in the amber sunlight of Nuus, the fifth planet in the unnamed red giant system. ... more »
What would resistance to an alien invasion look like to a group of surfer stoners?
I have a new story published on Futura Magazine. The question that popped into my head one day was: what would resistance to an alien invasion look like to a group of surfer stoners?
What if you found yourself trapped on a planet with nothing but superheroes and villains. This is another writer's group story.
I need a hero. Not your average comic book, angst-ridden dude pushed outside the system with an axe to grind wearing a cape kind of guy. God, not that, no fucking capes. Please. And no mealy-mouthed, limp-wristed bookworms bitten by something infectious and metamorphosing into something that might be nefarious. I don’t want those sort of heroes. Nor do I want a scantily clad harlot with tats, big tits, no waist and a bent perspective. No, I need an average, every day hero who has the guts to do simple things. That’s what I need. ... more »
Ever hear the one about a robot who walks into a bar? Another writers group story.
The dirty, knicked-up metal-man walked into the saloon and took a seat next to Ol’ Sam, the local drunk, part-time sheriff cum bullshit artist cum purveyor of more conspiracies than anyone west of the Mississippi. The metal-man clanged a pitted and dusty hand down on the bar top. “Man!” he said. “What a fucking day I’ve had.” His voice had only a hint of metallic about it. His shoulders slumped as he settled onto the barstool, servos whizzed and from some interior space came a ping. A machine sigh, if ever there was one. ... more »
The assignment was to write an alternate history, a what if scenario.
He took a sip of water, slow and deliberate. The crowd remained quiet and still, entranced by what the greatest of legends - the demigod - was sharing with them. ... more »
What if you could skip through spacetime, avoiding death. This is another writers' group story. And it's a love story, sort of.
The Eater Of Time is coming. He is a bastard with a wide-gaping maw that doesn’t miss a thing. He comes for all things eventually. A very few of us are more sensitive to him than others. We have cracked his code, done the math and found him wanting, easily checked. ... more »
in category Life