Most of these stories originated from my LinkedIn / Goodreads writing group. They are limited to 750 words.
Short story from my writer's group on Goodreads. The man who speaks to the dead.
Reality—for the living—is a fragile thing, and those bent toward belief fiercely protect their version of it. It feels wrong of me to intercede. It feels wrong to leave it in a kaleidoscope of shards by speaking the truth. People want to view death as they view life—within their own frameworks. If I were to convey to them something different, I would be attacked. ... more »
That’s a starving slave talking. You walking too fast. We need a good set of eyes on the place before we march on up. You see freedom but they might see fugitive. —I decided to take a break from writing my next novel to participate in my writer's group. This is a story from it.
Rosa plays the numbers, punching invisible digits on the tabletop with a pinkish fingertip. A grin stretches across her face, eyes wide like she is conjuring dark magic. ... more »
A group of old liars tell tall tales
The old liars weren’t fazed by his story. They’d heard it all in their time. They examined the details and tried to smithy out something passable in it while the iron was hot. They knew Peet, knew him well. He’d peter out and lose interest before long, a lack of concentration, they reasoned. Lying, they told all who inquired, required stamina, experience and an intimate relationship with the lubricant Jose Cuervo. ... more »
Writer's Group story. The parameters: Observing a developing civilization and a near-death experience
Pink leaves tickled her arms and the forest floor of teal-covered grass was soft beneath her feet. The sea sounded distant though she knew it was just on the other side of the tree line. She smiled; The planet’s pungent smell—life, death, decay—was different from home but not in an unpleasant way. She stopped and raised her face to the warm sunshine that filtered through the canopy of trees. It transported her and she found she was young again, carefree and without the weight of adulthood and its many expectations. ... more »
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?
in category Life