I’m trying out a new WordPress theme called “Andreas09”. My wife liked the old one, “Rubric”, with the pen on top, but I like having the two sidebars and customizable appearance. (Can you tell orange is my favorite color?)
I do miss the pen, though …
Amelia came home late from work and they were waiting, as they always were, on the bench in the foyer. From left to right: Nicholas, as young and handsome as his pictures in their wedding album; Fran, her round, bright-eyed face straight out of her school photo; and Gordon, the baby, smiling the same idiot grin that he’d worn throughout his first birthday party.
“You all waited up for me?” Amelia said as she hung her coat on a peg by the door. “That was sweet.” She hugged each of them in turn, then gathered them all up in her arms and carried them into the kitchen. She arranged them on the counter to watch her make dinner (nothing fancy, just baked beans and a hot dog) and then watch her eat it. “Not much of a feast, I know,” she told them, “but if you were having some, I’d cook something better.” Their faces were smiling, as they always were; they knew she wouldn’t make them eat beans every day.
After dinner and a glance at the television, it was bedtime. Amelia brought the three of them with her, placing the children on the shelf beside the dresser. Nick accompanied her into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and changed into her flannel bedclothes. Then it was back into the other room, the warm nightshirt swishing around her ankles. She told them good night and settled into bed, clutching Nick like a child would a teddy bear.
“Good night,” she whispered, into where his ear would be, if it were really him.
And so it went, night after night.
Continue reading “Silkscreen”
As originally written, “A Flock Of Crows” had a brief epilogue. Because of length considerations, the publisher cut a lot of material, including the epilogue. At least one reviewer then mentioned that he thought the book would have benefited from the inclusion of an epilogue (and I was like, “See, DarkTales?”) Now, through the magic of the Internet, you can read the missing epilogue and decide for yourself if it improves the ending. *** SPOILER ALERT *** |
A big “thank you” goes out to Chess Griffin at Linux Reality, a podcast for the new and not-so-new Linux user, for mentioning my site in his latest podcast! I’ve been a Linux user since about 2004 (originally using Mandrake, currently using Ubuntu) and highly recommend Chess’s podcast for anyone who’s using, interested in using, or just curious about Linux, a free, stable, secure alternative to Windows. You can even order a computer now with Ubuntu preinstalled, for example, from System 76 or Dell.
Consider Linux for your next machine. You might be surprised.
“Visions” is a story about a psychic who assists the police with catching a serial killer. I can’t say too much about it without giving away any important plot points, so I’ll just let it speak for itself. “Visions” appeared in the PDF-based magazine Blue Murder in May of 1999.When the sheriff came to Ada’s house, she was waiting for him on the porch, rocking slowly in her grandmother’s cane glider. Iced lemonade sparkled in a tall pitcher beside her, the droplets of condensation on the glass mimicking the perspiration glistening on her bare neck and shoulders. The sheriff parked his cruiser at the curb and walked slowly up the gravel path to the porch steps. “Afternoon, Ada,” he said. “Afternoon, Dan.” She picked up the pitcher and refilled her glass, then rubbed it over her cheeks and forehead. She took a sip through the limp paper straw. The flow of liquid caused it to stiffen. The sheriff watched from the front steps, just out of the brutal August sun. “Want some?” she said, proffering the pitcher. “Looks good, Ada, but no thanks.” He scuffed his foot in the gravel. “Hot as hell today,” he said at length. “Hotter.” Ada stretched a bare leg toward the railing, making her knee crack. “I’ve been expecting you.” “Yeah?” He gently kicked the front of the bottom step. Thump, thump, thump. “Guess you know why I’m here, then.” “Why, sheriff,” Ada said. “I expect it’s about the killings.” |
“Trailblazing” appeared in the webzine Grimoire in 1999. I wrote this story after taking a vacation in Shenandoah National Park. If you enjoy hiking and rustic cabins, this is a good place to visit, especially during the off-season; we went in early June, when it was still misty and cold in the mountains.
Just watch out for the witches.
Continue reading “Trailblazing”
“Organic Science” is a postapocalyptic tale set on an Earth that has been conquered by a race of reptiles, called “Lizzies” by the remnants of humanity who live as exhibits in zoos. In the original version, the Lizzies were intelligent dinosaurs who had used time travel to escape into the future; in the version that appeared as the January 1999 lead story in the magazine Not One Of Us, they had become aliens. Either way, they don’t waste much.The stink was particularly bad today. It was the heat; high temperatures stimulated the growth of the bacteria that gave the Lizzies their putrid, rotten-meat odor. In all fairness, he probably didn’t smell so good himself. Alistair kicked his feet in the lukewarm water of the pond. He took a drink of blackberry wine, then nearly choked on it as a bugship swept in and hovered overhead. The flying machine resembled a gigantic insect, with six spindly legs, multifaceted eyes, and membranous wings that split the sunlight like a prism. The downdraft rattled the heat-shrunken leaves, broke the surface of the pond into ripples, and kicked up stinging dust from the dry earth. Alistair shielded his eyes with his hand. After a moment the bugship zipped off, the buzz of its wings fading. Alistair shook his head, flinging grit from his hair. The surface of the pond was coated with dust and leaves. He remembered the first time he had seen a bugship, during the war, when they had made a desperate attempt to understand and replicate Lizzie technology. But their machines were completely organic, and decomposed rapidly when not maintained. Captured Lizzie equipment quickly became useless goo; not that they had ever captured much of it anyway. Because the Lizzies had won every battle, right from the start. |
Mrs. Barrett rises. “You don’t believe in it,” she says in a whisper, “but be careful. Listen to me! Beware the power of Satan.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Nate says. “We’re pure of heart and noble of purpose. Right, Frank?”
“Maybe you are,” Frank says.
They go back into the hallway. Mrs. Barrett shuts the door behind them and locks it four different ways as they head for the stairs. The air is just as rank on the fourth-floor landing as it was on the first, and doesn’t improve much as they climb. “Do you think we need backup?” asks Nate as they ascend the last flight to the rooftop door.
“Nah. For a bunch of kids? They got knives, we got guns.”
“But what about the power of Satan?”
Frank points to his groin. “I got the power of Satan right here. Now c’mon, or we’ll miss the Black Mass.”
He plowed into her, bore her backwards onto the bed. He was trying to kiss her; his lips, dry and cold and leathery, brushed hers, then mashed against them. She squirmed beneath him, trying to break the contact, but his hands shot up and gripped her head like the edges of a vise.
His mouth opened, forcing hers to open, too. She felt the first clammy, sticky bubbles of slime coming out of his throat, dribbling into hers. Salty mucous, gunk. She couldn’t breathe; he had gummed up her nose with snot, her mouth was full of it.
He wanted her to swallow, that was it; swallow, and breathe, and be like him …
I now have two short stories for sale at Amazon.com. Stories at Amazon retail for 49 cents and are split 60/40, which is a much better deal than authors usually get, at least the ones who aren’t famous (yet). Check them out — you can buy two for the price of an iTunes track, and they’ll take longer to read than it will to play a song.
One story, “Cuffs”, is about a couple of thugs who attempt the world’s strangest carjacking. To check it out, click here.
The other story is “The Crying Room”. This is a ghost story in the tradition of some recent, popular Japanese horror movie imports like “The Ring” and “Dark Water” (okay, “Dark Water” was hardly popular here, but still …) I wrote it years ago, before such movies started appearing. Hollywood finally caught up to me, I guess. Buy “The Crying Room” here.
Viscosity 