Tag: Short Stories
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Shell Script Town
In the neon-drenched shadows of Shell ScriptTown, where wires twist like the fingers of old gods, and protocol rules with the iron fist of a soulless algorithm, the Tire is no longer a simple rubber circle. It has become GhostTown—a sprawling urban wasteland where bits and bytes float like tumbleweeds. Tires, once full of air…
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The Tower
Act I: The Creation Ennio leaned over the glowing holographic drafting table, his fingers tracing the edges of a spiraling design that floated midair. In the dim light of his studio, the city outside shimmered like a restless constellation, its towers clawing at the sky in jagged competition. His studio, a sleek capsule perched above…
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Time Travel
Bartholomew “Dutch” Doobin, a man whose name seemed perpetually on the verge of dissolving into a cough, stood there, knees wobbling like malfunctioning gyroscopes, at the “bottom” of the world. The air, a fistful of shattered diamonds, stung his lungs with each gasping breath. Below his crampons, the white expanse stretched, a canvas upon which…
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The 52 Hertz Whale
The Pacific stretched monolithic beneath a bruised twilight, an oil slick sheen reflecting the sodium glare of distant tankers. Below, in the cobalt fathoms, a solitary whale, its species a cypher, sang its mournful aria. At 52 Hertz, its call was a discordant shriek in the whale orchestra, a blues note in a symphony of…
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Potemkin Villages
Dimitri, adrift in a post-Tsarist Odessa, pulled the collar of his peacoat tighter against the greasy wind whipping off the Black Sea. The city, once a bustling port adorned with the whimsical flourishes of Czarist excess, now resembled a haphazard collage of faded grandeur and revolutionary scrawl. Crimson banners with Cyrillic pronouncements of the new…
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Rewind
Alocatia Avenue adjusted the starched gingham dress clinging uncomfortably to her ample curves. The humidity hung heavy in the California air, a shroud threatening to unravel the picture-perfect facade of her suburban nightmare. Her neighbor, Woody Stuck, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow rivaled the deepest trench in the Marianas, ambled over, a checkered-print apron…
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The Damaged Portions of Returning Planes
Frankie “The Wrench” Fritsch wasn’t exactly Army material. Sure, he could strip down a Packard in under ten minutes flat, eyes closed, fueled by a cigarette and a lukewarm cup of joe. But ordnance manuals and parade drills? Not his cup of tea. Except, these days, tea was a luxury reserved for officers and their…
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The White Whale/The House of Usher/VITRIOL
THE WHITE WHALE I inhaled the tang of brine and decay that clung perpetually to the Spalding Yard, the LAPD’s maritime branch moored in the belly of San Pedro. “I’m Captain Scotland of the Spalding Yard,” I rasped, my voice seasoned by harbor dust and nights spent chasing down leads that evaporated like the morning…