Posts Tagged "short fiction"

Repairing the World

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

By the time Lila and Bridger arrived, the sitting room floor was already part savannah. Yellow grass grew on dirt where hardwood had once been. The border between grass and floor hissed and threw up sparks as the savannah crept towards the davenport on one side, the longcase clock on another and towards Lila on a third. On the fourth, the grass seemed to stretch through a wide hole in the far wall to a pale green horizon. The intrusion, however, couldn’t have breached the far wall yet. The house hadn’t collapsed. Lila ticked a mechanical dragonfly with the time, location, and the nature of this intrusion, wound it up then threw it into the air. Its wings blurred as it...

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The Cultist’s Son

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Short Fiction | 5 comments

“I used to think the sky would peel open,” the girl with the green hair confesses, curling black–nailed fingers around a can of Pabst. “I always had bloody knees, because I never looked down when I walked — I’d clasp my eyes to the sky, bracing myself for the sight of a gigantic hand pulling aside the clouds. If I saw Him coming, maybe I could pray hard enough in time for God to forgive me. Otherwise… Mom told me I’d burn like the whore I was. In sixth grade.” Her smile is shy, a crooked little secret that Derleth likes. He finds his own head bobbing in agreement, his body resonating to the tune of her broken childhood. The girl’s smile melts into a relieved grin; she’s...

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Steel Snowflakes in My Skull

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

My death smells like cold steel and hot vomit. I touch my head and feel the cranial cap tightly holding in the fragments of my skull. I also have three metal snowflakes in there. My chest is covered with those little surgeon masks, all rocking with my retch. I’m still tossing up. The anesthesiologist told me some people get violently sick. I laughed it off. I never get sick. Except when I’m dead. The neurosurgeon showed me the snowflakes before I went under. I’ve been dead three times now in my forty–eight years. As a kid I went through a windshield while my drunk father was hightailing it from a minor fender–bender, running from the cops. I was technically ghosted for...

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Perfect

by on Apr 1, 2014 in Short Fiction | 7 comments

Quinn hated everything. In infancy she hated first diapers, then dolls. Later she hated the school bus, her eagerly smiling teachers, insipid songs about scissor safety, and standing in line for soggy meat and cheese sandwiches she didn’t even want to eat. As an adolescent, she loathed other teens who pretended to hate everything but actually liked: shocking their parents with body piercings, drinking sickly sweet things that made them feel brave but act like cowards, and groping frantically in the back of cars. She hated her parents and the tiny sighs of relief they expelled as they waved, arms around each other, watching the train pull away from the station after she...

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Dispatches from the Revolution

by on Jan 7, 2014 in Short Fiction | 2 comments

Introduction to “Dispatches from the Revolution” This is my first attempt at alternative history* and it’s Mike Resnick’s fault. It was also nominated for a Hugo and he has never let me forget it, either. Mike was editing an anthology called Alternate Presidents, and insisted that I choose an election year. It was that or have him nudzhe me to death, so I yielded to the temptation to redo the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. Alternative history is hard. My hat is off to geniuses like Howard Waldrop who know and understand history well enough to second–guess how things would be if one event hadn’t happened and another one had… event after event after event. I sat...

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