This story was originally published in Theme of Absence on October 11, 2014.
The call came just after midnight. A thousand mind-liquefiers had been found in shipping containers on Pier 62.
“A thousand,” I repeated into the phone.
As Chief of Police Special Tactics, I was never supposed to show fear, but I’d be lying if I said that my voice didn’t tremble a bit.
I was at the pier in fifteen flat. This was 1936, mind you, and getting from Depot Junction to the waterfront in less than half an hour was no easy task.
Hart stood alone at the pier when I arrived. He was young, twenty-three or twenty-four I guess, but he was honest, and that’s what really mattered. …
I’ve been studying the Russian language for over two years. The progress (or lack thereof) has been frequently painful and rarely rewarding.
I’m fascinated by the Russian language for reasons I can’t fully explain. I don’t have any practical reason to study the language. I don’t even have any concrete plans (nor even vague ones right now) to visit Russia.
Russian literature is among my favorite of the world’s literatures. Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls is a work of genius that has continually amazed me from my very first read. I also find the Russian alphabet fascinating for some inexplicable reason.
Still, all those explanations considered, it’s really a mystery to me why I feel so drawn to master Russian. …
Right about now there’s a few dozen Hell Hounds stuck inside my sigil trap about 300 feet into the desert off Interstate 15.
I know this even though I can’t see it because I’m the one who laid the sigil trap, and my sigils never miss. If I manage to survive this epoch, or God willing manage even to stop the Virus, then it will because of that simple fact — my magick never flops.
I may not be very keen with the big booms and rituals, but I’m as reliable as it gets with what I’m good at. Sticking to what one knows is a rare virtue among sorcerers, who are generally easily bored and irrationally ambitious. …
As I lie here in my car on this back desert road, hoping for sleep while fearing sleep, I can’t help but wonder at the strange course that brought me here.
I take responsibility for all the terrible things I’ve done, yet I cannot deny that there seems to have been a magnetic force pulling me to my current station throughout my life. Something outside myself.
I was only six years old when I had the dream that shaped my destiny.
In the dream was a man with hands covered with living eyes. He greeted me in a red room atop a Medieval tower. …
I’m on the road. Or, as some might say it, “on the run.”
Shadows have infested my home. It wasn’t safe for me there, anymore. They were closing in on me, as I knew they would. The owls were at the windows. I had to escape.
Into the world I go, then. Into this bleak landscape of boarded-up storefronts and suspicious eyes narrowed over masks, sneers concealed at last. Psychic rot. Flaccid dragons.
The hate-virus spreads. It’s in me, too. I hate everyone for hating everyone, which is of course why they started hating everyone else in the first place. This is the cycle we’re trapped in. …
My name is Magnus Cray. I suspect that this diary will prove to be my final testament. They’re closing in on me. I can feel it.
Right now, the entire civilized world is locked down, ostensibly due to a viral pandemic. The truth, however, is far more horrific than anything the news is saying or anything that the people fear.
I tried to fight it. I’ll continue fighting it. Failure, however, is a foregone conclusion. So be it. I knew the price I’d pay for my resistance. I have no regrets.
But fear is a thing of the flesh. It’s in the nerves. Even if I have mentally and spiritually accepted my fate, my base animal brain has not. So it is that I tremble as I write these words. …
The print version of this drabble was first published in Adlers Writing.
I’ve now made an audio version of this. It’s some goofy zaniness intended for adults and kids alike.
I figured everyone could use some of that in these modern times.
Part 12 is HERE.
Joe poked his mug up over the side of the boxcar and feigned fear in order to draw the first mantisoid towards him in blind, stupid hunger. An excited light flashed over the thing’s pseudopupils as its spiny raptoriales clattered faster and louder over the car’s metal roof.
Joe waited until the split-second before the alien’s mouth crunched over his head to drop down and let the thing’s momentum take it sailing in a frantic arc over him as he hung from the boxcar’s side by his fingertips. The fallen creature hit the ground at high speed and bounced up and down several times as parts of its exoskeleton broke open with spurts of green goo. …
I originally published “The Dancer Versus the Mustache” here on Medium back in 2018. Now, I’ve done a spoken word version of the story.
I only know one way to do anything in life, and that’s though trial and error, which basically means I do it badly over and over again until I can do it well. That’s what I’ve done here.
I’ll get better.
Part 11 is HERE.
Joe had hopped a train car or two in his day, but this one was going to be the big-daddy of them all. It was most certainly was.
Barreling across the switchyard in the dead railroad-bull’s pickup truck, he stomped the pedal to the floor and got the speedometer’s needle pushing up angrily against the 45 mile-per-hour max limit mark. Keeping the vehicle at that speed, he kicked open the driver’s side door and positioned himself outside far as he could go and still press the gas.
The train had a head start, and Joe knew he couldn’t catch up to the engine. He’d have to settle for the last of the two boxcars — the one with the gigantic Big Eater alien beast inside. That was just fine by him, truth be known, because he’d been itching for a shot at the monster ever since first laying eyes on it. …