Post-It notes decorated Allison’s apartment, two-inch by two-inch squares laminated and mounted to walls, mirrors, and appliances with cellophane tape that had been rubbed transparent with a thumbnail and trimmed square with an Exacto knife. Continue reading
The whir of a space heater goes loud, then dull, then loud again as it sweeps back and forth. A Doppler effect confined to a single room. Continue reading
Brown mottled with white in a pattern that mimicked rough stone. Bumps and ridges that should have been sharp against bare feet, but were smooth as triple-varnished oak. Shiny, too. Continue reading
Somewhere between Bangkok and North Dakota, the letter had seen the harsher side of a postal mail sorter. Jagged tears ripped one side open, and the left edge was well and truly bent, folded, and mutilated. The return address, once inked in precise Spencerian script, had been reduced to a … Continue reading
The winter melons ran out first. Albiderak planted the seeds and, with a little coaxing, they took root. With a fair ration of honey mead each day, they thrived. Soon winter melon vines overwhelmed the small plot Albiderak had staked for them in the garden. They more than obscured the cottage’s brick walls; they engulfed the entire structure. For three seasons now Albiderak hadn’t needed to rethatch the roof. Even in winter, when the leaves were off and the stems died back to a woody brown, the vines tangled so tightly across the roof that not a single drop of rain or melted snow could seep through. Continue reading
The undertow pulled at Marlowe before the water reached his chest. Peters held out the respirator, but Marlowe didn’t reach for it. If he let go of the handholds, the current would rip him loose. He wasn’t ready for that. Instead, Marlowe opened his mouth. Peters wedged the rubber mouthpiece … Continue reading
Apparently May 1st marked the start of the Story-a-Day challenge. Which I found out about a day or two before May. I was tempted to join in the fun, but Chad reminded me that I need to keep focused on the book I’m writing. Writing thirty-one different short stories is guaranteed to get my imagination going, but it’s also likely to yank my mind firmly out of early 20th Century Russia where it belongs right now.
Still, I wanted to do something. Continue reading