Thursday, June 7, 2018

Jade

There is a luster
to dreaming
as of light
glinting from jade.
Depth is
repressed,
a shallow pool
of solid ice.

An oval rink
lies frozen there,
awaiting
another lap, or
perhaps a spin,
in a world
that you know
but can only reach
from atop thin blades
of memory
and future
and fright
and wonder,

leaving life
jaded
by comparison.

Monday, May 7, 2018

Until Dawn

[Note: This story was originally an entry in the 66th round of the weekly Microcosms flash fiction contest. It was written based upon these three prompts: Jazz singer, Steve Jobs' garage, Tragedy. This is one of my odder stories structurally, but I've been fond of it since its penning a little over a year ago.]

            Duke hadn’t known that he was in Steve Job’s garage until long after he’d died. Or perhaps it’d been just a few minutes following. It didn’t matter much to a ghost, even if he did come out to haunt from time to time, crooning in his fetid bass.
            Whiskey Sunshines until dawn had always felt classy to Duke, even as they slipped down his throat. He’d liked to think they loosened his vibrato. It’d always helped him with the blues, that much was for sure.
            Jobs was dead, of course, years before Duke had broken into the genius’ garage. He talked to him sometimes. Jobs was a pleasant ghost, if a bit uneducated.
            There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. The girl had shot him, and he had crumpled to the ground: clutching, then dying.
            Dying is like alcohol. It makes you feel loose, but you always regret it the next day, even if you don’t.
            Duke remembered the look in her eyes. She’d hit a note and belted: cawing, then noticing it was dearly, horribly wrong. Duke spoke with her ghost too, from time to time.
            She always began with an apology and ended with a drink.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Planetside Literary

First, I will point out that I finally updated my Blogger photo. Yes, I know that Blogger crunched it and it's blurry, but I kind of like it like that, so it'll stay that way for at least a little while, haha. I was a senior in high school when my old photo was taken, and I just finished my junior year of undergrad the day before this photo was taken (which also happens to be today!).

It's probably a questionable decision to release so much of my unpublished work at once, through the link which will be following soon, but I feel good about it. I'm willing to give up on the chance of publishing these pieces elsewhere in order to have some excellent content on here.

Without further ado, I present to you my solo magazine that I created for my Digital Magazine Production class this semester: Planetside Literary. The only previously-published written content in the "magazine" is my story "The Last Photo of Humanity," which can be read a few different places on the web, both in its original contest entry form and in its revised Digital Portfolio form.

Since I don't expect anyone to read everything I've published here all at once, I'll be suggesting certain pieces to read every once in a while over the next month or two. The first piece up is my sci-fi flash fiction piece "As Tar and Soot." I don't know that this story ever found its full potential, but it's one of my personal favorites, and I'd love to know what y'all think about it. And by "y'all," of course, I mean the two or so people who currently read my blog, haha. Anyway, peace out, good friends. More suggestions from my web magazine to come. (Though you can read ahead if you really want to.)

Monday, April 16, 2018

Friday, January 12, 2018

Not a Herald, Just a Boy

[Note: It's been quite a while since I last posted a story here, so I've decided to let this one slip from the slush-pile parade, to reside here forever.]

            My comforter suddenly felt very heavy at my feet. I turned over. By the age of eighty you have gotten used to such nighttime oddities.
            A chill sprung up on the back of my neck. I tugged my blanket up over it. The cold came again, penetrating straight to the bone. My body went rigid.
            “Wake up, and face your end.” It was a young voice, but gurgled, as if spoken through a mouthful of water.
            I burrowed into my pillow. Nighttime oddities.
            “Don’t be afraid,” said the voice. I felt a hand on my back. It was warm, in stark contrast to the frigid breath pouring down on me.
            I reached up for my spectacles. The moon let a thin pool of light in through my window, just enough to see the silhouette. Despite the darkness, the form owning that awful voice was distinct. Its cloak was black, so black it glowed. Its face was chalky. And familiar.
            The Grim Reaper smiled. He held no weapon, so far as I could see. But his sea-green eyes sent terror into my heart. “Hello, Grandpa.”
            “Thomas.” I shut my eyes and begged for this dream to end.
            “Put your hand on my chest. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I just want you to feel something.”
            His breathing did not cease. I placed my shaking hand out to touch his ribs. Then the bone fell away. My hand went damp.
            “I was so excited to finally go fishing with you grandpa. My parents were worried at first. What made this time different, that you finally gave in to my pleading? They were only a little surprised when they received the news that I had drowned. An accident, of course.”
            “Wake up. Wake up now,” I muttered.
            “I gave you a year grandpa. To atone. To feel a single shred of guilt.” I felt his hand on my chest.
            “You are the Reaper, Thomas? Herald of the Dead?”
            “I am your Reaper, grandpa. Not a herald, just a boy.”
            My chest softened. I fought to breath. But it did no good. My lungs were sandbags full of the water.