Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Starting Locations For Sci-Fi Novels

Today, I'll be leading you toward a Google Maps essay that I made for Digital Magazine Production last semester (you should be seeing a pattern in my posts of the last few months, haha). It takes you around the globe for small blurbs on various science fiction novels from the past two hundred years or so.

Friday, August 17, 2018

A Meditation On the Night Sky

"A Meditation On the Night Sky" is a creative nonfiction essay that I wrote this winter for my Digital Magazine Production class.

Friday, June 29, 2018

Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days

Today I'm direct-linking to my story "Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days" from my Planetside Literary solo magazine project of the last semester. You can listen to me reading the story here. You can read the text here.

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.