As Tar and Soot

It's been a while. Yeah. College got pretty busy, and the blog was one of the first things to go this time around, unfortunately. I'm back today with one last link from my Planetside Literary project. Here is my sci-fi flash fic "As Tar and Soot." I'll hopefully have some new content for this blog in the near future. Maybe. We'll see.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

The Cultivation of Relationships

Here's an article I wrote the last week of 2017 about building better relationships with people.

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.