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Showing posts from 2017


The Dybbuk, a demon that takes possession of a recently deceased body came into this world, not through the magic of a shaman or any machination of the supernatural. The ancient monster was summoned by engineers, adherents to the faith of technological progress. It was in state of the art laboratories where the dark art of possession was mastered and by people who openly disdained esoteric cultural relics from the infancy of civilization. It was through the machinations of technology that this malicious supernatural force materialized as a nanomachine no larger than a flea. It was no aberration but a creature composed of rare earth metals and silicone. The same malignant shadow growing out from the pit of the human spirit that facilitated the creation of the Dybbuk also ignited the desire to use it and see its effects. Folly begot folly, and the Dybbuk intended for a little-known intelligence officer found its way into a host that gave it the power to unleash apocalyptic consequenc
I got my copy of the Retrospective zine from Palm Sized Press ! It features one of my stories  as well pieces from close to a dozen other authors all in a booklet the size of a cd cover! Remember those things?


The flashlight's beam rested on the white painted wall. Juan gripped the wooden hammer of the sledgehammer. The visor on his gas mask impaired his peripheral vision, so he turned to make sure he was clear to swing. The hammer smashed through the wall, and a plume of dust dispersed through the air. Juan struck several more blows until the hole had turned into a man-sized gash. The flashlight illuminated the rift revealing a hub of piping and wires. "Hey Juan we need your help down here man!" the radio crackled Places die in much the same way as the people who compose them. Growth stalls and begins to give way to decline, then all that's left is to wait for the physical remains to erode into dust under the pressure of times constant and steady current. The place was a town called villa park, a place that, at its peak, supported between thirty-five and forty thousand inhabitants. Still, Villa Park's death hadn't been a gradual process outlined recognizable mil


“Don’t look directly at the light!” This was the repeated warning the soldiers were given before they were loaded up onto flatbeds and driven to a remote patch of desert. There were sandbag covered holes waiting for them. The troopers obediently crouched in their shallow ditches in the sand and waited. They had heard stories about how the flash melted eyeballs and the heat seared the flesh. They saw pictures of shadows imprinted on stone by atomic obscura. The featureless black human outlines were all that remained of the people touched by the light. The desert air was dry but pleasantly mild, and the mood among the men was one of cautious optimism. Some seemed entirely at ease even excited about what they were about to witness while others quietly sat and stared sand. Their heads trained upwards as they watched the trail of white smoke streaking across the unblemished blue sky. The order came and the soldiers squatted in the foxholes. They collectively held their breath and waited

Ashes to Ashes

Shelly Stone’s life had come to an end some time ago there were still some residuals of her corporeal existence scattered around a pocket of isolated ruins, remnants of a civilization that was in the early stages of its terminus during Shelly’s life. In those days Shelly had been an author of modest acclaim. Her relative obscurity never bothered her though. Of course, she craved the praise and notoriety all artists desire, but she took solace in the fact her providence had been the written word. The pages her voice were printed on would long outlast her, and in that way she had contributed something to the collective cultural wealth of society and species at large and it was this knowledge that was her final comforting thought. The forgotten place Shelly spent the latter half of her life was withered by time and neglect. The abandoned structure that had been her home was a gutted corpse made of brick. The empty window frames faced the world like a hollowed skull with a quiet emptiness

Playing War

The damp foxhole eight-year-old Peter was crouched in had been punched into the dirt road by a solitary shell, possibly misfired from a gun of monstrous proportions. It was a grey early spring morning. The snow had turned into a cold rain, but Peter was not perturbed by the icy water seeping into his tattered shoes or the face-numbing blasts of wind. He kept his eyes fixed on the edge of the forest, sporadically pulling the trigger of an imaginary machine gun to cut down wave after wave of snarling Russians as they emerged from the trees. "Na na na na na," the boy chattered to simulate the sound of machine gunfire. "Reload!" He shouted before pulling the invisible bolt back to resume firing. "Na na na na!" "How's the defense of our village going, soldier?" Peter looked over his shoulder and saw two soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders. Each of them clenched a burning cigarette between their lips. Their gray uniforms were baggy, and

Idle Time

At the age of sixteen, Justin didn't have the emotional capacity for anything eschatological. As an organism, he was in the growth phase of life, not yet in its prime. The end was so far out of sight for Justin that, to him, the concept of dying was so abstract he considered it to be more of a possibility than an inevitable conclusion. Armageddon was a term with a definition he knew in the academic sense, but in practice, the destruction of civilization was not a set o circumstances his developing mind could adapt to much less comprehend. Even as he lay in bed playing a game that immersed him in the charred remains of a city infested with bandits and irradiated monsters. This far bleaker reality existed above the layers of rock and steel. The global typhoon of fire immolating the word was the last light on Earth, and once it burned out, all that would be left was the cold dark shroud of nuclear winter. Besides the move to the underground quarter's world war, three hadn't

Long Live The Emperor!

The old man paced back and forth, the time it took to cover the eight feet between the faded white walls was extended by his shuffling pace. He ran his bony fingers through his wire-thin white hair and mumbled into the stale air of the sparsely furnished room. “Block the sea lanes and deploy an airborne force behind their defensive line!” he ordered his phantom military chiefs. “I want airstrikes covering the landings,” he added decisively. The whithered geriatric issuing orders to an empty room was a decaying relic that had the misfortune of outliving his purpose. His dissolving mind kept him living in a world of memories a waking life closer to a dream than reality.  He spent his dwindling existence conversing with ghosts and fighting battles long since won and lost. Empires devoured Emperors, but he had outlived the intrigued and vanquished his foes, and now when it was most apparent he couldn't understand what a misfortune that may have been. The end of his reign was anticlim


Commerce, education, and most importantly, the creation, distribution, and consumption of information previously human endeavors had been usurped by the alternate digital universe. A realm that is the sum of every digital device that keeps its human users connected to the rapidly encroaching reality of an omnipresent network that bound the world in its fiber-optic web. The world, once a place far too large and complex for any single human to understand, could be condensed and reshaped into something for rapid electronic consumption. Information drowned out reality. Inevitably the masters of the information industry engineered a final break between the physical world and the world of information, and that's when Crystal Ball was born. "It's an AI program designed to generate news twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." Adam explained to the little camera lens embedded on his laptop." With a click of the mouse, the 33-year-old programmer turned whistle-blowing

One Step Ahead

Cassius was on his hands and knees frantically crawling through the long grass as it gently swayed in the late summer breeze. His horse was standing on the side of the stone road indifferently grazing while his rider muttered and cursed. Cassius was a messenger who had been charged with delivering the most valuable trophy in the whole of the empire. Failure would mean death.  Of course not before some unimaginably cruel torture that could only be devised by the sort of minds suited to wield imperial power. He looked at the empty bag with its lose rope that was meant to hold it shut limply hanging to the side. He threw it on the ground in frustration and stomped it into the dirt. He couldn’t understand how the knot had even come undone. It had to be the work of sadistic gods who of all the people in the world seemed to take a particular delight in tormenting him. This final bit of mischief was their grand finale, and surely they’d be chuckling as they watched his head roll along the m


About seven years ago two stories I submitted were printed by an Australian based literary magazine called Skive. Just a few months later more of my work was accepted by a publisher in Scotland and another in Kentucky. That’s when I knew the first time hadn’t been just a fluke! From then on I wrote as much as I could and submitted work anywhere I could. As it stands, my work has been printed in 11 different volumes and has been featured in numerous ebooks as well as distributed on literary-themed websites. I try and be as industrious as possible and strive for at least two short stories a month. Usually, these are about 1,000-3,000 words. I have no plans to commit myself to a novel my style just works best at that length. So take a look at my work. If you donate , you have my undying gratitude! Even if you don’t but at least comeback and see what I’ve written from time to time that would be greatly appreciated as well.

Crimson Dust

The distant world with its surface of crimson dust was like a blood-stained ornament hanging in the heavens that attracts with a magnetic force the violent impulses woven into the superficial artifice of the reasonable human being. That macabre association perhaps just as much as reasonable proximity was what compelled the mightiest civilization to seek a new home in the bosom of their celestial god of war. Justin was just eight years old, but from the time his developing brain was able to understand language, it was filled with fantastical tales about the great utopia their ancestors built among the stars. Despite the naivety of his age he never had any reason to doubt the ability of his forebears to accomplish such a feat. He grew up in the ruins of a world they had abandoned because it was no longer good enough, and the civilization they had discarded was far beyond anything Justin’s people could being to comprehend let alone hope to ever match in any regard. In just a few hours

Murky Water

The three-story house of paper and wood with its multiple slanted pitched roofs, square windows, and sliding doors was built in the traditional Japanese style. Despite the delicacy of the structure it had somehow survived the storm of fire the conquering army had rained down on the rest of the country. Ornamental paper lanterns were strung up along the front of the building, and a bulky gas-powered generator kept the interior so brightly lit the electric yellow glow cast distorted human silhouettes on the paper doors. It was a bastion of decadence and debauchery that stood out in stark contrast to the charred landscape where limbless beggars quietly held up empty wooden bowls, and emaciated war orphans scavaged any sustenance they could from the growing piles of refuse choking the streets.   Dejected masses of disbanded imperial soldiers with no army and no home drank themselves to death regretting having missed their only opportunity for an honorable death. The balmy summer air was th


The convoy of 18 wheelers racing along the road were nestled between armored humvees. Painted across the black metallic doors in bold font colored a steel blue was the name Hawkwood. Gunners stood half emerged from their steel-plated watching ahead with vigilant eyes tightly gripped the handles of their mounted .50 Cals. UAVs hovered silently overhead, stalking the ground below for any prey that might scurry into its panoramic field of vision.  Every now and again, they passed a boarded-up building. Usually, a gas station or a rest stop derelict buildings that had been abandoned long ago—decaying reminders of a sprawling, interconnected civilization that had been carved and dismembered. LT Col Levinson, formerly of the marines, was the commanding officer of the convoy. His extensive military career was spent on the receding boundaries of a crumbling empire.  Once retired from the military, he went to work for Hawkwood. It was similar work, with more than three times the pay and the add

Hope Floats

The billowing ebony storm clouds swallowed the moon and the stars. Jagged bolts of lightning stabbed at the swelling waves, and the hot white flashes illuminated the line of ships bobbing helplessly in the angry sea. Yamagata seemingly indifferent to the lashing rains was hunched over by his antenna trying to find any signal in the howling wind. “Goddamnit!” Yamagata shouted with frustration as he threw the antenna down at the ground. Sebastian was worried. He had never seen Yamagata lose his composure like that before. It was a clear sign things were not going as planned. “Let’s just try a little longer,” Sebastian suggested. Yamagata sighed and picked the antenna up and started maneuvering it around. Pillars of lighting fell from the heavens illuminating the forlorn armada. The massive warships were lifted by swelling waves and dropped back into the water. Dozens of glowing lanterns appeared in the darkness just beyond the water reaching up from the shoreline. The collection of