Dime Novels From Oblivion

In the present conflict is created, in history, it is recognized, and in the future, there is a reckoning. Of course, the future then becomes the present, which then becomes the past. Floundering in this current are the countless souls kicking their legs with futility beneath the surface unit they inevitably sink below. They are powerless to change the course but do make significant ripples. Of course, these concentric circles spreading out over the water’s surface are merely superficial. One such wavelet was triggered and set on its dissipative journey in a State courthouse after the passing of a very wealthy man. Upon his highly publicized death, many contenders came to stake a claim to the wealth he was compelled to leave behind. Soon it came down to only two families. The first carried the deceased’s name, Bowlin. The second family, the Doutrives had a bastard son, but the boy was older than any of the Bowlin boys and to the presiding judge that had to count for something. The ar

The Crusader army had degenerated into a collective of scavengers living among growing piles of emaciated corpses. The parched soil under their feet dried into dust that swirled in the sunshine like bile colored snow before gently falling onto forsaken fields that cultivated only corpses. Razoul had made a fortune gouging the Crusaders. The price of simple staples inflated to sums only the princely could afford, even then only briefly.  A hen carcass and six eggs were all that remained of Razoul's inventory. Just as well. Razoul had more than enough gold now. The way to the Crusaders camp was crowded with soldiers turned beggars. They kneeled in the dirt, holding out open hands. Razoul avoided the gaze of these living corpses who had given up on begging God and were now pleading with him. They were answered with a cloud of dust. Only three Noblemen came to see Razoul's wares, this market was squeezed dry. "This is the last of my stock," Razoul said dangling th

It was a balmy summer day in the capital. The stagnant waters may have been drained over two centuries ago, but the densely saturated air of the swamp still lingered. It was just after five pm, the streets and avenues connecting the white-pillared structures that embodied the institutions of the republic were clogged with irritable commuters who were being kept at a complete standstill. The more obnoxious hostages of the gridlock honked in frustrated futility. Still, the ones stuck on the ramps of the multi-level parking garages couldn't see the hulking war machines that had effectively boxed in the entire city. The idling behemoths loomed at every intersection. The wave of people making their daily exodus from the capital was bottled up at these armored barricades. The crewman operating the heavy machine guns perched on the front of the tanks looked down on the gathering crowds of functionaries with frizzled hair and sweat-stained clothes with the trained eyes of alert guards. Th

A more accurate title for this might be: "My entry for a competition where contestants must write a story about time travel in 50 words or less" Here is the link to their submissions page if you'd like try your luck: http://scottishbooktrust.com/reading/the-50-word-fiction-competition The atomic tapestry of existence was eviscerated by paradox, and all it took were the efforts of one pioneering inventor who built his apocalyptic creation with nothing but the best intentions. No one would ever know what happened. All that is was and ever will be vanished into nowhere.

It's where you accidentally wave to people who weren't actually waiving at you. It's where you don't know what to do with your eyes when passing a stranger on the sidewalk. Crossing the street at the incorrect time can be fatal. You have to accurately gauge your level of enthusiasm for greeting people you know but might actually care nothing about. In a worse case scenario, you run into a little-remembered acquaintance and find out you're going inside the same supermarket where you will be wandering around for some time. Then you have to decide if you're going to pretend to be genuinely interested in a cottage cheese label or awkwardly acknowledge that person again. This is why I hate going outside....

Somewhere in the south pacific putrifying under the unrelenting tropical sun is a vast peninsula composed of the discarded scraps of civilization. A steady stream of colossal barges continuously added to the mass, causing it to expand in every direction.  The churning heap was a steadily shifting form. Uneven growing mounds of decaying mass mortared together around iron heaps. Each new layer accumulated held the scraps tossed away by an insatiable world. Like a metastasizing sickness, its poison seeped into the surrounding land. Plastic forks, prayer cards, monuments, Digimon, batteries this is where everything was valued by the most impartial of standards, its utility for survival. Living in the shadows of revolting spires that had accumulated refuse piled so high only the squalling seagulls could reach the summit were the scavengers was a little girl nearing the end of a harsh, obscure, and brief existence. Like the birds and rats, the bacteria, and the mold she subsisted on decay.

As a soldier, I am bound by my oath and sacred duty to defend the soil of this nation from threats, both foreign and domestic. All of my brothers in arms who see your obligations to this nation as more than just a profession but as your life's purpose NOW is the time for action. At 0600 tomorrow I will march on Philadelphia the very cradle of our glorious republic. Those that join me will be more than citizens or soldiers. You will be patriots! Together we can wrest control of the country back from those who've so ruthlessly abused the responsibility.  We've entrusted to them. They have made it clear there can be no other alternative. If a strong united America is what you've signed up to defend, then join me now!  These three tweets posted under the handle @Brig_GenMandell were the explicit declaration of mutiny by so far unknown elements of the military. The shamen of war who toiled in the heart of America's citadel of military power were working as quickly