Dime Novels From Oblivion

 Melody sat in the brightly lit hospital corridor, clutching a tissue, tears streaming down her face. She rocked back and forth in her chair. When any doctors or nurses walked in through the swinging doors, she looked at them longingly for any information but was more often than not ignored her or simply acknowledged with a nod. That morning her son Anthony descended the stairs and sat at the breakfast table without a word, seemingly oblivious to the fact he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Thinking maybe he was sleepwalking, Melody tried to shake him away, but his eyes were wide open and as grey as stone. His washed-out flesh was waxy and cold to the touch. “Anthony? Anthony, can you hear me?!” Melody pleaded. “Hello, I’m Anthony.” He answered in monotone. “Anthony, are you alright?! Please talk to me!”  He was unresponsive. His unblinking eyes stared for a moment before he stood up. “Time for school,” he said.  Anthony stood up and turned his back to Melody, revealing oozing maggot-filled

 Every day, more of the mall's parking lot fragmented into smaller pieces. The painted lines that marked the boundaries of dozens of parking spots faded away, and yellow heads of hundreds of dandelions were breaking through fissures growing across the asphalt plane.  I worked at a donut stand, the only remaining restaurant in the food court. We had one customer a day. The manager of the last store up on the second floor. He was the first and only person I'd see. I leaned on the counter the rest of the day and stared at the empty tables.  I shuffle down a hall where the light flickers and the heating pipes clatter and hiss. The bathroom was around the corner. My footsteps on the tile echoed between the shuttered stores where lonely mannequins watched from empty glass displays. All the stall doors, save one, are closed and locked. I sit in the stall, unconcerned that anyone else will knock, untroubled by worries about missing any customers at the counter. There are places just li

 "The United Peoples Headquarters, formerly known as the Grand Imperial Palace by its previous owners, was at the center of a dense urban maze sprawled out from the ancient citadel. The centuries-old walls and turret towers were occupied by guards equipped with modern submachine guns. The archway and iron gate were replaced by a steel one that slid on an electric rail.  In the south-facing wing of the palace was a former servants' kitchen that had been converted into a photo lab and office for the Supreme Executive's official photographer, Doctor Krutzov. Krutzov had been in the Supreme Executive's service long before the great leader had even thought the title up.  Krutzov had been in that photo lab for nearly 22 years. He had followed the godfathers of the national revolution into the temple of power. They fortified their position taking care not to repeat the mistakes of the regime they overthrew.  Krutzov had passed into old age inside the walls of the headquarters