Topher Blanderson stared at his computer screen, knowing something wasn’t quite right but unable to put his finger on it. The account numbers scrolled past, a series of figures moving so quickly, they were almost hypnotic. His head ached.
Read MoreSuper Duper Fly
For Gabriele, gravity had ended. She spun unmoored, drifting in the outgassing light that spilled from the star she’d flown though. Her orbit deteriorated slowly. The skin of her hull was pockmarked and blistered, bubbled with plasma burns. What remained of her telemetric instruments was melted dross, cooling slowly from white to sullen red.
Read MoreWhen the Fall Is All That’s Left“Today is the day I’m finally going to get you to tell me what is up with you never going on land,” the Captain declared, arching an eyebrow.
Read MoreMountainBehind that door evil lived. It was the same door, there was no doubt about it; Lawrence recognised the patterns on the wood and the little notches and ridges. The snow poured madly over its surface, pushing with all its force.
Read MoreFrozen PlanetRoger came back in the middle of Christmas break, when Chas had two essays due and a soon-to-be-full house to deal with, and was struggling not to sleep more than ten hours every day. Tito Rick and the twins arrived from New Jersey that morning.
Read MoreFind Me
A Playboy was hidden behind her jaw, rolled and bent like she had stashed it there in a hurry. Black and white alarm clocks were pasted over the women’s breasts and the words !wUt aLarming bOobeez! were scrawled across the stomachs. It was hard to tell if she had done this herself or if someone else had done it for her.
Read MoreSix Things We Found During the AutopsyBeing a sensitive is difficult to explain. There is no omen at birth, no weather phenomenon, no annunciation to herald my arrival. I am a normal child by all accounts, with five fingers and toes, nappy rash, and cradle cap.
Read MoreChild, Funeral, Thief, Death
Every circus has a story, and every story has its secrets. Those of us taxed with bearing the burden of such things do so with no sense of pleasure, only duty. We remember so that others, in time, may forget.
Read MoreNot My Circus, Not My Monkeys: The Elephant’s TaleWhen the souls of the suicides come tumbling out of the low, gray clouds, it’s given to us to collect them, catalog them, contain them, and load them onto the train. None of us know where the train goes—it’s the general consensus, to the extent that there is one, that it would serve no purpose for us to know, and anyway it’s not our job.
Read MoreIt Is Healing, It Is Never Whole