Unbridled, righteous rage throbbed visibly in the bulging vein on Mr. Edison’s temple. One hand clenched the paper as he read it aloud. Continue reading
The tome was ancient, the vellum yellowed and brittle, and she was barely able to decipher the scrawly handwriting. This was no luxurious folio like the others she had found in that forgotten Andalusian monastery; no, this was just the notebook of a monk, and perhaps it was mankind’s greatest treasure. Continue reading
This was originally inspired by Chuck Wendig’s slasher-prompt. But as I’m absolutely, completely illiterate when it comes to horror and its subgenres (and also have zero aspirations to change this pitiable condition), it didn’t turn out as slasher (I only know the Wikipedia definition anyway). Perhaps… splatter? Dunno. Don’t wanna. It’s pretty bloody, though.
So, for what it’s worth: warning for 1000 words of violence.
He has the vial ready as he opens the vein with the tip of his finger. It’s pretty, blue on the paleness of the wrist. No waste. No waste! The liquid is slippery and less fluid than he thought. Certainly less fluid than his oil. For good measure, he opens the little valve at his elbow and catches the drop that oozes out. Continue reading
His friends welcomed him with open arms and a bottle of beer when he joined them in their favourite pub, the evening he discovered his wife and his son had left him. He slept well that night, deep and dreamless and alone, and next morning, the sharp sting in his chest when he became aware of the emptiness beside him hurt only a little worse than the hangover pain in his head. Continue reading
It had been mankind’s dream for hundreds of years and his own since he was a toddler, and now he was here: in the soundproof, airproof, everything-proof little car of a space elevator on its maiden voyage, cramped full with celebrities. A marvel of scientific ingenuity, and he couldn’t help it: despite all professionalism and experience – he hadn’t won his Pulitzers for nothing – he was as excited as the 10-year-old son of the president beside him. Continue reading
Let me tell you about the crossroad.
The Bridleway is only a track, but it leads into a wagon trail and a cobbled street which leads to the city. It’s the way the riders take when they raid the hamlets in the hinterlands, hamlets like mine, for men, maidens or dues. Continue reading
Grey and silver were the colours of their city – grey concrete, silver steel, planes of glass reflecting the washed-out shade of the sky. Corners veiled in the stark black of midday shadows and a few red and blue cars were the only contrasts. Even the few trees that carved out their existence at street corners and in back yards had long lost their vibrant green under the relentless glare. Continue reading