Anton Crane
Bio
St. Paul hack trying to find his own F. Scott Fitzgerald moment, but without the booze. Lives with wife, daughter, dog, and an unending passion for the written word.
Stories (21/0)
Wingfolk
Luke sneezed out the bitter tasting mud, mixing his face with the expulsion in the process. Face down in soft worm food, he carefully brought his arms beneath him. As he pushed himself up, he saw what triggered the sneeze, sticking up in the mud where his nose used to be.
By Anton Crane2 years ago in Fiction
Sirens
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. You’ve been lost in the woods for days, carrying an axe, trying to find a main road leading back to town, or at least away from these never-ending woods. You have no memory of how you came to be in these woods.
By Anton Crane2 years ago in Horror
Yoga Bro versus the dragons
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But, then again, the valley didn’t always have you as their Yoga Bro. You set up shop in the valley yesterday, marketing your wares as “Hardcore Yoga”. You had just completed intensive teacher training with Swami Hardcore. You knew him as the Swami who ditched his masters in order to divine the mysteries of why his hernia flared up only at times when there was trash to be picked up off his floor. You had been coerced into learning the skills required to appraise and acknowledge the holy hernia, or at least to realize it was holier than your abdominal muscles would ever be, even with all the trash you had picked up off Swami Hardcore’s floor.
By Anton Crane2 years ago in Fiction
The Anatomically-correct Adventures of a Spider-like Man
“Aww man, I didn’t want this.” For Christmas that year, Jack had asked his parents for the latest Virtual Reality game setup. Instead, his parents decided to go full science on him and got him a “Do It Yourself Bacterial Gene Engineering CRISPR Kit” from one of those catalogs that arrive around Christmastime.
By Anton Crane3 years ago in Fiction
The Snap of Frost
I watched Clint get flicked off the leg into Duluth harbor. He looked tiny enough in my rearview mirror, but even more tiny against the enormous shadow of the barn a few feet above him. The legs of the chicken didn’t wobble or stagger at all under the tremendous weight of the barn when one of the legs purposefully flicked him aside.
By Anton Crane3 years ago in Fiction
