Chris Heller
Bio
A full-time worker in his late 20s with a vibrant passion for writing, mostly sci-fi and fantasy.
Stories (17/0)
Keeping Time
I, Dieter Petrokovich, a simple watchmaker, witnessed the death of America. It began, like many deaths, with a politician. Robert Calhoun. A North Carolina native, born and raised. An Appalachian State University grad, top of his class, majoring in political sciences. Born into a well-to-do family with a solid amount of private funding, and powerful connections, to kickstart his campaign.
By Chris Heller2 years ago in Fiction
Station Z-00
When Earth and all its assets were auctioned off, the animals were the most sought-after items. Not the humans, of course, since they were considered utterly worthless, being the stupid race who had committed their own planet to oblivion. And not the dolphins, either, since they were the ones who sold off the Earth to the rest of the universe, as retribution for humanity’s crimes. Most of the world’s animals went to conservation efforts and nature preserves, especially the endangered species, the ones that the idiot humans had driven to the brink of extinction. Others went to breeding farms and slaughterhouses, as many alien species were curious about how Earth animals tasted when cooked, and were now able to satisfy their burning desires. Finally, some of the most precious animals were purchased by private collectors, who either kept them secluded in secret, or put them on display like art pieces for the public to see. All of them held a wonderful appeal, but none so much as the collector Ahm-Prex, and his-her collection. His-Her exhibit, held in the now-decommissioned Orbital Station Zeta-Zero Zero, or Z-00, promised the sights, smells and sounds of Earth’s halcyon days, before rampant pollution and human corruption had blackened the sky, poisoned the sea, and tainted the soil. It guaranteed the authentic zoo experience, complete with sweltering heat, overpriced gift shops, and the ever-present smell of animal excrement. Needless to say, it became a universal tourist hotspot nearly overnight.
By Chris Heller3 years ago in Fiction
The Mechanical Revenge of Jeffrey Morrison
I find my dad, like most mornings in that sweltering summer, banging on some incomprehensible machine in our old family barn. The barn’s walls, muted red with sagging beams and chipping paint, shudder with groaning beams as Dad’s tools construct more and more unknowable machine parts, made from scraps of metal he had collected from junk heaps and whatnot. The entire barn, from the corners of its walls, across the whole dirt floor, even up in the empty hay loft, lie dozens upon dozens of machines, linked together by spiderwebs of wires and tubes. Metal joints and beams connect from one machine to the next, like a skeleton.
By Chris Heller3 years ago in Fiction
Unokk Rice Stew and the Rite of Un-Khir
Despite the trials and tribulations one faces on a daily basis in the red sands of Zhagrizia, there are a few choice pleasures one can always depend upon to melt away the stresses of the locals’ nomadic lifestyle. I had the utmost pleasure of traveling with a caravan alongside my translator, Braddoch, a Zhagrizian native who moved to the Issidorn Empire when he was young. Amid the dozens of lessons in nomad culture he taught me daily, he always instilled in me the importance of desert cuisine. The nomads have a peculiar way of viewing the desert, not just as an arid wasteland of endless dunes and mirages like us Imperial folk. No, the Zhagrizians view the desert as the physical embodiment of their goddess, Zhagri, for whom the country was named. In local myths, she is always portrayed as harsh, but fair, granting her boons only to those who use their wisdom and intelligence to prove themselves worthy of them. And just like her, the desert itself rewards only the hardiest and smartest foragers and hunters. Even farms and produce can survive the sandstorms and the giant wildlife, if the farmers themselves are resourceful enough.
By Chris Heller3 years ago in Fiction
Rosie
“Hands up, pal.” I turn slowly, not wanting to disturb the brown-paper bag in my arms, loaded full with precious groceries. When my eyes adjust to the glaring lights haloing the man addressing me, he pushes the barrel of a cheap burner pistol in my face, its dull red glow and low metallic hum conveying its deadly threat.
By Chris Heller3 years ago in Fiction