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Christopher Fin
Bio
Lover of the fantastic and the tragic.
I blog at www.christopherfin.com
Stories (13/0)
The Ballad Of Vallony Vignacious
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Always had monsters of course, but none strong enough to be a proper tyrant. Back in the old days, the Valley was overrun by idiotic heroes blundering after petty monsters. Guess who was worse. The local monster causing mischief? Nope. Worse was the parade of shiny smiles and swords who sojourned to our Valley just looking for trouble; who fretted constantly over their "hero image" but never showed a jot of concern about property-damage.
By Christopher Fin2 years ago in Fiction
The Boy and The Mainframe
"We will end not with a bang, nor even a whimper, but with the whir and clank of metal" - Fritz Wulfram The human race was doomed by one snotty nerd tippity-tapping his LED keyboard at work. There had been many nerds, of course, and many keyboards, but one particular dingus executed the program that unwittingly spawned the great A.I. Singularity: Ada.
By Christopher Fin2 years ago in Fiction
Santo and Wyatt
The Weymouth Psychiatric Sanatorium stood at the end of a small peninsula, which slimmed like a blade over the water such that there was just room enough for a narrow road driving half a mile, whereupon the natural land bridge fanned out to a rocky outcropping. This outcropping, nearly an island but for its one artery, gained altitude at a thirty degree slope until it plunged downwards to a breathtaking drop of perpetual spray and foam. Upon this singular geography the Sanatorium was completely alone. Originally it was built as a general hospital, but the solitary location, grim atmosphere, and firm architecture gradually was recognized as better suited for the mentally ill.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
The Mailman of Hole 227
Small-Joe exhaled. Vaporous crystals spiraled in front of him, then flew away into the clear, frigid air. He tapped his black Whorlskin glove against the brushed-steel thermometer on his door. Minus ten Celsius. His route would still run even at twenty degrees below, at which point his Airboard's engine wouldn't spark.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
Cowardly Cagancho in a Deadly Bullfight
They say that Cagancho is a gypsy. They say Cagancho is a coward, that he is sly, that he is without integrity or decency. They say Cagancho is without pundonor, that special Spaniard brand of honor that would rather die first.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
Marigold Letters
Marigolds remind me of sunset, and sunsets ain't no good to go on thinking about. But there they are, your "little gift", waving through my window. Remember the flower box? It's still right there, hanging on that evergreen outside our bedroom window, just outside of my stubby reach. It's blooming well enough, despite my neglect. I have neither the long limbs to reach that box, nor the stomach to lean out that far, nor the inclination to care. I can imagine you caring, imagine you leaning out the window again, your lean frame balanced half-inside, half-out like some crazy stork with a water-can, your whistling work-tune never breaking. I can almost hear it, even now...
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
The Undistinguished Prince
Ab-lukam Ahmed was born third in King Ahmed's line, with absolutely nothing to distinguish him—his face was not beautiful and did not grow a fulsome beard; his voice did not ease, persuade, or command; he had no genius with the sword and shield; and his father's voice did not saturate with joy whenever Ab-lukam walked in the room.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
An Opinionated Guide to the Journaling Habit
Last week, Journal #4 hit the shelf, and I realized: I've journaled every single day for ~2.5 years. I've hand-written over 1,000 pages. The consistency was surprising to look back on. The surprise was that before this, I had never been a Reliable Randy, I had never journaled, and I had never stuck to any habit long-term (though I'd tried many times). So, what changed?
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Motivation
Anna the Spy
Lying to sixth-graders is almost as easy as lying to adults. Almost all kids my age are as gullible as puppies, and the adults always think of kids just the same way, as puppies, incapable of lying. Marina, my Devushka, told me that I was born with a forked tongue and cold blood.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction
Fever Dream
In this worn-out barn in the middle of the Georgian summer, the most unusual things tend to happen. I was just informing ol' Featherbottom about the rat incident. Just the other day I'm up here in among the rafters and I spy below three rats scurrying across the hay and they dart up Bertha's back, only she's too hot to care, big things like horses get wicked hot and real lazy, but then the rats start crawling across her face and into her ears. Bertha's earcups they start whackin' around wild but two of the rats ride hard, they burrow in, and their little tails follow them down in a slither, and Bertha tries to get up but then WHOOMPH she's down, plumb out, her neck saved by a bale of hay with her head suspended inches from the floor. The last rat gives a loud squeak and follows the others into the ears. I'm up and ready to jump right in, deal death to the buggers, Bertha and me go back, you know, but she's out cold and the rats are inside, and right on the squeak I hear a great Scurrying. More rats then I knew existed start running straight across this barn like cats don't exist. Enough rats that I'm sitting back down and counting my claws, thinkin' maybe I ought to round up some reinforcements--my twolegs keep a couple of kittypets that might handle a rat or two. All those rats, they swarm in a little formation, stop right in front of Bertha like they're waiting for her to speak.
By Christopher Fin3 years ago in Fiction