Ink-slinger. Photo-grapher. Earth-ling. These are Stories of the Fantastic and the Mundane. Space, time, superheroes and shapeshifters. 'Wolf' thumbnail: https://unsplash.com/@marcojodoin.
The Chinook Salmon
Society says: Bye-bye to the human, hello to the new animal, but up in the place I had never expected to find myself, I was saying bye-bye to the world. I wanted to stay longer, do what I do, catch them that I still can catch, but these fellows? Bad men, they were; they added up my time, and counted it done.
S(k)in And Bones
“We don’t serve murder here,” she said, with more than a trace of disgust. I told myself that she was not disgusted with me, or with my partner in mischief. It was our proposal to engage in a sin most venal, a vice declared on the official books of our society, that she vilified. She wiped her hands on her smock, and barked an order to one of the cooks in the kitchen, behind where she stood at the counter of the cramped restaurant. Was she wiping the stain, of knowing us, clean? All we had done was to inquire—
Trick's Own Visionary Assignment
Jeph was twenty-eight years old when the principal called him into her office. He was neither a student, nor the father of one, at the Ramsey Middle School; he did not tremble at the prospect of an ugly confrontation with her, although she was his boss — at least, for the moment — in his reality of choice.
Like the Deep Blue Color
The water on the inside of the boat concerned Marliza, but what was worse, it did not seem to concern the others aboard. It was a floating banquet, in more senses than one. The currents rocked the vessel back and forth, as it drifted with no immediate destination. That was just the natural flow of the forces at work outside of the yacht. George sent her down below to fetch more smoked-salmon canapés and Dijon mustard, though why wasn’t clear to her. Those above hadn’t managed to consume a full tray of the finger foods yet; their beverages had kept them pretty busy.
Moxie in "Cruel Doubt"
The last place Marko would ever have expected to meet the devil was in Saint Ronan’s Church. Even the New York police seemed forbidden to enter into its austere and mystical quarters, if their intention was to take him into custody; but an agent of pure evil, of course, would not be so hindered. And evildoers, he was stunned to learn, wanted him, too — more than the police did.
The Cape Buffalo
You believe that justice has been thwarted, that your efforts to bring your fugitive to custody have been in vain. I believe, Marshal, that I can shed some light on the recent events, if you will bear with me. Although this is a private message, and I have scribbled it down in haste (please be patient with my handwriting, if not my spelling of certain English words), I trust you will be able to elicit some degree of satisfaction from what I am about to tell you.
Lest His Fire Cools Down
“We’re just not getting through to them,” muttered He Who Goes By Many Names, “and that’s got to change. Do you hear me?” He “raised his Voice”, which sent tectonic-scale tremors in waves, throughout his domain — “DO YOU?!” — to paralyze his unwilling charges, or else, to galvanize them into taking action, depending upon his preference of the moment.
The eye-watering swirl, floating above my bed, suggested that I might like to eat something. Which was unnecessary, really; I could always eat something. Ask those who know me — they will tell you the truth: It’s one of my favorite things to do, on any planet. I’m fortunate, in a way, to be working so hard at my job and my schooling that I can’t rest long enough to gain much weight.
At least with me, he would claim, you know I’ll always be right on time, and as his colleagues got to know Pete better, they learned the truth of this claim. A genuine knack for arriving at every important meeting, every social occasion and life’s decision with energy and focus to spare, seemed to be an important part of his arsenal of skills. It must have always been the case for him; nobody could ever recall Pete Anholts missing what mattered, at work or at home.
Music In My Blood
Marcie said that there were no good places to drink, in downtown Austin — which statement, he decided, made her a mistress of high irony, indeed. A walk or drive, of only a few blocks, revealed any number of bars, pubs and restaurants, and of course, one might dine and drink at the Driskill Hotel, on Sixth Street, which was reputed to be haunted. The hotel, not the street.