J. R. Kenna
Bio
Stories (14/0)
Haiku
A small painted stone Beside the yellow tractor Distant mountains loom
By J. R. Kennaabout a year ago in Poets
Haiku
A bas-relief stands Against the setting sunlight Mountain: seat of god
By J. R. Kennaabout a year ago in Poets
Ad Infinitum
“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.” Gee said as he leaned over the opaque pod that held Captain Octavius. He caressed the pod with the palms of his hands, it was smooth like glass and cold. His hands were cold too so there was never any condensation. He thought about this, about his cold hands, about the unyielding disinterest in the captain’s face and he screamed “Yahhhhh!”.
By J. R. Kenna2 years ago in Fiction
The Pushers
“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. That’s all they seem to talk about. Nobody ever talks about the beings that have to do the vacuuming. It’s always this or that about the suffering of lesser beings and the like. Truth be told kid, most of the stuff we vacuum up isn’t even alive. And inorganics are the bulk of it. And ya know how all this space got so dirty to begin with? Well, it was these lesser beings just coming in and wrecking the place. What we do here is a great service to the galaxy, we keep the place clean. Sure the pay could be better but what nobody ever factors in is the pension. It’s the whole reason I’ll be able to retire with half my life still yet to live. You remember that kid. You remember that and tell yourself these things when someone tries to make you second guess why you chose this profession.” Juliok emphasized this last statement by looking over at the younger, and much more petite, Hargle beside him.
By J. R. Kenna2 years ago in Fiction
Keepers of the Night
“Where is he?” said Duncan as the flashlight cut through the dark barn interior and zigzagged across the contents inside: high from the hayloft above and down to the mud caked on the ground. “He’s supposed to be here,” he flicked the light toward Merle.
By J. R. Kenna2 years ago in Fiction
The Bronze Automaton
“The earliest thing I can remember, is a vague image of myself as something else. It was not the form I have now but more like your form.” Talos’ long skeletal fingers moved like spiders’ legs in the low light, catching occasionally, in their shiny metal, the flicker of the flames from the fireplace. The fingers weaved together pieces and parts, strings of wire and hunks of flexible metals, into some new part of his body. “I can see my reflection in some surface and my face is made of a pale sort of flesh but its stretched too thin over my bald skull. My mouth is stuck in this wide teeth-baring grin, but the eyes aren’t smiling. It’s more like they are worried or in pain. Even the eyelids are pulled too far back; I can see the whites of the eyes above and below the iris as if they’re too small or too white.” Talos continued to weave at its project, seated and hunched over. The body resembled a large human skeleton except with various metals for the bone and clusters of cable for muscle or tissue groups. “It only comes to me when I’m working on things like this: building improvements for myself; but specifically during the small stuff here in the quiet hours.”
By J. R. Kenna3 years ago in Fiction