K.T. Seto

Joined June 2021

0 stories

Bio

In a little-known corner of Maryland dwells a tiny curvemudgeon. Despite permanent foot in mouth disease, she has a epistemophilic instinct which makes her ask what-if. Vocal is her repository for the odd bits that don't fit her series.

Stories (28/0)

Species 24
The meeting hall was only half full, but the air felt as close as if there were twice as many beings inside. The small team of researchers sat together in front of the raised dais holding the full contingent of the Galactic Defense Committee’s Science division heads and their assistants. Once everyone was seated a tall being entered the room and walked up onto the dais to take the one remaining chair, the one behind the podium that designated them as the Officiant for the hearing.
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Fiction
A Painted House
Mykola stood next to the low stone wall, looking down over the valley to the inlet. The air where they stood was warm and humid but made bearable by the breeze blowing softly through the trees. Below them the water glistened in the early morning light and the waves moved in their unending ballet of push and pull, eating away at the land in tiny bites. His friend stood next to him, a tall, broad-shouldered man with skin so dark it fairly glowed in the relentless Caribbean sun. He should have felt sad. Lord knew he had reason, but standing here, he finally understood what Andriy said before he left two weeks ago.
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Fiction
Love's Fool
Over time’s wanton flailing, a drunken revelation of delight Stars unnamed but radiating a seldom recognized wave of breathless thought
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Poets
Love's Bloom
The air retreats the moment a heart thrums the first beats of true love’s dance. A wicked longing strung out upon the gentle pulse of cupid’s lance.
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Poets
Top Story - March 2022
Plant A SeedTop Story - March 2022
The woman hummed as she placed the small cotton bags into her tattered purse. The seams of the worn leather bulged a bit, but held. Her grandmother had given it to her 70 years before for her 16th birthday, not too long before she passed away. She’d carried the bag for all the important events in her life. To weddings and births and funerals. When the seams failed, she’d taken a needle to them, ruining the pristine appearance but maintaining the integrity of the bag itself. Her great granddaughter sat at the table next to her, tiny legs swinging and tongue poked out the corner of her mouth as she carefully tied 3 knots in the ribbons holding the cotton bags closed.
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Fiction
Cake
They stood together at the end of a row in the center of the greenhouse. The red tinged sunlight gleamed malevolently through the windows heating the exterior up into the triple digits. The greenhouse stayed cool however, even though they could barely tell through the suits they wore. They worked in silence for a while, gathering, pruning, logging. An unending toil that paid off in weeks and months. Hours passed before he turned and spoke.
By K.T. Seto2 years ago in Fiction
Labme #7
“Let me get yellow rice, spicy shrooms, Labme 7, and a side of pickled veg.” The tall man said impatiently rocking in place once the line moved and it was his turn to order. The thin woman behind the register raised an eyebrow.
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Fiction
Moon Bull
The thing you have to understand about the Lunar colony is that living on the moon itself isn’t the issue. They’d accounted for almost everything before they’d put the first human in the colony long term. The issue is keeping things alive. The domed city could almost pass for a city on Earth. It certainly tried with its roads and parks and open-air vistas. The bubble is and remains the epitome of sustainable engineering. On paper, the colony could survive indefinitely. Yet in reality, in practice, things died. The moment they planted anything other than trees and grass in the carefully prepared soil the timer started. The moment anyone and anything set foot on the surface the hourglass started dribbling sand. Which makes the bull so odd?
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Fiction
Driving For Food
I have always had an interesting relationship with food. It comes from my upbringing. My biggest influences in childhood were my grandparents who were born and raised during the Great Depression. It was a time when it was nothing to spend an entire day searching for and gathering what you needed to make a meal for your family. My childhood is peppered with moments where I remember riding around in the backseat of my Grandmother’s car listening to Public Radio in search of food. She had a store for everything. One store that had the best meat, one store that had the best sweets, one for pantry staples. She poured over coupons and sale papers for deals because we didn’t have much money but that didn’t mean we couldn’t eat well. Traveling for food is ingrained so to speak. This is why I spend my weekends in the car with my husband eating my way across the DMV.
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Feast
The Call
The doorbell rang just as the family was sitting down to dinner. They weren’t expecting anyone, so Miriam pulled out her tablet to look at the doorbell app. It was a delivery courier. With a sigh she rose and went to answer the door herself, unsure what could be coming so late at night. She opened the door and gave a small polite smile, the kind of smile she reserved for unwanted visitors and salespeople who are too pushy.
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Fiction
Safe
“Someone smart might worry about where their gloves are not a useless bit of jewelry.” Leigh said holding mine up as I crawled along the floor of the tiny room we called home looking for my locket. I tossed her a smile over my shoulder but didn’t stop my search. I wasn’t leaving without it, I needed it for later. I found it wedged in the corner, obviously having fallen behind the table when I’d removed it last night. Smiling I fished it out and held it up for her to see.
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Fiction
Spin
Who’s gonna spin, gonna spin, gonna spin. Spin away the pain, all the pain, all the pain. The song echoed in the darkness, and they followed the sound downwards, past the parts they liked to visit, past the parts they pretended they didn’t, into the places they only went when forced. Their footsteps were barely audible over the blaring of the music and the cloying scent of decay grew stronger the further down they traveled. They’d been searching for hours, hours longer than they had to stop the dance.
By K.T. Seto3 years ago in Fiction

K.T. Seto

Bio

Stories .css-19zxm0z-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(28/0)

Species 24

A Painted House

Love's Fool

Love's Bloom

Plant A SeedTop Story - March 2022

Cake

Labme #7

Moon Bull

Driving For Food

The Call

Safe

Spin

Stories (28/0)