Tom Martin
Stories (25/0)
Servants Of The Last Man
The day the last person died, his butler was the first to know. The butler had been standing stock-still in the immaculate and grandly-lit foyer of each and every mansion in countless simulated worlds, waiting for someone to walk through the door and take ownership of the house. Things had been this way for forty thousand, six hundred and twelve years now. Mankind just didn’t seem to need houses anymore, but the butler had performed his duty like the well-programmed AI he was and waited. Someone might stroll in at any time now, and when they did, they would want for clean linens and pressed suits.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Futurism
Black With White Pinpricks
It’s morning and the lights cycle on with that humming sound you only notice when it’s just started. I sit up and blink and rub my face with my fingertips. My skin growls over the ridges of my skull as it moves. It’s not unpleasant. Wake up, feel something.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Futurism
Stairs
1954 WURLITZER JUKEBOX, POOR CONDITION, DOESN’T WORK, WEATHER DAMAGE - ASKING $5K Marcus attached three photos of the jukebox and hit SEND. He placed the phone in his pocket and immediately wished he hadn’t. Now he was stuck with the hillbilly owner while they waited for his assistant’s response. The two men shifted their footing. The sunlight streamed through the barn slats at a lazy angle, and in that light turned slow motes of dust. Those sunny specks mocked Marcus, mimicking the time that was slowly passing as he waited for the hillbilly to awkwardly force some conversation.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Futurism
The Hard Road Up
A pair of dirty hands placed an item on the pawn shop’s counter. From the other side, clean hands reached forth with smartly pressed cuffs and unfolded the rags. The item within was an old and well-used revolver. The clean hands turned the gun this way and that.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Humans
It Hunts Me
The Pine Wheel Roadhouse was almost empty and the air was almost still. The fan overhead, turning beside the mounted deer head and old Moxie sign, wasn’t doing a thing to move the air about the bar. The shitty decorations they put up every year weren’t swaying in the least. Halloween, and this warm. A true Indian summer was growling slowly over Vermont. It was two in the afternoon and the soft dull heat of the outdoors was floating in through the cracks. Peggy silently cursed old Reggie Tuttle every time he went outside for a smoke, because his bad hip caused him to move slowly and the heavy front door was left open for five seconds at a time. Once that heat got in, it was in for the night.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Horror
Quarantine
We had passed the three month mark and E. Coli was pronounced dead. There were the usual celebrations and stories. People posted about the time they got sick with it, how miserable it was. A remembrance was held for all of those it had killed throughout history (mostly just the elderly and infants, as usual).
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Futurism
Costumes
Just now, I almost started this by talking about how I was once a kid with hopes and dreams and things just didn’t work out and I turned to crime. I could slap myself, what an idiot. Anytime an ex-con or a thug or a henchman gets a chance to tell their story, they slop around some mess about how they once were wide-eyed, innocent little kids who looked up at the stars and had big notions about what the world was, they were slightly more perceptive and special than the people around them, but all the same things went wrong in the end, oh woe is them. Boo-hooing for their lost path and how things didn’t work out too great. The ol’ leg-breaker with a heart of gold and the world let me down routine. Shut the hell up already. We all thought we’d be superheroes when we were kids.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Geeks
The Terrible Escape Of Chester McGuinnel
The Wells Fargo carriage rocked on its axles as it picked up speed on its way out of Fort Monroe. The springs squeaked and the wood clunked, and before long things settled into that easy rhythm that you can tune out as you travel. Jared Gossler looked about. He was in for a full night of travel atop a miserable rickety stool that was already gnawing at the bones of his considerable rear. Three months now he’d been moonlighting on this security detail, and within two weeks he’d requested a cushion or a more comfortable chair. “Discomfort’s good for this job,” the boss had said. “Comfortable guards fall asleep.” With that, he would hear no more. Jared was getting close to bringing a cushion in from home. Marybeth would throw a fit if he did and forgot to bring it back, but the hell he’d catch would be worth it. This stool could grind an ass to powder.
By Tom Martin3 years ago in Criminal