Salt Epoch

He drags the cart over the rubble of a parched and desiccated landscape. Potholes in asphalt. Emaciated carrion birds. Crumbling homes and hotels. Cracked hulls that once were swimming pools, gaping footprints of an age with water. Dust everywhere. In everything. This realm once was desert, became tamed, is now desert again. Soon, though: the […]

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New story

I have a new story titled “Nonverbal Communication” in 50-Word Stories today. If you read it and like it, I’d really appreciate a like-click.

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Age of Project

————————————————— Room: Congo Age of Project: 5 years ————————————————— They enter together but shake different hands, look different directions, following mutual orbits, yet remote in ways easy for casual observers to miss. They take tiny quiches and brie en croute from the center table, put them on little plates, carry them around uneaten. The room’s corner […]

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A Story with Magic in It

Swallowing salty tears, Beth unlocks the safe with the key from the Russian doll, digs past silica packets, through binders, to her dead uncle’s Black Lotus. Despite probate, she refuses to recognize the card as his sister’s. Her aunt had always mocked their pastime. Out slides the hundred-thousand-dollar Lotus. In, a one-cent Swamp.

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Three New Stories

Hello all, and long time no updates. Since I last posted on this blog, I’ve had three new stories published. One’s a 100-word micro about crayon drawings crawling down off the fridge, titled “Understudies,” and now hosted by 101 Fiction. The other two are flash tales, the second of which just posted today: “Afromosia Wakizashi,” […]

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Floral Arrangement

I have a new story on 50-Word Stories, titled “Floral Arrangement.” This one grew out of a #vss365 prompt for which the prompt word was #riddle, so not only does this one concern a riddle, it’s kind of a riddle itself. It appears to have already stumped one reader on the site.  

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Road Mage

…. Hexed against right turns, they’d loop until they ran out of gas. Then they’d walk in circles. ….

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Constellations in Mourning

By Graham Robert Scott The morning after Sandy Hook, I drove my boy to a birthday party. He was seven, same as some Sandy Hook kids. “The flags aren’t up all the way,” he observed. Texas wears a lot of Old Glory, now a constellation in mourning, flag after flag bowing low. “It’s all the…

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Stan

As her key catches and turns the lock, she spots his face in a downlight, end of the hall.

Instant recognition. In a beat, she’s in. Throws the deadbolt, reviews decisions.

Fanfic about bad boys of crime? Okay. But next time? None about men still living. Men uncaught.

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Furbaby

Animatronic taxidermy. The new bougie thing to do with their beloved. God, Hector wanted out of door-to-door sales.

“Oh! Don’t mind him,” his host said. “Never met a lap he didn’t like.”

On his thighs, the thing rolled onto its back, waggled its paws: pet my belly.

Hector’s churned.

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A Raging Fire

The library carries old rituals, shelved in wafer-thin booklets.

He checks out a pictorial history of London, the ritual to cure erectile dysfunction secreted within. Its magic doesn’t work, but the painting of the Great Fire of 1666 does.

Great. Another thing to be embarrassed about.

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Sigil

Taking the podium for her turn at the campus Big Read, fifty peers below, she spots the word debut two lines into her first page. Fear surges. She’s seen the word before, but has never heard it pronounced.

Then she recalls Matthew Mercer’s sigil: missteps don’t define you; strengths do.

Emboldened, fortified, she conjures her voice and speaks.

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Bad Seed

They find it in a crater ringed by burning corn. A polypy thing with tentacles, but they take it home. Always wanted to be parents. When it eats a girl named Lana, the Kents figure it’s just having trouble adjusting. Cover it up. Tell each other he’ll grow to do great things.

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