A horror story set in near future Baltimore. A queer street punk wrestles with a world in which angels bestow upon each of us a curse.
A night like any night, my bare mattress on the floor, old window glass between me and the street outside. A few bottles on the floor, one filled with piss in the corner–the toilet was three stories down and if there’d ever been a railing there certainly wasn’t one now and I’d rather piss into a bottle than break my neck drunk in the dark.
What happens when your self-driving taxi decides to drive you to jail?
“This police district requests all principal transportation providers to log passenger information of those traveling to and from specific locations. While customer privacy is of the utmost importance to us, we at Taxy are both required and proud to uphold our legal responsibilities.”
A very short love story set in a post-human world.
“Sometimes I think that the kindest thing I could do would be to cut the wires,” I told you. I was being cold to you. I’m fairly sure it was the only time I ever was. I’m fairly sure because sometimes I think about everything we did together and everything I ever said to you, as if that could help me make sense of what happened.
A squatter comes face to face with crippling anxiety in order to eke out a meager living by hacking rich people. Included in the disability-themed sci-fi anthology Accessing the Future. This story was my first professional short fiction sale.
The last light of the sun came down through the broken windows, all pretty and shit, catching on that big jagged shard of glass and then pouring out into the room over my bed. Over Marcellus. He snored in that way he always did, endearing and soft.
I hurried to dress in the last of the daylight, but once I was done, I lingered. I paced, I ran my fingers through my beard, I watched the twilit horizon and counted the silhouette bones of the buildings Portland calls its skyline.
Anything but go to work.
A short, non-traditionally-structured story about a boy coming of age and joining a self-condemned order of outlaw knights. Each knight swears to uphold tenets of their own making. Published in the anarchist surrealist journal Oystercatcher.
The day before my sixteenth summer, an Ilthurian came to Set Allowstone and saw me as a florist. At best, I was a witch’s boy; but Dam Seda rated lower than any witch I’d heard of in stories and to be frank even the midwives and healers in town only trusted her concoctions, not her spells or advice. More than potions, I sold flowers. Selling flowers, I assumed, was no way to impress a knight of the self-condemned order.
A very short story describing the fall of a modern goblin city through the eyes of sympathetic humans. Published in Fifth Estate, the longest-running anarchist publication in North America.
Ekset City was on fire. Flares and napalm and hammers and bullets and the angry minds of angry men were tearing through three hundred years of architecture and three thousand years of culture. At the center of the city, a bonfire engulfed the seven pillars of Ekset. A frightful horde of humans paraded through, warming their hands on the pyre of victory and sacrificing every trace of goblin culture to the consuming flames. Black smoke rose up so thick and high it fought against the glory of the sun.
We watched for a moment from a boardinghouse balcony. Perhaps a moment too long. Every book and painting burned was another failure. There were two of us tasked with the preservation of an entire civilization’s worth of art, and an army of men stood in our way.
Flash fiction about a race of living trees learning to find the strength to fight against deforestation. Originally published in the Beltane 2014 issue of the Earth First! Journal.
When the wind runs through the elders, it casts their branches out every which way and I love it. I love when autumn storms come through and take leaves with them and the leaves take off into the skies like flocks and tidings of birds.
I walk through the eldergrove unafraid, and for me that is something. I remember, when I was so young that my mother still wove leaves into my braids—I remember playing in the eldergrove and I skinned my knee and the blood came out, thick as sap, and I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid because I’d tripped over my grandfather’s roots and I knew his blood was the same as mine.