The ghosts gather on the burnt trees like a murder of crows, hungry-eyed and conspiratorial. Black feathery wisps dance around them, while talon-like hands grip to charred branches. They can see me, but they don’t yet know I can see them…
My wife left me last year. I’ve spent my life floundering between chronic skepticism and cautious optimism, the latter complements of my Cathy these last 22 years. My unyielding light. The missing element that guided me through a lifetime of fearful irrationalities…
You forfeit your name, the price of entry. Mere months ago, you were attached to its suggestion of ephemeral beauty, your name like a delicate flower, too precious to be plucked. You let them, though. Those who seemed worthy…
The stomping came first. Michelle knew it well. The sound of her daughter getting out of bed, probably coming to ask for a glass of water or another tuck-in. But then the wailing started, long and plaintive, growing louder and louder as her daughter fled from her bedroom…
She smelled oil. She smelled blood. She forced her eyes open, squinting against the bright beams of light in the darkness. Broken branches littered a path of wreckage leading to the road…
Mariah was busy flipping between her account and the trending page, searching for the magic formula for fame. Her mind flooded with analytics, calculating if she was growing or shrinking in popularity…
Alice wasn’t asleep, but she was starting to dose with her phone glowing balanced on her chest, when she heard the scraping at her window. She’d left it half open, as much an invitation as a way to let in the autumn air…
Madison came home from school one afternoon to discover Lucky lying on the street in front of the house, bleeding and mangled. At first, she was sure her dog was dead, but Lucky opened his eyes and tried to lick Maddy’s hand…
The room’s perfect whiteness is infinity. Without variation, without shadow, the illusion of perpetuity is near-flawless. She waits on the tissue paper, legs dangling. From somewhere comes the soft ticking of a clock, though there’s no clock in the room…
“The last one.” The ship’s console lit up emerald green and the deepest of blue, colors that used to trigger an odd sort of nostalgia in Son, but lately only made him feel resentful. In the middle of the screen, a minuscule dot was steadily growing. Father’s voice soon followed from the speakers…
Artists thought they’d be the last ones laughed out of their professions by technology, yet they were amongst the first. What started as an amusing revolution of AI capabilities for content creators and web perusers was optimized to gain the attention of art critics and galleries…
The streetlight buzzed above the taco truck like a nest of angry hornets as it flickered in its death throes. Not unlike most neglected corners in Los Angeles, this particular stretch of downtown had been left to the bottom-feeders. At least down here, Enrique thought, the cops didn’t harass street vendors all that much…
Larkin set down her glass of spiced wine. She wrote Is truth pleasant? on a yellow legal pad. Ben, at the end of both his breath and his tether, watched her. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “I know it’s pitchy…
I was born on a conveyor belt. I remember rough hands, rap music blasting, and being shoved into a box. It isn’t a memory so much as a story, told to me so many times it feels like my own. But I was too busy screaming inside, my brain too busy growing, to truly know what was going on…
