Yep, I’ve got a book cover for my short story collection.
You may be wondering to yourself… Why does it say ‘we’ and why in the hell is it only ‘compiled’ by me?
Wonder away. The introduction to the book will answer all the questions. Too bad you’re going to have to wait until editing is finished. HA HA… HA HA HA… ah, crap, I think the devil has rubbed off on me.
That’s illegal and unsanitary. You may want to get a napkin.
I meant you.
Preposterous. I’d never masturbate on another person unless they requested it.
… There’s nothing I can say after that, really, there isn’t.
I’ve been sick for the last two weeks. I’ve been sick and I’ve had problems with my left eye. I’ve been sick, had problems with my left eye and my laptop power adapter nearly caused a house-fire which rendered my laptop useless during the last stretch of Story A Day.
But I’m still smiling. Oh, by god, I’m still smiling. Read the rest of this entry
Aaron would like me to tell you that, to fully comprehend this story, you must read all the ones that came before. Doing so is not necessary to enjoy it, but there are a bunch of Easter Eggs and this is the conclusion to the ‘Reapers’ miniseries… and it directly ties in with another, previous unrelated story…. So, basically… He’s fucking with you.
The knob turns easily enough but, as your mind was trying to tell you, music doesn’t work in this place. Not only is there a lack of radio waves, a lack of towers outputting beats to the masses, it’s worse; records, tapes, cds, nothing plays. You miss the rhythms and harmonies.
Besides the silence, there’s an undeniably calming effect to sitting in the front seat. You’d forgotten exactly how much of a difference there is. You had convinced yourself a while ago that sitting in the back, hiding from the red and the horror of this realm was the best for you. But now, with the breeze on your face and a little more connection with the new driver, you feel in control. As much as you can, at least. Read the rest of this entry
As a conscientious adult, I have to warn the reader that this story is a little more on the mature side. It involves certain concepts not suitable for people below 16.
To be fair, it involves concepts not suitable for ANYONE. THIS IS NOT ABOUT HOLMES, DO NOT COME INTO THIS STORY WITH THAT ASSUMPTION. YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK… Thank you, that is all.
Metal cuts skin. That’s a no-brainer, really. Shears are my favorite. They’re strong enough to replace a good knife, but still have that scissors action. Two blades, slicing against each other, creating a huge amount of pressure on such a tiny point separated dermal tissue, muscles, tendons, even smaller bones.
His skin fell away quick enough. It was cold, but not frozen solid. A few sounds escaped. They were reactionary and hurried. When I’d first started, all those years ago, they’d freaked me out a bit. I got used to them over time.
I really didn’t like doing this part. It made me feel strange. It gave me the creeps. I liked everything else, though. My friend got me into it.
At orientation, he introduced himself as Dr. Watson. It was kind of funny, kind of corny, but none-the-less endearing. He’d been a little pudgy back then. The mustache showed him to be a bit older than I was at the time. Within a few minutes I was able to deduce his age, weight, name and his hopeful future medical field. He dubbed me Sherlock. We kept those names, continuing them ourselves and then letting others further the legacy. Read the rest of this entry
It’s not what you think… It never is…
I sat in my chair and closed my eyes. The numbers didn’t lie. It was going to be today. It was going to be in just a few hours. That was how exact the book was. It wasn’t a matter of faith. I simply knew. I’d known for a while. When I discovered the pattern, everything made sense. All the stories contained within the pages, all the great messages and teachings we needed to know.
I had spread the word as I knew he wanted me to do. I spoke the ancient words and cast out the pamphlets. Our trucks were covered in the teachings. It was coming soon. We would all be saved, all of us who believed in him. And believe we did. Read the rest of this entry
First in a four part short story series called ‘The Writer, The Girl, The Sheriff and Madam Delaunney”… perhaps Aaron may think to rename the series ‘Moon and Stars’.
“Watch yur step, Mr. Terrence, tha carr’age’s got icy”
Mr. Herrison, the coachman continued to attempt the charade at calling his coffin-on-wheels a ‘carriage’. I didn’t have the heart to remind him that carriages have seats, not planks of wood tethered to the ceiling with a thin twine prone to snapping under a poor writer’s practically nonexistent weight.
He was rather infallible about the weather, though. Before leaving, I had remarked on the need for sun and dry air. The east coast is a strange hell of flurries and sharp ocean gusts. I wanted warmth and prairies. Apparently, my research on the destination was poorly done. The papers and stories told me of a dusty, arid, sweltering California. They said nothing of how long the territory ran or how far north it’s highest reaches rested.
Nah, Mr. Terrence, things get mighty cold in Gilbert Mines. ’Specially in Jan’yary.
Then why the hell are we going there? Read the rest of this entry
Is there anything more dangerous than a crazy-ass writer?
Maybe one of these… MAYBE…
“Tacos are the source of all things good and right in this world.”
Vic had a habit of speaking to himself on long hauls. It seeped into his daily life. Even today, when he was pretty much just waiting around for his next call, he’d had three conversations already.
He pulled his pickup through the small ramp and gunned the engine. He cut in front of a tiny car of high school kids. He gave a little smile. They just looked like the type that were out for no good. They looked like the type he’d hung out with when he was that age.
The nearly setting sun tried to blind him though the windshield when he turned the corner to order. He stopped and pulled down the visor.
The window took a bit to roll down. It was sticking lately and he didn’t want to force it so much that he ripped the handle. It was an older truck, without power windows and heated seats. It had a great engine, though. That’s what he cared about. Read the rest of this entry
There’s an old saying: Write what you know.
This has always bugged me a little. Write what you know? I want to write everything and, excluding a period in my teenage years, I’ve consistently come to the conclusion that I cannot possibly know everything. So. Either my goal was unachievable, or someone, somewhere had their wires crossed.
We grow older, as we do, and we simply grow. We realize that the world is made of subtlety. There are very few sharp edges in nature, as everything is made of atoms and molecules, things with mass and volume, however minuscule either of those measurements may be. Something cannot truly be pointed or edged because a point and edge end in a ‘point’ a theoretical specification of location which has a single x, y, z measurement and no mass or volume. To the best of my knowledge, nothing physical can be described as a ‘point’. So the point to my argument. There are no edges, no single differentiation between the supposed ‘black and white’. There are always gradations. We have only to look close enough to see their subtle natures.
We cannot take ‘write what you know’ literally. If we did, science fiction and fantasy could never happen. And if it still happened… I’d be worried about the mental health of the authors. To truly write what you know would be to limit yourself to your life and what you’ve experienced. I’m sure the originator, whoever it is, didn’t mean ‘write only what you know’ but the words still hit young authors’ ears and create a strange block.
I’d like to clear it up. Read the rest of this entry
Don’t check this one for errors. You’ll see why, soon. It’s not just Aaron’s ridiculous way of writing. There’s a point this time.
We named him Ashkii.
He’d been given to us by the Navajo tribes as they came through a couple years back. Wanted to trade for some of our crop but didn’t have much on them. They wasn’t too well off as they marched through the dirt road leading to nowhere. All they had was a few puppies from a litter they was duped into buying from a Dutch swindler a few towns over.
The kid kept saying that word, over and over, shaking the little thing in front of us so we could see he meant to send it our way. They didn’t know english. To be perfectly honest, I ain’t too keen on my own language neither but I reckon that between us, we had enough for a good college teacher. Or maybe at least a bad one. Read the rest of this entry