My 14:00 sidles up. “You the—?”
“Refreshing memories without the subject’s consent is illegal. You got consent?” If they did they wouldn’t come to me, but it weeds out people who are too stupid to lie.
“Yeah. New colleague turned out to be an old flame I… we never should’ve let it burn out.”
“Name? Time period?”
“Madeline Vickers. May 2035.”
“Half up front.” I take payment and he scurries.
Next appointment: 15:30, Madeline Vickers. It’s either fate or a plane crash about to happen. What do I care as long as the money clears?
Interweaving a fast-paced espionage thriller with a starting-at-a-new-school social comedy, Trester creates a gestalt plot that will appeal to more than fans of either genre. …
Sentence 99%. Approximately 13 minutes remaining.
A few more wrinkles and a lot less hair, but I’m almost free.
Liberals say the timers are inhumane. I like it though: last thing at night and first thing in the morning I see how long I’ve got.
And if you fuck up, seeing it go up drives it home the way them saying they’ve added two years doesn’t. So, you stop fucking up.
Approximately 9 minutes remaining.
Almost close enough to count on my fingers.
Sentence 90%. Approximately 182 days 13 hours remaining.
What the…! Why are MacroFirm even running prisons anyway?
I write this in a state of overwhelming terror. Terror that – despite its all-pervading nature – I have managed to utterly repress beneath a belief that I’m bimbling along cheerfully. …
Imagine you had a voice in your head that told you true things.
I’d had enough of hearing how disasters were part of God’s plan. So, I marched into a cathedral and shouted if He had a plan I was listening.
Next morning, I hear a whisper telling me to take another route. Eight-car pile up the way I usually go.
Kept happening. Figured it was confirmation bias, so I wrote everything down. Everything came true. Nothing huger than three lottery numbers, but enough to make my life great.
I like you. But God says your death should be messy.
Flint mixes the tropes of classic fantasy with those of young adult fiction to weave a story that will appeal to fans of either. …
I don’t often blend my YouTube appearances with my blog: however, last Saturday’s Nitty Gritty Writing Podcast was taken over by my drabbles.
Do you focus on improving a specific writing trait? Which writing exercises do you find most efficient? Is the only way to learn to write, to write?
“Please. My Lizzie’s dying.” Despite the stench, I kneel.
Air oozes past the witch’s teeth. “I’ll grant healer’s touch. But there’s a price. You can only use it once.”
Pain infests my hands. Fingers clasped, I race home.
Can’t risk wasting it on the wonky door. The hinges give on the second kick.
Tumbling forward, I stretch my arms out. My chin strikes the bed-frame, but my palms land on Lizzie.
Summer sun fills the hut and music swirls around.
As they fade, so do her blotches.
When the Duke demands I cure his daughter, I understand the price.
Kennedy fuses the archetypical symbolism of Stravinsky’s music with the individuality of modern life to create a tale of psychological exploration that is neither lacking in mystery nor overwhelmed with obscure metaphor.
This novel is the second volume in the Fugue & Fable trilogy. As such, this review might contain some spoilers for The Mussorgsky Riddle. …
Death is not the end. There remains the litigation over the estate.
– Ambrose Bierce
Yes, the title is a double entrendre.