He was king, and the king deserved some R and R after a campaign like this. He deserved a medal like goddamn Patton. The frequencies in the air hurt his teeth, but he slipped into the car and the engine roared to life and washed his mind clean. Time to get what was his.
“She goes into a closing place.”
“She comes apart in silver.”
“She’s gone,” says Francie, “Oh, she’s gone.”
The brittle of glass, saying, “Was she scared?”
A great sniff.
“Yes. Oh yes. Such terror.”
Jarod K. Anderson
I don’t mean to suggest that the train is real. I’m not crazy. I know we’re all ghosts. But, there are ghosts and there are ghosts. The Damascus and I are what we are, but we don’t have to like it. I don’t want to like it. To like it is to be empty.
“And this,” Bobby’s teacher cut off the very end, a piece barely big enough to see. “Point-zero-one-three feet. One million years. This is us. And you know what…”
The teacher held the bit of fuzz in the air and blew gently—as if to snuff out a candle— and the fuzz disappeared.
I believed I was dead—there was a puzzling darkness and the white half-moon hung like a slim, divine fruit. I sat, head throbbing atop the vaquero’s body at the bottom of the grave. I saw my face reflected in his wide dark eyes…and another pair of eyes. Two coyote sniffed the air. One panting pink tongue. One staring. They thought they’d found a feast.
The new laws were quite clear. Love is a crime, as is lust. Procreation was for the young in the spring of their lives and monitored closely by the state. His job was to eradicate the world of all who violate these laws.
Someone once said “cellar door” was the most beautiful English phrase. Maybe, if Mirrie opened wide their cellar door for him, Jacob would agree.
“We’ve discovered the last dwelling place of Percy Guinness and his voyagers,” Rosina said. “My associate Mr. Cobby tells me those scrolls are holy texts penned by him and William Long. They went native, it seems.”
Her eyelashes had burned off and left nothing but the edge of absence to define them. Her eyes were full of the fuzz of unconnected T.V.s , the hum of blenders, noise and color. We could hear them when her face passed close to ours as she shuffled with her hands against the wall.
Carrion Inheritance (cover art)
Though having been born 26 years ago on a Jacksonville, FL, naval base, Andrew Austin considers himself a native of Texas. For nearly 25 years he has grown and developed alongside the urban expansion of Denton and dubs it his “home base.” His affinity towards creative practices broke the surface of his being at a young age. Such an inner passion, coupled with paternal assurances, led to continued pursuits in his creative life; eventually the vague suggestions of things scribbled became adequate representations of ideas. Reading, as well, helped pave the way for his imagination. At the age of ten, however, as a violin was laid within his hands, music no longer whispered to him, but roiled and raged in tempestuous need to be something woven into being. As a result of that musical catalyst, he has played the guitar for 14 years and it will always be among his true “loves.” He has been in a band for most of those years, playing in the styles of Rock or Death Metal and has toured the country as a result of it. He is currently an undergraduate at the University of North Texas.
He would find enjoyment in it being known that he is not an artist, just an observer. An observer, on a ship, that has set sail on a journey in which the point of departure is not to arrive.
All authors retain the copyright of their original work and stories.