Fiction

“Do you know any songs, Fisher?” There seemed to be more weeds than water holding up the boat. Each time the oar came out, it had a new wrapping of shimmering green hair.

The thing on Susan's doorstep was a grim parody of human form. It stood seven foot tall—its skin pale, ill-fitting, and criss-crossed with scars. Hard, deep-set little eyes were framed by scant black hair that hung loosely around its asymmetrical face. “Don't be alarmed,” it said.

Every facet of his existence was meant to be some form of punishment, overt or subtle, straightforward or ironic. It was the only way he'd been allowed to live.

Allport, F. W., Edwards, C. K., & Ghallegar, S. M. (2003). Origins and evolution of avian humanoid worship: A meta-analysis. Journal of Cultural Psychology, 51, 439-468.

I try to turn my head -- the only part of my body that is merely restrained rather than actually strapped down tight -- to look my neighbor in the eye, but the juddering of the transporter in the outer atmosphere stops me. "How did they get you?" he repeats, shouting over the hollow thud of the craft surfing the mesosphere.

Miquel stood on the steps of Saint Sebastian’s pushing vials of ‘god’. He held a baggie up in front of his two customers, Bible Boys from one of the havens on the surrounding hills. They had pulled up in a red sports sedan that probably belonged to one of their daddies.

Ask any schoolchild who the first victim of the Besynian Revolution was and they'll say Cube Atticus. Because that's what the history books tell us; that's what Cube Atticus' grave marker says: First to Fall for Freedom. And it's true in the sense that all sophistry is true. As with all stories, it depends on who's doing the telling.