The Modern Prometheus

There is a man in the mountains who wanders by the roadside, picking up the pieces of cars that have fallen. He carries them gently back to his house and hangs them upon his wall. His wife calls him foolish but one day, he says, he'll have enough to make a whole car. This if...

An End to Solitude

It was midwinter and Ariella was shut in her new house by drifting snow. They should have been together, but he left her before the ink dried on the deed and she was alone amongst vast and empty rooms. At night she heard  old boards creaking. In the library she would find the fire lit...

Headstones Above the Silent Deep

The travelers look across the water by the shore and watch the waves come in. There was a village here, long ago before flood and fire: a village of stilt-houses upon the shore. Now there are only broken wooden pillars, rising like headstones above the silent deep. This is for Three Line Tales, Week 221. Thanks...

Gaslit

The chimes of the clock ring out over the fog. Shadows stretch from grey buildings over grey streets. The Thames winds under bridges and past docks, murky water seeping up the bank. The stink hangs over the city, a smell of people and industry and waste, a stench that worms its way into the bricks....

Dirigible Racing is a Deadly Sport

There were two ways to win a dirigible race. One was to be the fastest. The other was to always have a sharp object handy. The Baron–simply the Baron, name and adjective-less to admirers and competitors alike–preferred the second way. He was quite thankful for the accident that took his left hand. Nobody tried to...

After the Crash

The crash left him gasping burning air, his head aching, scrabbling to tear himself free of the chair. Above, silhouettes gathered, their faces hidden in shadows. A flag waved overhead, but with the light behind it, he could not tell whether it was theirs or the enemy's. This is for Three Line Tales, Week 183....

The Old Man in the Small Town

Mr. Ulysses seemed an ordinary man pushing the far end of his fifties. He waved to his neighbours on his way to the grocer's, read his newspaper on the porch in the mornings, and fished in the afternoons. You could almost overlook the bullet holes in the door of the seaplane if you didn't know...

The Only Way to Win the Game

This close he can hear the clock ticking. He checks his rifle, glances at the hotel below. The target will be outside soon, off to sell secrets. His Employer doesn't want that. Any minute now. Behind him, he hears his name. His real name. He turns. He didn't expect to see the most wanted woman in the...

A Pale and Lidless Eye

As a child she had nightmares of the man in the moon, a face twisting slowly in cold and distant rock, and she would wake screaming. Her parents bought her books, showed her documentaries, tried to tell her there was nothing there, just stone and dust and flags held up with wire, frozen in a...

Sign of the Rose

Hey everyone! Sorry for being gone so long – I'm going to try to get back on top of posting – but I return with exciting news! My short story, "Sign of the Rose," has been published by Crimson Streets, who also published "The Lazarus Riddle." It's a Victorian-era murder mystery which I'm quite proud of....