Posted by Rich Magahiz
Fri, 01 Aug 2008 14:03:00 GMT
It was when the second lightning bolt struck him that he started to take
notice.
It was always the same - halfway through the third margarita of the
night he started thinking of his mother.
“Oh, just give me that chainsaw,” Father said, just before she noticed
something she hadn’t seen before.
Her moans were getting more distinctive now through the open window,
just when his phone started playing “Edelweiss.” He stood up suddenly
and gave his skull a hard knock on the sill.
If these are fresh dinosaur tracks, she wondered, why does this one have
the imprint of a zipper down the side?
We all knew Cletus was going to die, even though he had been sleeping
with the stage manager.
If this phone doesn’t ring real soon, she thought, it’s going down the
disposal too.
They found the secret long after the fighting had ended, after they had
taken most of the dead slaves from the hold and thrown them overboard,
and long after the flagship sank beneath the oily surface.
Sssst, the iNanny went, until she turned it off.
The two of thm were in Ginetta’s waiting to place their orders when he
started in on his theory that all rugs are area rugs. “And Dhurry is
their prophet,” she replied, automatically.
“Florence! Hurry it up, why don’tya, and get your radomes over here
before we all die of thirst!”
The lesions on the dead man’s arms and hands were consistent with
corvid predation.
I was switching stuff over to a new PDA and ran across this year-old file.
Posted in fiction, prose | Tags first lines | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Wed, 23 Jul 2008 11:48:00 GMT
They say it was flowing groundwater that made these canyons on the surface of Mars, but to me it looks to be the work of a gigantic, malicious child, dragging his or her enormous fingers through a freshly iced cake when a colossal parent was not attending to what was happening, and scooping the confection into a cavernous, rock-crushing, planet-devouring maw.
Except for that part at the top. That does look like groundwater.
Posted in prose | Tags space | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Mon, 07 Jul 2008 16:20:00 GMT
Looking down at him where he sat, slackjawed, perturbed, she slipped off her shoe, ran her foot into the slit pocket of his navy cashmere jacket, painted toenails and the ball of her foot touching the silk lining, jangling his keys and change. “So then, mister,” she whispered, “I believe we were talking about finances.”
Posted in fiction, prose | Tags 55 fiction, dream | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Sat, 21 Jun 2008 19:22:00 GMT
It was part ray gun, part flit gun. Morris held it carelessly. He
didn’t enjoy the fit of his nose filters, either.
Out of the dark came a slap on his cheek. The numb bite of arachnoid
analogue left him little time to aim. Straight to the face!
Unfortunately, she had filters of her own…
Posted in fiction, prose | Tags 55 fiction, short story | no comments
