Bruce Davis and Sharon Skinner kick off their own edition of the Brick Cave Podcast with some great talk about their current project lineup, fashion of the 19th Century, COVID, the current Brick Cave Kickstarter and other rabbit holes. They also talk about the #PublishingPaidMe hash tag and movement. Bruce puts in a plug for Frigid Reads, a review site: https://frigidreads.blogspot.com/ (more…)
This is Chapter 3 (and conclusion) of the story Titania’s Purse.
I’d promised Marie that I’d never try to see her or find the child. We knew there was no way they’d let her keep it. A Spud raising a Normie child would open too many uncomfortable questions. Besides, at seventeen and legally disabled, she had no say in what happened to the baby. Her family had handled the whole thing. Quietly, respectably, but above all secretly. (more…)
This is Chapter 2 of the story Titania’s Purse.
Lunch was at an out of the way diner. Not the Taproom at the Drake, but I didn’t care. The burger was good and they used real grease for the fries, not that canola crap mandated by the Health Department. I made a note of the place for attention later. (more…)
Sometimes during the sleep cycle, I turn up the volume on my hydrophones and shut down my exterior lights. Phosphorescent plankton dance up and down the thermocline, ghostly wisps of blue green light that form a backdrop for the darting flashes of the angler fish and dragon eels hunting prey along the edge of the abyssal cliffs. (more…)
This is Chapter 1 of the story Titania’s Purse.
The morning bell jarred me out of a dream about clean sheets and hot meals. I rolled out of the bunk and slid bare feet into the plastic slippers that they gave us to wear as shoes. Clancy walked through the dorm, swinging her wooden spoon. It had a leather thong looped through a hole in the handle and she swung it from her fingertip as she looked for stragglers. (more…)
It was my birthday and so I decided to kill myself one more time. Maybe this time I’d get lucky.
I visited Jenny’s grave first. I knelt and brushed away the leaves and dead grass that had accumulated around the base of the stone and traced the carved outline of her name with my fingertip. She’d been one of the last to die, really die, before the Cure, nine years ago on this same day. God, I missed her. (more…)
(Originally published on ThatWhichIsHuman.com)
The trauma pager, an old fashioned alpha-numeric beeper, sounds off.
‘6 minutes, Red, MVA rollover. Trauma Code’ read the black letters on its tiny green screen.
Five minutes later, the EMT team rushes in with the gurney, one of them performing vigorous one-handed chest compressions as he pushes his side of the wheeled bed. The other squeezes a ventilation bag attached to an endotracheal tube. The tube is stuck in a bloody mass of tissue and hair that is barely recognizable as a young woman’s face.