Special Agent Eric Paulson stood in my doorway, with a goofy smile on his thin lips. He flicked away his still burning cigarette. Snowflakes melted on his grey stubby chin.
“What do you want?” I asked. Bitterness seeped from the back of my throat. I wanted to spit it out, but words fell out instead. “Seven. Years.” He didn’t even call when my sweet little Anna died. Continue reading “Cursed, not Gifted”
I ran out of luck today.
My landlord cornered me in the laundry room. I evaded him for two weeks, but not today though. “Your fucking dog keeps yapping the whole goddamned night.” He spat on my sneakers. Mr. Garbagegoblin, as I called him, was as pleasant as explosive diarrhea. I grabbed my wet shirts and stuffed them into the dryer. He stepped closer. The smell of his armpits hit me.”Shut it up! Or you’re out!” He barked into my face, breath wafting with rotten teeth and whiskey.
“But he hasn’t barked yet because he’s a good dog. Even if he’s a cat.” I tried. Continue reading “No Barking!”
Part 3 – Judge, Jury & Executioner
Part 2 – I’m that kind of Guy
Part 1 – Safe Atmosphere
also, trigger warning: murder, death, insanity… the usual darkness, you have been warned
Larry stares over Tycho Crater, arms hanging by his side, like broken wings. “Last murder.” He sighs. Rustling with its feathers, the vast blackness above him stirs. Its many empty eyes blink down at him curiously. He deactivates the jammers – still, the silence of the lunar remoteness echoes through his com.
Cold and loneliness pierce him, like an insect to the ash colored background of an oversized display case. He needs to move. The suit adds weight to his weary limbs. Only the oxygen injectors hiss their reliable song.
published here
The tiger folded his paws, cuffs slipping, showing monograms on his golden cufflinks.
Peterson shuddered. The bureau was huge, bigger than his house.
It made the boss look even more elegant and sophisticated, then before.
The white marble-topped table was impressive, the tiger enthroning the big black leather chair looked like a king holding court.
“Peterson. Do you think, this impresses me?” The tiger snorted and laid his ears back. His golden eyes pierced the weasel sitting in front of his desk. “Do you think this is ENOUGH?” The growl in his voice made the glass of the windows tremble.
“Right behind you!”
That’s all I need.
Alec’s leather suit creaks, as he leans over to shut off the master inhibitory signals on our implants. The log-tunnel lights up.
Protocol, protocol. My babysitter-in-time is a babysitter-by-the-book; dutifully complicating my plans. He’s the best. He’s the best I can buy. His missions are like good thrillers, never lost anyone – neither in combat, nor on a time trip. Alec is going to be so pissed, when he finds out I switched coordinates. Continue reading “War Time Tours”
Old age was a curse.
Anyone old enough could relate.
It marked the slow end of abilities, and the beginning of limitations. But this was a world made of limitations, wasn’t it? Old age was an abomination, a fence, an unscalable wall, but only if you ignored your abilities all your life long. Within those boundaries, anyone could roam freely.
My name is Rose, like the flower. My short-lived husband, Carl, loved my bloom, my thorns, my venom. He called my sense of justice, venom.
Published here
The metro reeks of sweat and wet dog.
Her expression is empty.
It always is. Holding that old crutch of hers, she walks. She walks slowly, and looks miserable too. But that isn’t hard with those exposed, burnt and broken legs of hers.
“A cripple has nothing to lose,” her father says so, before burning her. He says it, before he breaks her ankle and knee. First her right leg, then the left.
She stretches out a hand, hovering in front of her, like a small cloud over a desert; white and calm, waiting to dissolve into the blue of space. She doesn’t look at the faces. People are easily annoyed. No eye contact. That’s the rule.
There is nothing to see. She tells herself. Although… There is something worth looking at, maybe even staring at. Continue reading “Nothing”
