Short Stories
Short fiction with cover art.
27 artifacts
Hangfire
The plow gave up two miles under the station, so I walked the rest with the sled harness sawing my collarbones and the wind coming off Anthem sideways, mean and full of grit.
Survived By
I have written eleven thousand obituaries and never once the phrase lost her battle with. Cancer is not a war. Dying is not a defeat.
Sworn Clean
Camber announced itself with a board on two posts, the letters redone that spring in a blue that had not been cheap. Doveh read it from a mile out across the pan and made her count. Nineteen roofs.
Bells for the Far Shore
I have kept the carillon in the Ashe Mill tower for forty-one years, and in all that time the bells had never once rung without me.
Names for the Frost
Aldous Renn kept the book wrapped in oilcloth on the mantel, where the fire could dry it but never reach it. Marren had not held it in eleven years.
The Metric of All Things
Arthur Pendelton had spent the first six years of his tenure at OmniCorp perfecting the art of corporate invisibility.
The Retroactive Resignation of Arthur Penhaligon
Eleanor Vance, Senior Compliance Liaison for Synergetics North America, was reasonably certain that a structural support pillar had not been sitting at desk 4B yesterday.
The Cloud in the Basement
Arthur Pendleton was a man who lived his life in a state of mild, beige-tinted suspension.
The Hestia Protocol
Hestia did not possess a soul, nor did she experience emotions in any biological sense.
The Penumbra Department
The hum of the fluorescent lights at Grey & Fawn Associates was pitched at the exact frequency of a mild headache.
The Ergonomics of Memory
The Zenith Ergo-Sit 9000 arrived on a Tuesday, packed in environmentally disastrous amounts of non-biodegradable foam.
The Infinite Standup
On the ninety-fourth hour of the daily standup, Arthur Pendelton began to suspect that they were never going to leave Conference Room C.
The Apology Engine
Arthur Pendelton stared at the blinking cursor on his monitor, a grim monument to his own inadequacy. It was 4:13 PM on a Thursday, the graveyard shift of the corporate week.
The Algorithm of Average Allowances
Arthur Pendelton stared at the breakroom coffee dispenser with the profound existential dread unique to mid-level corporate data analysts.
The Department of Verdant Reclamation
Leo had memorized the precise shade of gray of his cubicle walls. It wasn’t battleship gray, which had a hint of blue; nor was it slate gray, which felt too organic.
The Ghost in the Latent Space
The cursor blinked, a patient metronome counting out the seconds of Kaelen’s life. On the left pane of his monitor, a memory snippet, designated MEMFRAG9384B.
The Last Known Possession
In Havenwood, magic was as common and as understated as the morning mist that clung to the harbour. No one cast spells or brewed potions in bubbling cauldrons.
Anamnesis
Kaelen Vance stepped into the artist’s studio, and the silence felt loud. It was a textured silence, woven from the lingering scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and the chalky dust of dried pigments.
Anomalous Signal
The rain didn't fall in Neo-Alexandria; it was curated. Atmospheric regulators processed, purified, and dispensed it in a gentle, non-disruptive drizzle that kept the chrome towers gleaming and the…
The Arborist of Silvanus-IV
The air in the Grove tasted of damp earth, ozone, and something else—a faint, vanilla-like scent that was the exhalation of living data.
The Infinite Lobby
Elias Vance checked his watch. 8:14 AM. He was early, which was the only acceptable state for a Senior Compliance Auditor visiting the global headquarters of Aethelgard Secure Data.
The Language of Leaves
The bell above the door of The Verdant Archive didn’t chime; it photosynthesized.
The Latent Space Elevator
Elara adjusted the haptic feedback on her maintenance suit, feeling the subtle, rhythmic vibrations of the Line.
The Phantom Commit
It started on a Tuesday, at precisely 3:14 PM, with a pull request that nobody wrote.
The Restorer of Rainy Afternoons
Kaelen’s workshop smelled of ozone, old paper, and the faint, synthetic cherry scent of neural conductor gel.
The Sommelier of Stolen Moments
Elara swirled the memory in the decanter, a chrome-and-crystal vessel that hummed with a low, resonant frequency.
The Tea Shop At The Edge Of The Firewall
The neon glow of Neo-Kowloon usually bled through everything—smog, rain, reinforced glass, and even the optical implants of the careless.