Stories that fly under a dark banner.

Shorts

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15 new illustrations for stories.

The Hat Maker's Daughter

The Sand Swimmer

The Tree with Vermillion Leaves

The Signal of the Second Spring

The Wise Mouse and the Sad King

The Zuckerman Cascade

The Twisted Track

The Rhino House

La Zone Grise

A Picnic with Darwin.

The Black Flag

The Quiet Lives of Still Things

The Lady in the Storm

The Stars in Twin Lakes

The Cabinet of Rodin

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A Picnic with Darwin.

Lizard

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New Short Stories Library at Supernova1987



































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Soft is the Whisper of the Cooling Universe

Short Stories

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The Zuckerman Cascade


 

 
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The Stars in Twin Lakes.

Supernova1987

Bubbles spiraled to the surface in the darkness. Each gently glowing as they rose towards us outlining their delicate shapes twisting, creeping out of the depths. The boat sat motionless on the lake which was now begin to simmer as the bubbles broke the surface. Behind us the waterfall still could be heard but the it too was glowing, frozen in time, as if photographs had been overlapped to blur its structure. Above me the stars seemed to mirror the bubbles beneath us, dropping from there positions, dancing around each other in merry loops, merging and breaking like cells under the microscope. They were filling the sky with brilliant movement.

Andrea and John didn’t seem to notice, focusing on the first of the bubbles to reach the surface. John reached down, the movement of his arm tracing a glowing arc through the air. Andrea was giggling and running her fingers…

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Mind your Head

Flash project: write 200 word story on the theme of “Mind your Head.”

keep out

In the backwater, plastic walls of laboratory 39 we tried everything to increase the activity in their brains. Aldus, with his brow permanently furrowed peered at the results of countless trials. Magda shuffled up and down, drinking while she poured over data from each permutation of the experiment. Indigo only now admitted that his initial excitement was beginning to wane. He had been convinced these were the creatures identified by the ancients. They were nothing to look upon, but a perfect match for the drawings on the steel temple.

Each attempt started with such promise and yet always produced another dead end. The subjects would show improvements; responding to visual stimulus and spoken instruction. They would develop complex communication amongst themselves. The first time I saw one teaching another to make a cutting tool, I nearly cried. Always they would start to form groups. Always they would destroy each other. Soon we would lose our window of opportunity. We had come so far to find them; across the vast emptiness between our worlds. The steel temple they sent had shown the way and we had followed, only to find their deserts of destruction; the last fruits of their mindless savagery.


The Quick and the Dead.

thatcher

Artist Kaya Mar walking with painting in Westminster.

 
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The Curious Child and the Long Walk

Curious Child

I woke this morning and couldn’t get this out of my head. Something that happened years ago but has stayed with me as a shining memory. As the day has unfolded it has become like a patience puzzle, endlessly opening its lotus leaves to reveal more complexities and hidden things.

This story started as something simple; an idea to make a walk more interesting one day. It became dreamlike in the afternoon sun, distanced over time and memory until it returned fuzzy, browning at the edges and hinting only at peripheral feelings of the days we spent together in the sunshine.

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Aside

Another story from the archives. Transformation story.

Supernova1987

sandswimmer

First Transition had warned me that the most painful moment would be forgetting my name but I had never taken it seriously. I was convinced that the tattoo would suffice, a coded image keeping me in touch with my mother and father all those leagues away. Now as I look at it all I see in an image of something I cannot remember gradually fading as my new skin pushes away the ink. Already I feel the constant hunger and, when I have fed, I know that Portside will become nothing but a distant and unintelligible memory.

Already there are missing parts. I share the knowledge of the First Transition which the sands pour into my mind every day. It becomes clearer, the connection between us all. Now I have only a few images of them. I see my mother sweeping all of the sand out of the house to…

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