The filament flares of our violet sun act like milestones of the day; less so, the red night sun that chases—it’s too weak to emit much of anything.
A lot like my father and I.
I wiped the knife. “You won’t call me your red son anymore, I suppose.”
E.O. figures that people on other worlds probably still have daddy issues and bad blood. But they also have space cars, e.g. a flying Maserati. And that’s pretty cool.
A man trudged from his job in the service industry—the only work he could get—when a thug held him at gunpoint.
“Don’t shoot!” he begged.
The thug fired once… and felt seven rounds pierce his own chest.
“How…!?” he protested, dying.
“The name’s Cain,” the waiter replied miserably.
E.O. thinks there are probably some people in the world who should never be poked with a stick. Ever. Like gynecologists and postal employees.
Step one, turn on the lights. Two, install ceiling.
Three, make something to stand on; add plants.
Four, hang some twinkle lights; five, fill fish tank.
Six, create humanity—no wait.
Crap, this isn’t gonna work.
Maybe a horde of giant lizards is the way to go here.
Occasionally EO wonders if God is ever tempted to wail on the reset button.
In the deadest hour of night, a tangerine-colored torrent arrives.
My girlfriend’s terrified; I drag her half-clothed from the blanket to shield her from the forest’s scathing flames. Wholeheartedly she clings to me, though I know only yesterday her eyes wandered.
Somewhere deep in my pocket, the matchbox shifts restlessly.
EO’s fairly certain that arson isn’t the way to a woman’s heart. It’s probably bacon or something. Unless she’s vegan. Then maybe it’s veggie bacon.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
I used to collect mermaid scales at the beach with my brother. They were aluminium soda can tabs, but whatever—we knew they were really mythical, wish-granting scales. We used them for snow days until my brother caught pneumonia.
I stacked hundreds on his grave.
Even then, it wasn’t enough.
Like most kids , E.O. just used shooting stars to wish for snow days. During meteor showers, about 90% of the wishes in the region were likely made for snow, with the remaining 10% being divided between money, sports cars, and those hoping that their sadistic bosses would drop dead inexplicably.
“Is the temperature of your experimental tank okay?” the alien inquires.
“It’s fine,” I reply, words bubbling up through the strange pink liquid.
“Want to watch Twilight Zone re-runs while we test?”
“Have to ask,” he explains. “New regulations.”
I sigh, remembering that I work tomorrow.
“Just probe already.”
A sci-fi micro story written by Hargreaves called “Maybe Next Time” is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction magazine.
Winds gust and panes quake as rain pounds the glass and creeps in through a cracked seal. It pools on the sill beside me, taking—of all forms—that of a heart.
That’s right, I remember. There’s such a thing as “the heart of the storm.”
But it’s always cold.
EO hopes that the next Goliath storm bound for the northeast gets lazy and simply opts to send a postcard instead.
The kitten sinks its teeth into my leg for the millionth time.
It ignores me.
“I was gonna give you a cool name, but from now on you’ll be called Princess Fluffylumps the Third!”
The male kitten blinks.
“Don’t push me. Or the glittery pink collar is next.”
E.O. is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.
Since my grandfather’s death
I’m convinced the clocks
have stopped working properly.
Hours are now arriving
equipped with extra minutes
that weren’t there before.
My throat burns from the scotch in my glass,
but it’s as impermanent
as the fuel trails of the planes above.
It won’t last. Nothing does.
EO is making a first attempt at a humorous fiction novelette called Id/entity, which, if it doesn’t suck, might actually see the light someday on Amazon Kindle. If not, EO will probably make some nice origami, or a LOT of paper footballs.