“Only five percent of those treated will experience the undesired transformation.”
After custodians had thoroughly cleaned the examination room, a new cohort of patients was ushered inside.
The doctor followed. He hurriedly explained the merits of inoculation.
There is a reason you know nothing about Apollo 18.
Undead hands appear
“Play dead.”
“You’re leaving me to die?”
“You’re infected. We can’t risk including you.”
“How do you know I’m infected?”
Zombies of the Gilded Age!
The express arrived at a deserted depot.
The truth about Apollo 11.
A gloved hand ripped through broken chunks of lunar basalt.
“Run!”
I had several short fiction pieces published with Seven By Twenty (which is sadly now defunct). This may be my favorite of my submissions to that publication.
When we want to live, we need to live.
We need each other.
Just not in the same ways.
As survivors struggled, few realized that mankind was on the cusp of extinction.
Surviving however possible.
The railroad depot was ramshackle to say the least, but the building possessed some necessary provisions.
That escalated quickly.
The first cathedral on the Moon was constructed with great blocks of basalt.
The new colonists were pleased and gazed on Earth with wonder.
A collection of ominous short fiction from my Twitter account.
The poison was colorless, but there was a foul aroma.
Mrs. Claus wasn’t pleased.
She had one night of privacy to get this right.
