B. Morris Allen's Blog, page 9
May 30, 2019
Beginnings 060 – Consideration
“Pluck it out!”
The voice came from his right. He felt vaguely distant, dead to sensation. “What?” he managed.
“If it bothers you.” A strong hand swooped in, a tanned arm. “The eyes always get to me. They watch. Like you.” The hand selected something from the table, vanished. There was a slight pop, and a slurping sound.
…
“Consideration”
About the story: A unique punishment for malefactors.
May 29, 2019
Beginnings 059 – Adaptations to Coastal Erosion
It was after summer that Nora started to sink. Just footsteps a little deeper than usual; she saw them as she came back on her walk, comparing her outgoing, energetic pace to her homecoming, philosophical one. The prints were firm and well defined in the hard wet sand, but deep, and she tried to remember whether she had been running. But the toeprints were too clean, and besides, running, at her age? Examined, her memory yielded only sand dollars, seagulls, and seals. For a sand dollar, one...
May 28, 2019
Beginnings 058 – O!
“A soul?” The shopkeeper was a small, wiry man, with eyes the color of warm caramel. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. Not really in our line, you see.”
…
“O!”
Fantasy Scroll
Published 27-Jun-2016
About the story:
May 27, 2019
Beginnings 057 – Waiting for the Winter
She knows that winter is coming. She knows she won’t survive. But for now the cool air of a last fall is merely bracing as she looks down over the long dirt road, the fences, the walls. Beneath her, the hillside is solid, the grass still hardy and green over a thin layer of soil. Beneath that, rock and concrete, steel and safety. Against the blast doors, her makeshift barrier still holds. It was hasty, jury-rigged, all she could manage. Not proof against a real effort. Not really. And yet it...
May 26, 2019
Beginnings 056 – Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is
Apparently Hades was better. That’s what Angie said, anyway. She’d never been there, but she said she had friends who knew. I had my doubts.
“Penny for your thoughts?” That’s Angie, always kidding around. Anyone with a penny would be long gone from this sea of mud and flesh, instead of hanging around by the one scraggly willow where Charon ties up his boat.
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“Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is”
About the story: What happens when you reach the Styx, and find you can’t pay the ferryman?
May 25, 2019
Beginnings 055 – Payback
The shop is empty, floor dusty, windows shuttered. A trail in the dust marks a path to the back wall, where the proprietor stands with her only trade goods – herself.
…
“Payback”
Published 27-Feb-2015
About the story: A shop that sells revenge.
May 24, 2019
Beginnings 054 – Contrast
“It can’t be stolen.” The big man shook his head, and swallowed the last of his juice. He pointed at the empty cup, and from beside the table a service Hand extended a pitcher. Its soft blue long-arm was steady, a short-arm ready with towels in case of any spill.
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“Contrast”
About the story: One sibling can’t be missed. The other can barely be seen.
May 23, 2019
Beginnings 053 – Blackthorn
There is a black thorn bush up on the hill, where the slope is too steep to farm, and too bare for deer. The branches of the bush are splintered and thin, its core twisted and rough. The bush crouches in a rocky clearing at the edge of the forest, naked to the wind and sun, its roots clinging to cold stone and the little soil it has gathered. The bush has been cut, burned, buried in filth, but it clings to life, such as it is. The locals call it Winter’s Bush, and revile it for having made S...
May 22, 2019
Beginnings 052 – Crivăț and the Snow Curse
Once upon a time, winter was cold. Not cold like it is now, but really cold. So cold that your breath would freeze as soon as it left your mouth, making a cloud of shiny little icicles that fell to the ground with a faint tinkling sound. It was pretty, but it made a slippery layer of ice over everything.
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“Crivăț and the Snow Curse”
About the story: Based on a traditional Moldovan story about spring.
May 21, 2019
Beginnings 051 – The Path from l’Ome
There is only one way into paradise. It enters a valley that is wide and high, ringed about by cliffs and ridges and, at the western end, sky blue glacier creeping slowly down to the fields. The soil is deep, the product of millennial cycles of ice and melt, cracking and crushing the mountain rock, occasionally killing the hardy trees that attempt the slopes. It’s all washed into the valley’s deep bowl to mix and rot and transform into rich, dark loam. Somewhere down below, there are angles,...
