Twit-Fic!

"How do I commit the perfect murder?" he asked in a web newsgroup.

"I'll show you how it's done." was the anonymous reply.

Twit-Fic!

As with the best laid plans of mice and men, we spent billions watching the skies yet no one ever saw the black hole coming.

Merry Christmas

School bored me as a kid.

While sitting in class one day I had a thought. I wondered if I might really be connected to machines experiencing a synthetic reality. But for what purpose?

Could it be, I wondered, that this life experience is a just class? In some distant future could the real me be experiencing historical events?

What better way would there be to learn?

Fifty years later I still think about it.

I think I understand now.

The future me may not be human.

Make this Christmas a good one. There won't be many more of them.

The Design Document

It's said the Necronomicon is a book of dark secrets that drives men to madness.

I've studied the Necronomicon. It's a design document.

Earth was once dark, fiery and radioactive. That was the age of the Elder Gods. After dark millenia passed new life evolved. The Earth was transformed and the Old Gods slept.

The Necronomicon says that we were created to prepare the world for Their return. We were made clever and aggressive to disinfect this world of life.

Most men seek to know their purpose. The Necronomicon has given me the answer.

Now is that really so crazy?

The Slum Lord

He awoke from a dream about a great cyclopean city of titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze and sinister with latent horror aside a gray, dead sea.

The next day was a busy one.

Accountants advised him to start with a single building. Architects proposed replacing non-Euclidean geometries with a simple cube. He personally nixed green ooze in favor of his trademark gold.

Unfortunately, not even the influence of ancient evil could sway the level headed Danes.

Frustrated, in the early hours of morning he tweeted the artist's concept of his failed tower project.

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https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/aug/19/trump-greenland-tower

The Drabble Writer

I used to write drabbles.

They were unhappy things, a product of life in a place where there is always the fear of an unexpected and violent death. 

When I was young we all feared annihilation in nuclear flames. As an adult, I knew that just looking at another motorists could incite road rage and a fatal shooting.

Drabbles were a release for my existential angst. 

Two years ago I retired and moved from the US to Spain.

Live is good here.

My muse has left me.

The sun is coming up. I think I'll go and get another beer.

Twit-Fic!

She turned and smiled at him. He smiled back, looked her over, silently appraising what he could sell her body parts for.