They don’t truly bleed. They don’t truly laugh but “if you unplug us, do we not die?” My drabble “In Defense of Simulations” is out today. It’s only 100 words but I hope it makes you think, question, feel.
Beaks up! The MURDERBIRDS kickstarter is almost nigh and you can sign up now so you won’t miss your chance to support my story “Forget-Me-Not and Morning Dew” and the other amazing stories in the collection right away. Early bird gets the worm!
I encourage signing up because with the way kickstarter works, it’s a positive feedback loop. For the nonscientists: the faster it’s funded (if it reaches its goal on the first day for instance) the more likely kickstarter is to advertise it, and the more likely others will see it and want to fund it.
Here you can read a sample story too: https://www.mikejackstoumbos.com/murderbirds-anthology
My own story “Forget-Me-Not and Morning Dew” takes a much darker turn.
And this is the link to sign up for reminders to fund it as soon as it goes live: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/mikejackstoumbos/murderbirds-an-avian-anthology
I am fortunate enough to share another published story with you all. This one deals with the burdens we carry. How much misery would you be willing to keep? How much to part with? I hope we are building to a future where people support each other out of their misery rather than force acceptance through the pain.
Click below to read EJ’s choice. Be sure to click “display entire story” at the cut off. I hope you like it!
https://dailysciencefiction.com/science-fiction/biotech/yelena-crane/less-misery-enough-to-bear
I am happy to announce that my short story “Facing Reality” is available for purchase in the After the Gold Rush anthology here: https://www.amazon.com/After-Gold-Third-Flatiron-Anthologies-ebook/dp/B0B3V48HWK/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1B23UX1ATJE6O&keywords=after+the+gold+rush+anthology&qid=1659052229&s=books&sprefix=after+tje+gold+rush+anthology%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1
What happens when too many people choose simulated perfection over reality? My protagonist, Logan, is trying to bring back the survivors, his daughter among them. Can he do it without getting tempted himself? What would you choose?
A huge thank you to Rebecca E. Treasure for reviewing my story “In Search of Body” published in Nature Futures.
She writes:
“The end comes swiftly, poignant and strong.”
Check out what else she had to say here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/65140592
As a scientist, it has always been my dream to be published in the prestigious journal Nature. As a science fiction writer… the same holds true. Check out my flash here:
https://media.nature.com/original/magazine-assets/d41586-022-01003-8/d41586-022-01003-8.pdf
It’s a story about inheriting more than genetics from our parents and about how even the most privileged among us can still be lonely and in want of connection.
I got a short piece of mine published in a special anthology and it’s finally available for purchase.
The story is about Dinah, an observant woman using her faith to try to do everything she can to save her family from Covid-19. Through prophetic dreams she discovers, contrary to her learning, that there had always been a Talmud written by women sages lost to time because of social pressure. Can she save her mother and other members of her community using the miracle of her dreams or does her discovery doom them all because of heresy?
Strange Fire: Jewish Voices from the Pandemic leans into the crack between the faith we are supposed to practice and the faith we do, particularly in times of crisis. That may look like atheism paired with orthopraxis. It may look like charms and prayers one step removed from spells. It may look like philosophy in the light of secular redemption. It may look like blasphemy.
A short flash that deals with struggle, loneliness, and finding hope through it all. Published in Flash Fiction Magazine. Head on over and leave a comment.
Three o’clock had come and gone with no one to put us to use. The staplers chattered, working their silvers into a jam. I jittered with my fellow yellow pencils, itching to be sharpened. Even the papers cut the air with their razor sharp edges.
“Where are they?”
We asked the same thing the next day. And the next. Soon losing count.
Everything missed a student. A teacher. A seat warmer. A pen biter.
STAEDTLER Mars erasers were consulted by those suspicious among us. “Could it be a zombie apocalypse?” They thought back to Robert’s famed doodles. “No, the desks haven’t seen anyone from the windows.”
With no sign of change, a rubber band, another pencil and I, made a plan to jiggle the doorknob open. The band hugged us around the waist, just above where we proudly sported our choice #2 lead. It almost felt the way I imagined skinny fingers would.
Not everything agreed with us.
“How uncouth,” the scantrons fluttered, “just have more patience.”
“Easy for you to say.” I tried to keep my purchase on the knob. “You’re barely used. What do you know of Max, Rachel, and Tanya? Only their sweat on test day. No one likes you.”
The scantrons replied with a united flap from their plastic packet. “We got better things to do than just sitting all day reduced to our use.”
I was something else once, a field of me tall enough to soar. Too long a time ago. Many of us were.
The scissors, there were three in the closet, made us all hush with the threat of sharpened steel. Anything that wanted to go, would go. Anything that wanted to stay, could stay. The door hadn’t moved despite the sounds of rubber stretching.
I began to slip. “I’m sorry.” I apologized both for my failure and to the bitter scantrons that, like the rest of us, had no say in their purpose.
Mid-fall, eraser butt down, the hinges groaned as the rust scraped from its brass knuckles. The other pencil and rubber band joined me on the floor.
The freedom had a magnetic pull, inspiring the index cards to drop with aplomb and abandon. A black tiled floor in a shower of white.
We sought purpose in each other. The pencil sharpeners came to my aid. I, to the aid of papers and cards. Even the scantrons joined us in the end.
When a familiar flowery scent mixed with disinfectant wafted the halls we froze. The paralysis reminded us we weren’t meant to challenge our roles.
“What about these?” I didn’t recognize the janitor behind his mask.
They meant us, scribbled papers crumpled over seats like butts.
“Everythings got to be clean before the students come back. Throw it out.”
My first time to be held, I thought. My last.
“S-sorry,” the bristles of the broom swished against the tile as the man swept us all into its packed dustpan, never laying a finger on us.