Category: Fiction

April to November, Chapter I.

I am half here, I say. I am half here. My mother died. My father died. Suddenly I was half there, not working, not sleeping, a new man. Not a worse man. I thought, ‘I am not a worse man.’ It was a bright, white world – a morning kitchen world. This made and makes sense to me, still. I sit surrounded by gadgets from my former life, unbranded gadgets, like a listening device I was contracted to develop for Aerospatiale. There was a middle-man, Ben, paid well, and in a letter confirmed that the device worked and the customer…

The Beekeeper ➸ A Novella by Tom Fahy

In a world in which guile reigns, can justice be wrested from the hands of those that dictate the status quo? Val Tyner and veteran handler Jagger Namzamo are about to find out. Join them and a cast of unforgettable characters as they attempt to expose the fraud of the century and beat the Establishment at its own game.

Ted

“My biggest mistake?” “Yeah, the biggest one. The one you regret, the one that keeps you up at night, makes your throat dry,” said Duff. Ted put his foot up on the rickety wooden railing skirting the weathered deck, scratched his chin, squeezed his eyes shut and said, “My Father’s House. Writing it, taking the time, doing the research. It was a terrible thing, a monster. I shouldn’t have done it.” “It was the big one—” “Biggest!” Ted confirmed. “I wrote it for the wrong reasons—sat up in the hole with one light burning, the window open, listening to those…

The Iron Hand

He had never, Jerome remembered, been inexorable in his precepts. He had never declared that black is black or white is white. He was flexible in his judgments. He argued from both sides, and ruefully admitted that no one actually knew which side was wrong and which side was right. Compromise, he had declared, was the watchword of the intelligent man. Nothing in life was clearly defined and immutable. You were wrong, thought Jerome, with sudden confused anger. That is no way to bring up children. They are not intelligent men. They must, for their own safety, be guided by…

Munroe!

“You don’t have a computer.” “I have a computer,” replied Munroe. “But you are using a typewriter.” “I am using a typewriter. Your last name is Romer, right?” “That’s right, Römer with an umlaut over the ‘O.’” Typing, “I can’t do an umlaut with the typewriter. I’ll draw them on later.” “If you had a computer, you could insert the umlaut.” Munroe sat in a wheeled swivel chair. The typewriter sat on a squat pedestal over which he hunched, pecking at the keys. “Damn it,” Munroe muttered. “Hand me that white-out, would you, on the edge of the desk.” “Listen,…

Hotel Ivanhoe

I was out, it was cold, I needed a ride, was shivering in front of the post-office, wasn’t wearing a jacket. It was snowing. Two girls in a Volkswagen, one an old classmate, pull up to the curb, say they will give me a ride. The car is warm. I begin to thaw. The girls smoke and giggle, say they need to make a quick stop, that I should come along. I come along. We drove to the outskirts of town, parked behind a fleabag hotel. The classmate, who was driving, bruises all over her body, but mostly on her…