Hello Dr. Zann,     I hope that this missive reaches you in good health in these trying times. It has come to my attention that you still fully intend to commit to your planned procedure regarding certain properties of physical translocationality, despite our spirited conversation held previously in happier times.      I implore to once again: reconsider .     As was covered in that conversation, and repeated again here for emphasis, what you plan to do will react poorly with at least several other goings-on, which will in turn affect certain aspects of material resonance of our vaunted Stone Hall. As such, we cannot know or even pretend to know what would come of your sundering of the local environs, no matter how "mitigated " or " contained ".  To put in even more stark terms; should you do this, we would have no idea where you would even go, and there would be no rescue. Just as well, this is to say nothing of the suspected social repercussions of our nei

      Port Astor State University is the premier higher education facility in the State of Jefferson, and every year, tens of thousands flock to the City of Secrets to "begin their futures". Most prestigious of all is the post-graduate program, the Doctorate of Applied Metaphysics & Philosophy, which is by invitation only. While many openly desire to enter the program, few could even begin to explain what the exact criteria of admittance are, let alone what is actually taught within.     The program itself traces its lineage back to the university founders, who ran a small college out of the original university building, The Old Stone Hall. It began as an almost chapel-like structure of rustic cobble, but over its life grew into a bizarre and sprawling web of eclectic neo-gothic stonework, contemporary wood and cement, and other, harder to describe styles not seen before by any of its students.     This was the heart of Port Astor Academia, until the December of 1931. Dur

 "Hello caller, you're on the air..." "They are out there, you know. They've been here for years, longer than us to be sure." "Now, among the red towers of brick and neon, concrete and glass, they emerge from the deep-dark. Hundreds, thousands, maybe more, come forth as legion. They come, however disjointed, they remain unified in spirit." "What are their goals? Nightly, they move from neighborhood to neighborhood, victim to victim, engaging in ten-thousand guerilla actions. Clad in their domino masks and black gloves, none know whom specifically, but there is little doubt in general." "And what happens when you confront them? Dead eyes shine in the dark, reflecting only that light they steal from the world. No emotion, but equally no peace." "Today, the naïve are unaware of the danger that pervades this city, their families, their own lives. Do they not think that the ambitions of these thieves does not rise higher? Higher

 This is part three, and the finale, of this year's mini series! You can read part two here .                Anton dropped his bag down the shaft. After jimmying the outside doors, evading city employees and security, and going in a general downward direction, he had found it; the Plague Tunnels of Port Astor. He then dropped down himself, kicking up dust that hasn’t seen the light of day in nearly a century. Anton turned on his headlamp, which only stubbornly obliged. It revealed where he was; in the alley way between two buildings. As he stepped out into the forgotten street, he could make out one of the ancient signs; “ARTHUR’S IMPORTS & RARE BOOKS”. He cleared some of the dust from the window, which hung in the heavy air.                 He shined a light into the store, and as he did, an immense clamor was heard from within. Anton jumped back, and would have screamed if he hadn’t stifled it. He was, after all, trespassing. The shop door was still in place, and secured wi

  This is part 2 of this year's 3 part mini series! You can read part 1 here if you missed it. October 10 th , 1929 It’s with great resignation that I begin this diary, in the hopes that I can one day look back upon it in happier times. I have lost my employment as an accountant, as the clients I oversaw have themselves gone out of business. With fewer and fewer accounts, the firm of Fuchs & Royce chose to let me go, as I am was a junior member. Tomorrow, with great vigor, I will begin hunting for new work.   November 29 th , 1929 I went to my cousin Edith’s this holiday, out in Fields across the Channel. I thought that perhaps some time out in the country with family would do me some good, and perhaps it did. I had a wonderful series of conversations with her, about family history no less! It was curious as the topic had never garnered such interest from me before, but with so little else in my life at this moment, I suppose that it just struck the right nerve at the

                      In 1930, a mysterious disease overtook the western city of Port Astor, in the state of Jefferson. During its run, it killed one in five; nearly one-hundred thousand. Where it came from and how it started are hotly debated topics by local historians, but the official story is that it came via ship from the Far East. During that time, however, there were no similar outbreaks in the ports of East Asia. The situation garnered national attention when federal forces, sent to the city to enforce a quarantine, opened fire, and shelled the John Astor Bridge, killing dozens and maiming hundreds, when they tried to flee the city.                 The most affected area was the neighborhood of John’s Landing. One of the oldest parts of the city, it featured tight, narrow and twisting streets. After the plague, much of the neighborhood was abandoned, and buildings condemned due to damage, or fear of the disease that might linger; a haunting warren of brick and cobblestone.

       You can see them from the inner banks of the Athabaskan, a million small flames that shimmer like dying stars just beyond the water. They exist apart from the angry red-lit city of Port Astor, and still in its shadow. They are campfires of the great diaspora that clings to the edges of civilization, holding onto the last vestiges of the world they know. Beyond them, the unyielding wilds holding the unknown. The tents do not move on, and may never do so, forever in a stasis. Decaying tents, ever-expanding middens, and debris of their humanity for them to stew in. They camp alone, together. Not a single force, but a patch-work quilt of desperate vignettes; unable to afford proper housing, lost jobs and futures, those fleeing abuse only to find more over the horizon, and those suffering form their own abuses. They are drawn here, to this place, like they heed an unheard call. A dread horn that calls to those who have known misery in their heart, and cannot dream of better tomorrows

  “ Hello caller, you are on the air. ” “I took this job about 6 months ago, and it’s been tough going. I worked security back east for years before moving out here to the West Coast; apartments, scrap yards, abandoned buildings owned by some investment company that is nervous that someone might have the audacity to go into an empty building. My ops manager said something about ‘liability concerns’, but honestly I chalk it up to old dudes in pinstripes being stingy assholes.” “When I first came here, though, to my new site in town, I knew that there was something wrong here. They got me watching out at a waste dump; you know, like where shit flies outta the water system? It stinks, literally, hah! Slow work; easy work. At first. My first thoughts were that this was another warm-body site at another industrial zone where no one in there right mind, or their little brother’s, would ever think about fooling around. My first clue that this might not be true was in the post orders, whic

               The black, oozing mass undulated out of the crate, with horrid intent palpable in its writhing. Leonard, the clerk of this location of Astor Star 24, screamed in a low moaning fashion, and ran out of the store room, slamming the heavy door shut with force, panting and sweating. In front of him, an older woman, with glassy doe-eyes and clad in pink sportswear with text reading “PINK”.             “H-hello ther-“ he stammered before being cut off.              “I want smokes” the lady interjected sharply.             “Oh, oh” Leonard began, and walked behind the counter.             “W-wh-which—” “What?!” the lady exclaimed sharply, “Speak up!”    Leonard attempted to recompose himself, “Wh-w” he gulped “Whi-which—”   “Stop stuttering!” she shrieked, “I can’t understand you; and speak up!”                 Leonard, red in the face and sweating, tried his best to not overtly glare at the customer, gritting his teeth. His eyes shifted over to the store room do

  “Hello caller, you are on the air.” “Whenever I get on the bus, I get nervous. Am I on the right bus? We’ve all done it—think we are boarding one line, and actually get on another. It sucks! It adds time, stress, and just messes with your entire morning. The worst part is the stares you get from others as you get more and more nervous. You  can always feel their eyes on me, and then the moisture starts, clothes cling, and they just stare. You try to notify the driver, but they just ignore you. Some of the more passive-aggressive drivers even tap the “no talking to the driver while in motion” sign. You just stand there. And panic.” “Sitting there, you think that you can pull the cord, and get off at the next stop. Sure, it’s nowhere near where you are going, where you started, or anywhere else, but it stops you from going farther away. You pull the cord… and nothing. The bus keeps going. You keep pulling the cord, and it keeps making that stupid little ‘ding’, and everything just

 “ Hello caller, you are on the air. ” “I have lived here for about a year now, fleeing the outrageous rent in the Bay area down south. Port Astor? Oh yeah, it’s affordable, but the rent is four-hundred dollars for a fuckin’ reason, pal. This city ain’t right. You ever look at the eyes of people from here? Most of them glassy-eyed, and dead. They wander aimlessly. And the ones that ain’t? There’s something really wrong with them. You got the ones that’ll dome you for looking at them too long, or the real friendly ones. Like, even in the South they’d be pushing it. But here? They stick out like red wine on a wedding dress. I avoid those the most. The angry ones want to attack you, but I don’t know what the hell the smiling ones want.” “Then, once in a while, you get someone that could pass as normal. I don’t get it. There’s nothing remarkable about them, which is what makes them remarkable. Their normality is abnormal. What the fuck is it? I’m driving down the street, and past the usual

 " Hello caller, you are on the air. " "Am I a bad person? I moved back home to Eugene after graduation. I got my degree in pharmacology, and to be honest, I didn't know what I was going to do with it. My mom told me, frequently, that she didn't know why I didn't go for pre-med instead. I told her it was because I just wasn't interested; the real reason was that I just couldn't bring myself to go into something that would eat so much of my empathy. What if I couldn't save someone? What would I tell a grieving spouse? 'I did all I could'? I could not tell her that I was a coward." "Am I a bad person? I couldn't take it anymore. I moved to Portland to get away. I got a job as a lab assistant at one of the universities in the city; better that than some retail pharmacy. I lived in an SRO building for a time. Truth be told, I kind of miss those days; me and the others there would get cheap sake and instant noodles from the nearby

One Night in Astor    Who Can it Be Now?      "Oh shit, oh fuck" Miles said frantically as he put pressure on the wound. The blood surged through his fingers from the gunshot; the red stained his friend's pale skin and clothes. Miles, in his heart, knew it was a failing venture-- he didn't even feel a heartbeat when he started compressions.     Miles had heard a window opening in the living room, and had grabbed his .380 from his nightstand. It was dark, and he only saw the shadowy silhouette from the streetlight that shined through the grimy open window. Afraid, Miles shot the dark figure breaking into his apartment. The flash, the bang-pop, he saw the face of his missing friend, Richard.     He pulled his hands reflexively to his face, not even registering how sticky and wet they were. "I'm sorry" he sobbed, "I'm so fucking sorry". In hysterics, he ran to the bathroom, but vomiting before he made it to the goal. Filled with competing guil

 " Hello caller, you are on the air. " "Every morning, I cross the Nimitz Bridge from North Astor into the city. Every morning, I see the billboard for Mooredock, Donnelly, and Ross; their fake-in-their-perfection smiles. The sign reads that I need to call them." "Every evening, I cross the Nimitz Bridge from the city into North Astor. Every evening, I see the billboard for Mooredock, Donnelly, and Ross in my rear-view mirror; their eyes wide in a savage glee. They tell me that they know what I’ve done." "I drive up the hill that overlooks the channel up to my spacious home, minimalist in design and furnishing. I open the several locks that secure the door of my home, and just as quickly secure them once inside. The dark of the house in sharp contrast to the light peering in from the large bay windows, rendering the space in monochromatic amber and black." "Every night, I stare from my house at the Nimitz Bridge. Every night, I see the

 " Hello caller, you are on the air " "I can't sleep. I see my days play out in my mind; the banality of my life projected like old film upon the canvas of my closed eyes. The fine details lost under patina so heavy as to be entirely lost. And what plays on that movie? Which is so gray and dull as to be worn river rock? The small moments of each passing day, but utterly unable to be separate from one-another. Already lifeless as it is reduced to the mere physicality of brain matter and electrical activity." "But more than that, the failings of my life, none individually extraordinary, consume me in their totality. Lack of family, found or otherwise; the path of my life so lost in the weeds as to make me wonder if it was ever really there." " I can't sleep . As I lay there, watching that film, I fear that it will still be playing when I open my eyes; looming over me as I lay in the dark, illuminated by what little inner-city light that creep-cr

  Dearest Claudia, It has been so long since I have seen you, too long. I think about our goodbye at the docks at my boarding of the Eastern Gloam to set sail for Indochina. I remember how you wept, and how I did too, as we kissed goodbye. I remember how you worried about what you heard, about how the people there attacked the French, but I told you that it was still worth it. A decision I still stand by, even though it meant being so far from home, and you. But I have joyous news; I will be home soon. Let me tell you of my adventures! The chance to join the university expedition to parts unknown was well worth it, as it has given me so much to share with you. I was hesitant at first, watching Port Astor sink below the horizon, but if I had only known what awaited! The journey was long, and I assisted the professors with planning the route we would take overland once we arrived in that tropical land so far away. It was then, after spending so much time with Professor Garland,

      Detective Morris was stumped. He had been assigned this case, and he swore it was going to be the end of him. Dozens of murders across the city, and no leads. The victims were either career criminals, or were killed in commission of a crime-- no saints, to be sure; killers in their own right, thieves, and so on, but nothing to deserve what they got. Vigilantism wasn't a new thing in Port Astor, hell, it used to be something it was (in)famous for in the early 1900's, with the likes of the Ghost of Astor, but those were days long gone. The city, and the detective himself, had enough problems right now, and it didn't need some psycho-hero wannabe taking matters into their own hands.     Half the department, let alone his precinct, was on the take to god-knows-who, crime rates only ever seem to go up, capture rates haven't risen since Reagan, and he's continuously expected to do more with less despite the fact that the police budget has ballooned, with the funds g

Note: This is an early work of mine from 2015. I included it to maybe show differences between how I write now versus how I wrote then.  His head pounded as his senses came back to him. Tom lay on a cool, damp cement floor and the scent of rot and sewage permeated all around. He remembered what had happened what seemed like only moments ago. He and his comrades, Raul and Rog, were chasing their quarry; a horrid beast, but with only patches of skin and fur to cover its bare muscle and gore. It led them on a grand chase through the narrow streets illuminated only by the dingy streetlamps which colored it the same as dark urine. As they turned the corner, their prey had seemed to elude them. They cursed and spat in frustration; this wasn’t the first time this had happened. This moment lasted only but a brief second, before the beast announced itself from behind, from behind its pursuers. It flung itself at them, with the hunters only having enough time to gaze in horror in realizatio

  Note: This was a work I had feelings about putting on here. It gets a bit graphic on the violence end. If that is something you have a hard time with, then it's a-okay to skip this one. I wrote it some years ago when I was in a weird place in my life. Harris Johnson walked home late at night, to his small apartment in North Port. He had stayed out late, having a few drinks to numb his unease over losing his job earlier that day. He had worked at a bank, in a back financial office, dealing in corporate finance and leasing. It had been the second job he had of that nature, and couldn’t stand them—but they paid well. He wasn’t sure why he had been fired; had he taken one too many days off? He thought about it as he shuffled home. “Good riddance” he thought to himself, trying to bluff himself out of his concern. When he arrived, he unlocked his door, but not before missing the key slot half a dozen times in his buzzed and exhausted state. He dragged himself in, placing his hat and

 The black liquid was oil, we’d struck it rich. We knew that we could now retire, and live in leisure. We actually started talking about all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was to move out west, and buy land, or even try our hand in the market. Ross said we could go back east; return in glorious triumph. Joseph didn’t know what to do with it, but then again, he didn’t know what to do with himself in the best of times. As the burning sun bore down on us and our discovery, we began to feel a growing sense of annoyance to take us. All alone in the wastes, we bickered about how we ought to split our find. Ross said he should get the majority, since it was rightly his equipment, while Joseph staked his claim by virtue of it being his land. While, I myself being a gentleman of sensible mind, suggested even shares, but the others would not have any of it. Ross swung first at Joseph, knocking the smaller man to the ground; then mounting and pummeling as he went. I tried to pull