B. Morris Allen

B. Morris Allen

Stories of love and disaster
Awards eligibility 2019
As a writer The year's not over yet! But while I've got somethings in train, none seem likely to publish before next year, so here...
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Beginnings 110 – Auld Lang Syne, Ch. 10
It’s Saturday. A day for sleeping in, for pretending I’ve successfully played sick and avoided school, for luxuriating in having nothing to do. The sun...
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Beginnings 109 – The Humblebract Expedition
“He needs to have fun.” The guildmaster put his hand lovingly on the back of a pudgy adolescent boy about my age. “I want him...
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Beginnings 108 – Fountainhead
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. She had been staring out the window – a ‘phore’, they called it here – watching starbirds hover in...
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Beginnings 107 – Minstrel Boy Howling at the Moon
The red dirt of the plains was baked into his hands, making rivers of the creases in his palm, flowing off the low hills into...
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Beginnings 106 – Start Wearing Purple, Ch. 8
It could have been an art installation – a dark sphere atop City Hall, a spray of scarlet thread, five hundred people frozen in place,...
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Beginnings 105 – Cinnamon Sticks
The slime had been a problem. “It’s not slime. It’s a podal lubricant and message deposition vehicle.” With some saliva mixed in. When you ate...
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Beginnings 104 – Adjectives of Annihilation
My parents could never describe it. The ravages of an increasingly stratified world, of bitter philosophical division, of a climate run amok. The devastation of...
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