B. Morris Allen

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...

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...

“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...

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. She had been staring out the window – a ‘phore’, they called it here – watching starbirds hover in...

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...

It could have been an art installation – a dark sphere atop City Hall, a spray of scarlet thread, five hundred people frozen in place,...

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...

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...