B. Morris Allen

B. Morris Allen

Stories of love and disaster
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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Beginnings 103 – 3 Ghosts, Ch. 12
Lucas could feel warm satin sweat against his cheek, and his fingers curled slightly, moving through slick stickiness to a little node of firmness. It...
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Beginnings 102 – Loose Change and Nothing to Say
“Hi. Is your food preservation device operative? Better go stop it.” Zorknord pulled both tentacles back into his tiffle, and let the input integrator fall...
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Beginnings 101 – Punctilio
The man moved doggedly onward, pushing ever toward the faintest of lights on the horizon, a light more sensed than seen, and which illuminated nothing....
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