A short story about love and regret by David Tombale: Among the dust

Among the dust

The smell of dust sat around the apartment, filling the little gaps between the furniture and the floors, the picture frames and the vase where a bunch of dead roses sat. Patrick looked around the room and could only see her ghost putting up their olive green curtains or humming a little song to herself while she chopped onions by their kitchen counter.

He was lying on the floor trying to find the strength to get up but without her there seemed no point. In one hand he held a sneaker of hers he’d found at the back of their closet. It still smelled like her. Her letters were arrayed around him a little like a chalk outline around a body. She’d written such beautiful letters; not like other people did, professing love and regurgitating clichés, no she knew how to tell a story, how to capture your imagination with her passion.

Patrick only wished he’d shared her gift, maybe then he might have been able to write what was in his heart. Something like how her kiss had been the one thing he went to sleep dreaming about and was the first thing he wanted to wake up to. God how she’d laughed and fought him off complaining about his morning breath. They’d wrestle playfully until he pinned her down and kissed her all over her face lastly capturing her lips with his. She’d always lean in pressing her body against his and he’d want her all over again.

Somewhere down the hall he could hear the phone ringing. Patrick reluctantly lifted his arm and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to two, twenty minutes until the wedding. Somebody started pounding on the door and he could hear voices shouting his name but all he wanted to do was lie there with the dust. Maybe they’d find his body years from now, with the decayed remains of her letters and the rags of his black suit covering his bones.

He heard the door open and the click of heels on the wooden floors. Someone stopped by his side and sat down. When he looked up he could only see her white dress before she tore her veil from her head. She lay by his side and met his eyes. She still looked exactly the same as she had on the day he left. The same long black hair and the same intelligent blue eyes that he’d loved so much. She laid her hand on Patrick’s cheek and cried.

“Why didn’t you come?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you wait?” he whispered.

“I did. I waited three long years for you to come back to me,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry. It took me a long time to figure out what I wanted,” Patrick said.

“And have you? Do you know what you want now?” she asked.

He moved closer to her until their foreheads met. “I want world peace, an end to starvation, the Cubs to win the World Series and that you never marry anyone but me.”

She smiled through her tears. “Is that all? So are you proposing?”

Patrick kissed her tasting her tears on her lips and felt his heart swell in his chest. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Rebecca Cousins will you marry me?”

“Hmmm,” she seemed to think about it, “maybe,” she said, kissing him once, twice then grabbing him like she’d never let go and kissing him with all the strength she had.

A science fiction story about war by David Tombale: Invasion

Invasion

There was still a sun in the sky when Doyle awoke. For some reason he’d imagined there wouldn’t be, not after last night. Not after those damn aliens had dropped bombs on their heads. He’d hidden in his foxhole listening to their boys fly past in their fighter jets while all around him explosions had torn up the hill they’d claimed just a day ago.

Doyle struggled out of his single man tent and saw a bunch of the boys sitting by a fire cooking up something so rancid that he was sure everyone in camp had already had a whiff.  Nunez looked up from the pan and raised his arm in greeting. Doyle waved back before walking off in the direction of the medical tents.

His best friend Mark Roberts had been hit by one of the Monoterrans’ plasma shells and he’d had a bad feeling all night about Mark’s wounds. As he moved through the camp he noted that there were a lot more empty tents than there’d been when they’d started advancing through Europe. Hell the living didn’t look much better, with plenty of soldiers carrying bandages around their heads and slings dangling from their slumped shoulders. It wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this, with half the regular army dead and farm boys like Doyle and Mark and these other poor souls left to pick up the slack. The recruiter in Doyle’s hometown had told him they were beating back the invaders.

When he finally found the medical tents Doyle could only think he’d been lied to. The screaming he heard didn’t sound like victory. No one should ever have to scream like that, like they were going to tear their throats apart and then there was the amount of activity he could see around the tents! Figures draped in white aprons and masks ran from one to the other blood covering them from head to toe.

Doyle had to push past one of these frantic figures just to get inside a tent. When he did he just stood there shocked at the chaos that confronted him. There were countless men and women jammed into that tiny tent, their narrow cots barely able to support their writhing bodies. One of the veiled figures turned around and grabbed him with a bloody mitt. They pulled down their mask and screamed into his face.

It took Doyle several seconds to make out her words. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” she yelled.

“I..I’m looking for Private Mark Roberts,” Doyle mumbled.

She didn’t waste a second and roughly pulled him to the back of the tent. She finally stopped beside a cot with a sheet pulled over what could only be a body. She turned to him with an impatient look on her face that vanished once she saw his expression.

He’d known; in his heart he’d known when the medics carried Mark from their foxhole that there was no saving him. The plasma fires had leaped hungrily at Mark quickly engulfing his entire body before their shocked unit had managed to snuff them out. Doyle reached out a shaking hand and grabbed a corner of the sheet. The nurse or maybe she was a doctor gently put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t. You don’t want to see him like that,” she said softly.

“I do. He was my friend,” Doyle said.

She nodded her head and stood aside. Doyle pulled the sheet back to uncover Mark’s burnt body. Half his face was disfigured and the burns continued down to his chest. Looking at him Doyle could still remember how excited he’d been when they joined up. Mark had been such a natural during basic training, so eager to be a hero and protect his country. Doyle could feel the tears run down his cheeks and they just wouldn’t stop. The woman who’d decided to stay with him placed her hand on his shoulder.

While they stood there a siren began ringing somewhere in the camp. They both looked at each other in alarm. The woman promptly took off running, probably to prepare more sheets or cots for the boys who’d soon have them busier than they already were. Doyle studied Mark’s face and couldn’t help observing how peaceful he appeared even with all the damage to his body.

Who knows maybe that meant something? What Doyle did know for certain was that the war was calling.

“I’ll see you soon buddy,” Doyle said draping the sheet over his friend’s head.

A supernatural short story by David Tombale: The Assignment

The Assignment

Matthew Davis looked up at the rows of teenagers taking their pop quiz and couldn’t help thinking his past weeks with them had been the most peaceful he’d ever experienced. He’d even gotten to know a few of them like Amy Walker, the resident brain of the class, stereotypical glasses and loner attitude included. The girl really was a genius and behind the cheap plastic frames and freckles was actually really pretty; maybe college would help her bring out some of that beauty. Then there was Bobby Lewis, a really skinny kid with fading acne scars and a real passion for art. Yeah he could imagine where that talent would take the kid in the years to come.

To be honest though the kid he was really interested in was Susan Adams. Not only was she bright, she was beautiful with a full head of long blonde hair. The kid was a natural at everything she turned her hand at and those gifts would have taken her far if Matthew hadn’t been ordered to join the faculty at her school. He’d watched her long enough to know they had the right person.

“Okay people, times up! Put your pens down,” Matthew announced standing up. He walked down the rows collecting papers as some of them groaned and others just looked around stunned like they’d lost track of time.

“Well that’s all folks.” The bell rang while he was still speaking and he glanced up at the clock above his desk then at his wild students and smiled. “Get out of here,” he said. They quickly leaped to their feet grabbing bag and pens as they competed to be the first out the door. “And enjoy your weekend!” he shouted over their noise.

Matthew breezed through the papers after school and could already tell who he was going to give passing marks to. He stood up and pulled his jacket off the coat hanger in the corner and left the class.

He walked out to the parking lot and waited. A black SUV pulled up to the curb and Matthew got in the back. FBI Assistant Director Derek Morgan was sitting inside dressed in his usual tweed coat that always reminded Matthew of his old college lecturer Professor Hamilton.

“Well?” Morgan queried.

“The girl’s Gifted. She’s probably a telepath or at least an empath,” Matthew told him looking out the tinted window beside him as they drove.

“Good, good then she’s a perfect candidate for the program. We have two units on their way to her house now. We’ll be joining them,” Morgan said.

Matthew remained silent thinking about how they were about to rip a fifteen year old girl’s life apart. He was glad Morgan couldn’t read his mind he would have locked him in a hole for questioning their mission.

They finally arrived in a quiet suburb miles from the school. There were a couple of black SUVs like theirs parked outside one of the houses. Tanner got out of the car and after a second Matthew pushed open his door and joined him on the street.

Together they walked across to a house identical to all the others in the neighborhood with a white mailbox out front and a basketball hoop suspended over a garage door. Three men in ski masks holding sub machine guns and wearing black clothes came outside as they approached.

“Where is she?” Morgan asked wasting no time.

“They’re gone sir. The house is empty and the car registered to the family is not in the garage,” one of the men said.

Morgan whirled around, “What’s going on Agent Davis? Where’s the girl?”

Matthew met his superior’s suspicious gray eyes. “I have no idea sir.”

Morgan didn’t look convinced but he turned back to the men, “Get on the horn and get all our people looking for them.”

“Yes sir,” the one who’d spoken replied.

Morgan studied Matthew again then made his way back to the car. Matthew followed him taking care to keep a smile off his face.

Matthew flashbacked back to the quiz when he’d been thinking as hard as he could about why he’d really come to Philadelphia and Susan had inquisitively raised her head. He’d felt her presence in his mind and he’d taken care not to resist. He’d simply stayed calm and let her read his memories. He’d felt her shock then and had hoped the girl would take the chance and run.

Morgan could shout and rage all he liked but Matthew prayed they’d never find Susan or her family.

A science fiction short story about happiness by David Tombale: A helping hand

A helping hand

The taxi was a standard model T3, except they’d exchanged the usual humorless nav guide computer Chuck was used to for an annoying new interactive version. Chuck had had just about as much as he was going to take from the little AI. It kept droning on and on about how he was boring and even complained about the classic rock he liked to play on his down time.

When Chuck pulled up to the curb at exactly ten p.m. he was just about ready to rip it out of the dashboard and toss it out the window. It could probably read his mind because its screen started flashing red as he reached out to grab it.

A second before he could commit robot homicide somebody started pounding on his window. He looked up and found a woman with long brown hair standing pathetically under an umbrella while the skies were pouring rain on her head.

“Unlock the doors Stevie,” Chuck growled.

The locks popped open and the woman literally jumped in the cab.

“Oh thank you. God it’s raining so hard out there,” she said.

Chuck mumbled something like I’m sorry but he couldn’t tell if she heard him. She was probably giving him an odd look.

“I’m going to Lexington and 24th,” she continued.

Chuck nodded his head and started the engine, slowly pulling away from the curb and joining the traffic headed south.

“Hello miss I’m Stevie and my driver here is Chuck. What’s your name?” the annoying little robot asked her.

“I’m Eve Stevie and it’s very nice to meet you both,” she said.

Chuck glanced at her in the rearview mirror and was surprised to see a smile on her face, and what a face it was! She reminded him of one of those models that were on all the billboards.

“Hey Eve if you don’t mind me asking what were you doing out in such crappy weather?” Stevie asked her.

What was wrong with the little moron? Did it really think someone like her would talk to them?”

“I had a performance Stevie. I’m an actress on the Alice in Wonderland production,” Eve said.

“Wow an actress. Did you hear that Chuck? She’s an actress. Chuck here also acts,” Stevie told her.

What was he telling her? This AI had one serious death wish and once he’d dropped Eve off he was planning to do dismantle it with the spanner he had in the trunk.

“Really? Is that true Chuck?” she asked.

Chuck could feel his heart beating wildly. “Ah yeah,” he said gruffly, “but I’ve only had bit parts so far but only in minor plays, not on Broadway or anything.”

“Hey maybe I can come see you on stage sometime?”

Chuck was stunned and was having a hard time finding his voice.

“That sounds like a plan so Chuck here will get your number,” Stevie cut in.

They finally pulled up to a nice looking apartment complex, complete with its own doorman. The uniformed doorman brought up an umbrella and rushed forward to open Eve’s door.

“Well I hope to hear from you Chuck,” she said.

“Yeah, I mean, I’ll call you,” Chuck said turning around.

She gave him a last smile as she stepped out of his car. He sat there watching her walk into the building and admired the easy grace of her movements. Stevie gave a little hoot and when Chuck studied his screen he felt there was something smug in the way the little maniac was displaying flashes of red and green.

A short story about love and future space travel David Tombale: To the moon

To the moon

The sun was just coming over the horizon when Alice reached for Tyson’s hand. He gave her fingers a little squeeze. He imagined for a second that he could feel the shift as the train connected to the stellar bridge.

That was impossible of course; these trains were designed so well that the transfer was often seamless.  It was one of the few pleasures this trip would offer him. Alice nervously ran a hand through her fiery auburn hair as she tried to be brave for the both of them.

“It’s okay you know,” Tyson said.

“Nothing about this is okay,” she shot back.

Tyson couldn’t help smiling at how concerned his woman was about him. It meant even more to him that she let him see it.

The other passengers snuck glances in their direction, amazed at the sight of a tall tattooed tough guy sitting across from such a petite woman. He couldn’t blame them, with his Mohawk and the large spider tattoo on his neck he looked exactly like the gangster he was. Despite the censure in their eyes the only person who mattered was staring at him sadly, a universe’s worth of love in her beautiful blue eyes.

“This train will be coming into the station in exactly 15 minutes,” a female voice announced over the speakers.

“That was fast,” Tyson joked.

“How can you be so calm about this?” Alice asked him.

Tyson tried to reach out his hands but the chain securing his handcuffs to the table stopped him short. Alice stood up in her seat so that she could close the space between them. Tyson caressed her face with the back of his fingers and smiled when she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

“I’m calm because I have you with me,” he told her.

There was a slight shudder as the high speed train slowed down then came to a complete stop.

“We have now arrived at the Lunar Settlement. Passengers may begin disembarking. Thank you,” the voice over the speakers informed them.

“That’s our cue,” Tyson said.

Alice reached into her jacket and pulled out a titanium chip. She ducked under the table and inserted it in a lock at Tyson’s feet. There was a soft click and when the small light on the side of the lock turned green the chain fell from the handcuffs.

Alice stood up and reached for one of Tyson’s arms. She gently pulled him forward as he hobbled weighed down by the other set of cuffs around his ankles.

“Do you think they’ll make me wait before they execute me,” Tyson asked with a smile in his voice.

“No,” Marshall Alice Locke said, the first of many tears beginning to fall, “no I’m sure they’ll do it right away.”

She could see the Lunar State Prison officers waiting on the platform in their purple uniforms. She tried to draw strength from Tyson’s peaceful aura but all she could feel was panic and an overwhelming fear that was squeezing at her heart.

A short story about greed by David Tombale: The radio

The radio

Sitting by the window the old man looked down at the lines of students pouring out of the school. He could imagine what they were saying; this one talking about a girl he liked, that one discussing today’s assignments, that one complaining about an annoying sibling. He could always use the radio to listen in on their secrets if he felt so inclined, to hear what truths they hid even from their friends but he had no interest in a child’s secrets, not even a teenager’s.

Laughing softly he considered himself quite content to gorge on the secrets of his fellow teachers. Absentmindedly stroking the radio he thought blissfully of the tidy little nest egg he’d earned blackmailing them. It’d been so easy and fun writing all those letters and leaving them by their desks detailing each carefully concealed sin.

He was tempted to listen in tonight. To sit at his desk and entertain himself with their black deeds but his wife would be furious with him if he missed another dinner. He was just about to turn off his desk light when he thought he heard a foot step outside. It was surprising because he’d been so certain there’d be no one in the building this late.

“Hello,” he called out. “Is someone out there?”

There was silence for a moment and then static erupted from the radio.

“I have a gun,” a male voice on the radio said.

“What?” The old man stared at the radio in shock.

“I mean to kill him,” it continued.

The old man gripped the arms of his chair and whirled around when the door knob began to turn.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

“I don’t want to do it but he needs to die,” the voice sobbed.

The old man leapt from his chair looking from the radio to the door. The door opened and in the darkness of the corridor outside he spied the barrel of a small gun.

“I’m sorry,” that same voice told him as the gun roared in his hands.

The old man didn’t feel the bullet that ended his life but he did notice that the radio had finally gone silent.

A short story about science fiction and revenge by David Tombale: Inferno

Inferno

The factory smelled of rust and decay with nothing left in it but abandoned humanoid VX3’s standing around dead machine belts like at any moment someone would hit a switch and they’d go back to assembling whatever this place had assembled when things were better. Blue had been staring at them for hours.

Fingering the locket with Violet’s singed hairs in it Blue was thinking about how his rations would probably only one more night. Maybe Arthur’s old friend had been wrong about the location of the meeting or maybe he’d just lied to him. Well he was too dead to give Blue any more answers so he’d just have to be patient.

Suddenly the warehouse doors began to shake and as he watched were forced open to allow a black limousine and two SUVS to drive in. With their hands on the new TECHNA light machine guns the two men in suits who’d pried open the door moved to take up positions around the limousine.

Blue’s heart grew lighter. Finally tonight he could give Violet’s ghost the peace it deserved.

Armed men began to pile out of the vans and faced outward. Blue could read the arrogance in them by the way they handled their guns. A man in a long fur coat stepped out of the car to join them. He had pure white hair and stood at a towering six foot two. The giant made a tempting target but he wasn’t the reason why Blue had come.

“Damn I hate the boondocks. When did you say this clown is getting here?” the giant asked a thinner man in glasses who was struggling out of the limousine.

He got unsteadily to his feet, his fingers working to fix the crooked angle of his tie. “He said nine so I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“He better be and if this all turns out to be some joke I’m going to be very upset with you Toby.”

The thinner man appeared to be sweating a lot and was still tugging at his tie, “Trust me boss, I got good intel that this guy is on the level.”

“Oh I am,” a new arrival called out walking casually into the factory with a large silver briefcase.

The burns of Blue’s face began to throb. It was him, after all these months of searching he’d finally found Professor Arthur Mackie, his creator and his personal demon. Violet’s screaming face as the fire inside her took over flashed into Blue’s mind. His precious Violet had been destroyed that day along with the lab and all the other test subjects, everyone but him and Professor Mackie.

Dressed in a mustard yellow leather jacket his pitch black hair slicked back Arthur confidently approached the giant ignoring the guns that swung his way. “I’m very much on the level and you must be Mr. Wynn?”

The giant inclined his head then gestured at the case, “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied patting the case, “in here lie the only vials of the miraculous ZenaMaxx in existence.”

“And it can really do everything you say it can?”

Laughter erupted from behind them. Wynn whirled around, “Who’s laughing? Which one of you thinks this is funny?” he roared.

“Oh that would be me,” Blue called out stepping out of the shadows with his hand raised.

Wynn was bewildered. Who the hell was this?

“No, no that’s impossible. You can’t be here..”

Wynn turned around and saw that yellow jacket was backpedaling. His face had turned white as a sheet. “Do you know this fool?”

“Of course he does. Arthur and I are old friends, aren’t we Arthur?” Blue paused by Wynn’s side.

Wynn pulled out a bulky TECHNA FH31 pistol and pointed it at Blue’s head. “Somebody better explain what’s going on before I get very upset.”

Blue looked at him then reached up his to grab the gun’s barrel. Wynn’s eyes widened and then got bigger when Blue’s hand caught fire.

“What the hell?” Wynn shouted just as Blue grabbed his shirt with his other hand. Flames erupted around his hand and spread quickly to engulf Wynn.

Wynn dropped his gun and started screaming as the fires consumed his clothes and raced up to his body to his head. He grabbed the man with glasses who yelled and futilely tried to push him off. The flames spread until they had them both and they fell together in burning heap of clothes and flesh.

Arthur started gibbering, “You’re not here, this can’t be happening.”

Wynn’s men gaped in horror at the sight of the boss turning to charred meat in front of them.

“Kill him,” one of them muttered then raised his gun at Blue, “come on let’s kill him already.”

They all shook off their stupor and started shooting at Blue. His body was struck from all sides puffs of blood sprouting from each bullet and his body jerking around in a crazy dance. They fired until their guns were empty.

Arthur looked up from his crouched position on the floor and saw Blue still standing bleeding from various wounds. Blue met Arthur’s eyes and smiled. Fire leapt up from his feet until it covered him completely.

“Now we’ll die together,” the abomination wheezed.

Fire poured from him like hungry wolves running across the floor. They quickly caught hold of Wynn’s men who started beating at their clothes. The flames were too strong to fight and spread further as they claimed fresh victims. Arthur got to his feet and tried to run but Blue grabbed from behind. Blue held on tightly as Arthur fought vainly for his life.

In minutes only small fires were left behind as the seared remains of men and machines lay abandoned in the scorched factory. 

A short story about magic and witches by David Tombale: Identity Crisis

Identity Crisis

 

 

The air in the café smelled heavenly like a mix of cocoa, caffeine, vanilla scones and a host of other sweet scents and Wilson couldn’t get enough of it. He’d been sitting by the corner since four in the afternoon trying his best to spot his prey. Now which one of them would turn out to be the witch?

 

 Wilson didn’t often hunt for witches in trendy caffeine dens but he’d heard it from a reliable source that the java here was suspiciously good. It could be the blonde by the cappuccino machine; she seemed perky and far too pretty to be wasting her time making coffee so she was Suspect # 1. There was also glasses who was handing out scones next to the till; that acne and oily hair could conceal a formidable spell slinger, after all the witches of the 21st century were a generation of nerds. Blame social media and the internet, it’d made even magic banal and geeky. Suspect # 2 confirmed.

 

 Wilson was surreptitiously taking pictures of them with his phone while pretending to stir his lukewarm coffee. Lastly there was grandma standing all prim and proper in a corner like she was surveying peasants come to beg for scraps from their queen. Her upper lip was thin and white as if she disapproved of everyone. Witches tended to be uppity. Suspect # 3 had just entered the competition.

 

 Wilson’s horns were beginning to itch under the blue cotton ball cap. He really had to get this over with. It had just turned six and the sun was beginning to go down as New Yorkers spilled from distant high rises in a mad dash for their homes. He had to deal with the witch before the evening crowd filled this place and he lost her in the rush.

 

 He breathed in deeply and when he exhaled a cloud of white smoke blew out to quickly fill the café. He got up as people started keeling over from the smoke that filled their lungs, laying spells over the glass and doors to keep people out and to cast an illusion over the place. To everyone on the street it would like it was business as usual in here.

 

“Three different spells in the space of seconds, I have to say I’m impressed witch hunter.”

 

Wilson turned around and who did he find casually leaning against the counter? It was the red haired kid who’d been stacking the cups. The witch was a man?

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. A witch can’t be a man,” Wilson complained.

 

 Color filled the redhead’s cheeks, “Who said I’m a man?”

 

 “Oh,” Wilson took a closer look at the red uniform and still only saw the skinny frame and the whiskers on his/her chin. “Really?”

 

The witch screamed and the sonic wave that hit Wilson throwing him back was certainly real enough. His head stinging from colliding with one of the glass doors Wilson stared up at a blurry image of the kid, “Okay already, I’m convinced.”

 

He threw his own custom designed knockout spell at the little drama queen dropping her to the floor. Wilson struggled to his feet, running his hands down his black Death’s Head shirt and grimacing at the dust on it. These people were filthy.

 

 He walked over to the witch and ungraciously slung her over his shoulder and went out the back. The snoring customers and staff would just have to wake themselves up; he wasn’t worried low level spells usually lasted a few minutes at most.