Fiction by Bill Adler

Dean Castro knew he had created something truly revolutionary the moment he pressed the power-on button. A tingling surged from the tip of his finger, along his arm, down his torso and leg, and up the other leg. When the charge made it to his lips, he smiled broadly. He built a machine that would change the world forever, and for the better. That’s how sure he was that nearly every person on Earth would want one of his devices. He brushed the corner of his eye.

“You weren’t always this afraid of earthquakes, Ren-chan,” Sachiko said as she lifted the tea bag from her cup and placed it on the saucer on the dining room table. A faint steam cloud curled up from her cup. Ren Ishi gave his wife a long, thoughtful look and took an equally long sip of his tea before answering. “I’ve always been concerned about earthquakes, even before the Great Tohoku earthquake—” “That was fifteen years ago. The city and national government are much better prepared.

Professor Chloe Briggs didn’t plan on destroying everything. All she wanted was to take advantage of her dual PhD in biology and computer science to build something both fascinating and truly useful. Maybe a small part of her wanted to see what could happen, too, because curiosity relentlessly roams in a scientist’s mind. “Whatcha doin’, Chloe?” Alvin Toller asked as he strode into her computer lab.

Photo by dylan nolte on Unsplash Harrison Granger opened Microsoft Teams, and with a snap of his thumb and index finger wordlessly summoned Bandi Corp’s senior vice-president, Jillian Tailor, into his office. From the feigned congenial expression on Granger’s face, she instantly knew what was about to happen. Theshoulder tap tap.

Photo by Nina Luong on Unsplash “We’re lost,” Adam said, his words punctuated by desperate gasps that burned his lungs as he plodded forward on weary legs. “We’re fucking lost. And once it gets dark, we’re doubly screwed. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to go camping in Maine; we’re New York City boys and don’t know a single thing about the woods.” “Let’s rest,” Louis suggested. “No, we fucking can’t.

Getty Images via Unsplash When Air Fresca’s public address intercom rang its banal, melodic tone, none of the passengers could anticipate the six words that followed, delivered in a breathless, staccato voice by flight 2022’s lead flight attendant: “Is there a pilot on board?” But Frank Cisco, a thirty-one-year-old stockbroker with thick, blond hair and a body that made him look more like a linebacker than a desk jockey, had been waiting for those words ever since he got his private pilot’s...

“Object 54? You waited weeks to name it and all you could come up with is Object 54? That’s a terrible name. You know that you can name the asteroid after yourself because whoever discovers it gets to name it.” “I have zero desire for the asteroid that could destroy all life on Earth to be named after me,” Kaori Sasaki said. She rubbed her temple with her left hand as she blew on her tasteless coffee to cool it. Her tenth cup in twenty-four hours. Kaori shuddered.Coldness seized her.

A bonus story Photo by Bill Adler. Now and then, I republish an older short story as a bonus story because new subscribers may not have seen it. The Liberation Gang is in addition to my regular bi-weekly short story, which will be published next Sunday, as usual. “Wolf, Cat, Panda, Elephant, Bear, do you understand your roles today?” Bunny locked eyes with each member of her team. Wolf was gray and brown with opal-colored eyes. Cat sported tabby stripes, snow-white paws, and a non-stop wagging tail.

A short story Photo by Christian Keybets on Unsplash “He wants his mommy,” William snickered. “Look, he’s crying for his mommy. Boo hoo, Bobby boy.” William pinned him against the maple tree, then knelt to retrieve a fistful of dirt. He showered Bobby’s head with soil and debris, the drizzle of earth covering Bobby’s bald head and spilling onto his face. “Look, more tears,” he said. “He’s a big crybaby.” Bobby’s tears turned the soil on his cheeks into mud.

Ten-year-old Cathy Sharpe screamed so loudly that if the window in their apartment hadn’t already been broken, it would certainly have shattered anew. Her father ran from the living room to the kitchen, sweat pouring from his face, took his daughter’s hand, and asked, “What happened, baby?” Cathy’s mom, Male, dashed into the kitchen a second later.