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in progress


Mr Thursby was just published. A mysterious alien marooned on earth for the past 70 years. A gamma ray burst racing towards us like the beam from a lighthouse. A promise to save humanity. Trust issues.

Also published are five new short stories:

Louie’s Balloons (urban fairy tale) What’s lower than a mime? Perhaps a balloon sculptor. Meet Louie who has big plans of his own.

George & Martha (urban fiction) A dark tale about an open window, a television that's always on, and a hungry dog.

Stray Sod (time travelog) The Irish seem to have lots to say about stray sod, but chiefly: don’t step on it. A whirlwind tour of Ireland in and out of time.

The Barrier (science fiction) A nearby world. A classic sci-fi story with an unexpected twist. Guaranteed.

SHC: Spontaneous Human Combustion (science fiction / horror) In this novelette, a journal from one hundred years ago prompts the new investigation into a curious phenomena.

What else is in the works? Stay tuned...


sneak peek

Mr Thursby
CHAPTER ONE



Click.
“White House operator… How may I direct you?”
“The President, please.”
“Who can I say is calling?”
“Mr Thursby.”
“And this is in regard to…”
“The destruction of your planet and all life there upon it.”
“Is that a science matter?”
“Yes.”
“I could have someone from the Office of Science and Technology call you back at the first opportunity. Can you be reached at this number?”
“Yes, and I would like to mention this is not the first time I’ve telephoned.”
“I understand, sir; and thank you for calling the White House.”
Click. The recording went silent and the screen dimmed. A woman was standing at the front of a conference room, a nondescript agent in a crisp suit. She was called Becker and glanced around at the others who were seated before her, all similarly dressed in grey and black. “Well?” Agent Becker asked at large.
“We traced the call to a phone booth in Schenectady New York… River Street,” a reply came from the first row of seats.
“A phone booth— are you kidding?” someone else called out.
“Where’s that?” another asked.
“Across from the Pericles Diner.”
“I meant, what part of New York?”
“… About fifteen miles from Albany on the Mohawk River.”
“And the threat level?”
“Minimal. Just a crank,” a third person added.
“Has anyone called him back?” a different voice asked from the shadows, the back row of seats. All eyes turned.
“Oh, Deputy Director Donovan, I didn’t see you there. It’s just a routine briefing… You didn’t have to sit in with us this morning,” the woman at the front of the room answered.
“We have his number, right?” Director Donovan continued, though he didn’t expect a reply. “And how many times did Mr Thursby call?”
“Sir?”
“The message said, this is not the first time I’ve telephoned…” Donovan paused for effect. “When else did he call?”
“We haven’t looked into that, sir.”
“Has he called anyone else, Agent Becker?”
“Not that we know of…” She seemed a bit flustered. “Who might you mean, sir?”
“Did you check other world leaders?”
“No, sir. This is more like a training exercise, just ironing out our protocols…”
“Well?”
“We didn’t take this incident report any further. Pretty clear, the guy is just a crackpot.”
“A persistent one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Humor me then, Agent Becker. Make some discreet inquiries.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied but hesitated for a moment. “Should I send someone up there?”
“Where?”
“Schenectady.”
“Not yet.”