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A sampler of MK Alexander’s work. Be warned, each story in this collection ends in death or grievous injury.

George & Martha (urban fiction) A tale about an apartment dwelling couple who has not turned off their TV for thirty years.

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.

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.

Spontaneous Combustion (science fiction / horror) In this sci-fi horror, a journal from one hundred years ago prompts the new investigation into a curious phenomena.

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Stray Sod

We go from here to there with hardly a purpose: to see what there is like, or not. And we who tour, are tourists. The very word is funny: tourist. By its sound it seems to mean the specialized follower of some outrageous cult. Yet it takes a certain courage to be a tourist. Not just any tourist, not your typical mass of flesh seated behind tinted windows of a bus hurtling from here to there in exact increments. More the sort who steps on a piece of stray sod, who goes for parts unknown— when from here to there is the whole adventure. The kind who meanders foolishly, searching for the edges of time, driven by word of mouth, or the vague descriptions in some esoteric guidebook; without itinerary, nor reservations, and without much money.
“Like being homeless,” she said, my wife.
“I guess.”
“Well, there’s a courage in that.”
“In being homeless?”
“No, in being a leprechaun.” She smiled and nodded towards the guy sitting across from us in the train.
The R-train, or was it an F-train? It rattled through the decrepit tunnels. I turned and looked across the aisle.
“A bum by any other euphemism,” I said with friendly sarcasm.
“He’s not. Look...” she whispered since he had turned to face us.
I admit there was a dignity about him. His clothes were frayed but clean. The dull green felt cap perched on his head covered what I could easily imagine were pointed ears. He carried himself well, there was life in his eyes.
“Tackle him and ask him where his gold is,” she told me.
I looked at her with a screwed up face. I thought she was kidding.
“Are you scared?” she goaded me.
“Of what?”
“To tackle him. It wouldn’t be easy... He’s a trickster.”
“It’d be easy enough. I’d just be embarrassed.”
She laughed. She knew avoiding mortification was my greatest strength.
“Maybe he’s not a bum. Maybe he’s what we’ll be, in less than a week.
“Homeless?” I smirked. “Leprechauns?”

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