Naya Nomikou Narrated My Story, "The Fifth!"

Just a quick announcement, Naya Nomikou just published an excellent narration of my short story, "The Fifth!" She did an amazing job capturing the rising tension and confusion, and added some great ambience and sound effects, too!

Go check out her channel and her videos, and give her a like and a subscription if you wish! She reads a lot of great creepy stories I've never heard of, and good comedies and poetry as well.

Thanks to Naya for narrating my story!

This week's review will likely be out Wednesday evening, and I'm going to be talking about A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

Reading: More Money than Brains

Just me reading one of my short stories. This one is More Money than Brains, a story about Aric, Bill, and Lew on a little job with a real jerk of an employer. I tried to be funny but ended up being mostly sarcastic. Still, I think the story has a few good moments.

More Money than Brains

 

Cover image adapted from a photo by Usman Haider, via Unsplash

“Lew, can you keep an eye on the reactor temperature while I ramp the voltage on these capacitors?” I had my hand on the knob and was looking into a mess of conduits and tubes that were untidily jammed into a service tunnel. Down at the bottom, through the mess, I could just see the capacitors and their connections. We would need to get them charged and the heat damage inside the service tunnel had me worried that the insulation might be torched.

It was several seconds before I heard Lew say, “Okay, Aric.” He must have nodded, and then noticed I wasn’t looking at him.

“Here we go,” I said, and turned the knob slowly clockwise, a few degrees at a time.

“It should be fine,” came a gruff voice from behind me. I sighed—quietly. We should have left him in cryo. “You can go faster than that,” he barked.

“Mr. Waller—”

“Captain Waller.”

I hoped he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. In all my years as a salvager, he was the third person to insist on that title, and the way he acted, he hadn’t affected my prejudices any. Short version: He was an ass.

Cracks in the Walls at the Bottom (about 4300 words)

Image Prompt "The Pit," from Iron Age Media

I got a little too enthusiastic about this prompt and ended up plotting a three-part story that might end up at novella length.
However, the different parts are fairly self-contained, so here's a slightly reworked version of part of the second act, which works as its own action-packed short story. Enjoy!

Warrenton was the first vertical city on Sophra, a planet that had a clean oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, but one too thin at the surface for humans to breathe unassisted. The Vertical City Project was designed to take advantage of the cool, stable crust of the planet and create a haven for humanity deep below the surface. Ten kilometers below the surface, the air was thin but sufficient. Fifteen down, oxygen partial pressures were comparable to Earth at sea level. At twenty, the air was thicker and made physically demanding jobs, like mining, easier and more efficient.

The massive excavation project had just crossed the twenty kilometer mark a few weeks ago. The main shaft was about half a kilometer wide and ample ventilation and modern lighting technology made the deep underground just as healthy as a day in the sun on Earth.

However, today there was a problem. One of the three main ventilators failed, and the other two shut down only a few minutes later. The elevators stopped working, and the network of radio frequency repeaters that made communication possible through and around the caverns went down. The city managers scrambled to get things back online. Without ventilation, the air down at the bottom of the city would be breathable for around three hours. Citizens living deep underground all maintained twelve hour supplies of breathable air, but the clock was ticking.

The Ultimate Drink (about 1500 words)

 

The Canteen literature prompt from Iron Age Media

Found in an empty hotel room in Nueva Helena, the largest city on the mining planet of New Montana.

I'm writing this because I can't explain the weird, sinking sensation I have right now. I feel stupid suggesting that this piece of paper might end up being my last will and testament. Not that I have much in the way to hand down, but if somebody finds this and I'm no longer around, I guess everything I have should go to my son, Jamie Soerman, who lives with my ex-wife Isabel on Wisdom, in the Artestren system.

I expect I'll be back in a few hours, and I'll destroy this paper and go on with my life, but as I sit here in this hotel room, I have this uneasy feeling in my stomach and I can't get rid of it.

Three months ago I was sitting at the bar in a little hole in the wall on Vitra with my usual glass of whiskey in front of me. The room was noisy, full of smoke, and smelled of stale liquor and all the regrettably human smells that come along with stale liquor. There I was, staring into my glass when a stranger pushed through the crowd of people to the empty seat next to me.

No Ticket (short story, about 3300 words)

The Station literature prompt from IronAge.media

All the old people say our town hasn’t been the same since the war. I can’t say for sure, ‘cause I don’t remember that far back, but looking at the bombed-out factories and scorched rubble that nobody ever managed to clean up in fifteen years... it at least seems believable.

Is that why I listened when that old man sat down for me to shine his shoes? Maybe because he seemed to know what he was talking about. Maybe that glimmer in his eyes told me that there was something better for me if I played my cards right.

Jade Cargo (about 2800 words)

"The Infestation" prompt image from Iron Age Media

“Unidentified skiff, please respond.” It was the fourth time I had hailed them. I waited a few more seconds, and then I keyed my communicator off. It looked like the ship was dead, and my patrol just got a lot more interesting. I set my autopilot to approach for docking, and I walked over to the suit compartment near the airlock. I slipped out of my magnetic shoes and put on the pressure suit instead. The helmet went on with a turn and a crunchy click. I still needed to get those damn seals changed. With a flick of my fingers, the suit started its self-tests, and I stood still as the whole suit over-pressurized a little to test for leaks. It was hard to move when it was like this, anyway.

The Broken Home (about 2900 words)

 

"The Outlanders" image prompt from Iron Age Media

    The item at auction was floundering. Bidding had been contentious up to one hundred thousand, but now it had slowed and the auctioneer was surveying the crowd. No one seemed willing to go over two hundred thousand. The auctioneer slammed the gavel once, twice, but then a voice rang out, clear and confident over the rest of the grumbling crowd.

    “Ten million.” The tangled thrum of voices vanished in an instant. The auctioneer blinked, failing to hide his shock for a second before he acknowledged the bid.

    “I have ten million,” he murmured, a twinge of disbelief clear in his voice. “Do I have eleven?”

    There were no further bids. The sound of the gavel rang out with finality.

Modern Improvements (about 1300 words)

 

"The Pixie" Image prompt from IronAge Media

This prompt was a nice change in tone, and made me think of a warm, light comedy.  Without further ado:

Thwack. Isabella was jarred awake by the ugly sound. She rose from her bed and flitted over to her door, her wings shaking loose a night's worth of scales. There was no one at the door, she confirmed as she peered through the little window.

The Fifth (short story, about 1700 words)

 

"The Castaway" Image Prompt from IronAge.Media

“We've done it,” Tom said, nearly a whisper. “We've left the Solar system.” He glanced at the numbers on his screen, half in disbelief. They were the first humans to make it outside the Kuiper Belt. Fifty-five times further away from the Sun than the Earth, the trip had taken nearly a month using the most powerful rockets the human race could produce. Even now, the thrusters continued their burn, creating a weak but definite sense of gravity inside the ship.

Outopos, A Short Story (about 3100 words)

 

VeeTwo held her gaze on the small concrete structure and visualized a trigger being pulled. A few seconds later, there was a flash of light, a plume of infrared emissions, and then it was over. The last human holdout, the final store of some fragment of their history, was destroyed. All that was left now were occasional small groups, limited to Bronze Age technology, at best. The Silicon Civilization had won.

The PAEAN Project (about 3100 words)

 0630 hrs (local time), March 19, 1968: I'm starting this journal without knowing exactly what will become of it. It may be destroyed, or I may be allowed to keep it, but I have had the habit for a long time, and my circumstances now suggest that recording these events may be advisable. I am sitting now in a dingy passenger cabin on a large cargo ship, having boarded yesterday under orders. The ship's name, painted on the front, is Cavalier, but it was obvious that this new name was recently painted on as I boarded. I am, or rather was, a communications officer at the U.S. Naval Station at Guam, under command of the Naval Forces Marianas. A few days ago, I and several other officers were ordered to prepare to change our station to a large cargo ship that had just arrived in port. We were not given many details, and the operation was treated with high secrecy, but not classified in any official manner, which is why I feel justified in keeping this journal. We are to set sail in about three hours, according to a schedule I have seen, but aside from that, I have no other details. We are apparently heading south. After we get underway, there is supposed to be a briefing for us. The crew seems to be a mix of Navy and civilian people, and I saw a large group of what looked like scientists housed near the aft of the ship.

The Corner of My Eye (about 2400 words)

 The massive front door, made of thick, dark wood, swung closed with barely a squeak. I heard the latch catch, and at last I was alone in my new house. Now that it was mine, I felt a powerful urge to tour my beautiful home once more. The walls, painted in deep colors--the entrance hall in hunter green, the living room in apricot, the study in carmine, the kitchen in a creamy alabaster. Each room had its own color and its own feel. The wooden paneling, dark and smooth. The rugs and runners, soft and warm and dyed in ornate patterns. The heavy wooden doors, which mostly swung easily and without a sound, cut off the sounds from outside each room, making each space a world of its own.

Sleight of Hand (about 1500 words)

People love magic shows. The skill, the misdirection, the unexpected--what's not to like! So when I discovered as a young man that I could actually do magic, not just little tricks like palming a coin or trick-shuffling a deck of cards, I was overjoyed--at first. But as I managed to perform a few neat tricks here or there, I realized that I didn't have complete control over it. Sometimes I would feel a weird tingle in my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up, and something even I wasn't expecting would happen.

Old Forests and Older Things Within

 

    It was supposed to have been a slow, relaxing, two-month holiday in Peru. Victor Martinez-Silva and his wife, Amy, had retired early, both in their fifties, and had decided to take a long trip to the country Victor's family had left when he was just a baby. Victor's work as a library historian had always left him itching to visit the ancient places of the world, and this was a first step into the unknown for them. When they left, their three kids, now grown, had wished them a fun vacation when they dropped them off at the airport.

Mendala, a short story (about 2200 words)

    I am a chronocourier. I find, procure, and deliver rare items for customers, but not by looking through antique shops or digging where X marks the spot on a map. I travel through time. Of course it isn't that simple. The first time mankind succeeded in time travel, we discovered that not only was it possible to travel from one time to another in the past or future, but that we could also jump from one timeline to another. In fact, it proved to be nearly impossible to do one without doing the other.

For Sale As-Is, Clean Title (flash fiction)

 

“Hey, nice to meet you. Thanks for coming out. Yep, it's a vintage 1969 Camaro, though not a whole lot on it is original, as you can see... but it's not tricked out, either. Well, it does make it a lot more reliable this way. Yeah, the paint is fairly new. Thanks, we... uh... I thought it was a nice color, not something you see every day. The dark blue is nice, but the metallic highlights and the white stripe really make it pop, especially on a sunny day.

Too Quiet, a short story

 

My favorite way to spend an evening is with a good book, in my plush easy chair, by the French windows at the front of my house. The windows overlook my front yard, which has some bushes, a lush lawn, and a beautiful oak tree. I love to sit down, turn on my soft, warm reading lamp, and recline with a good story. Tonight was no different. My wife Sheila and I had gotten the kids, Tim and Emily, to sleep, and Sheila had turned in early. She had had an unusually long day at work and I had shooed her off to bed while I took care of the dinner dishes.

Welcome to the Horne

 

A short story I wrote after a very strange experience at a hotel in 2021.  Some of the events in this story actually happened, though obviously not the more supernatural bits.  I'm going for a Lovecraftian feel here, more the "dreamlike" Lovecraft than the "looming horror" Lovecraft, in this piece.  Without further ado:

Welcome to the Horne

by R. N. Kohn

I find myself in a crisis of perception. From a young age, I made myself a serious student of the natural world, and my belief that everything could be explained through careful observation and rigorous application of the scientific method led me to reject not only all mysticism, but also many of the harmless flights of fancy that my friends in youth deceived themselves with--much to my own dismay, at times. Yet now, after years of work in the natural sciences and a decent record of publication, I discover that I have experienced something I find impossible to describe through rational means. The vivid memories would be relatively simple to dismiss by themselves, as a particularly memorable dream perhaps, but the scars carved into my hands turn that vividness into an irresistible urge to believe that those memories are real, although I cannot find a suitable explanation for them as they stand in my mind.

Hard Enough?

So, if you've read my first short story, I have a question for you:  do you think it's hard enough to qualify as hard sci-fi?  I'm curious about what people think.  Drop me a comment or an email if you have an opinion.