Rosey Waters
from Prison Island
"Why don't you come up here Tabby?"

Tabitha hunched over, pulling her cover up over her stomach and looking away from Ravia. "I haven't been feeling well. My stomach has been upset lately," Tabitha said.

"Of course it's been upset -- the aforementioned foreign country's food is different than what you're used to. That's all it is." Ravia closed her eyes and leant back. Her dark hair trailed over her dark skin, setting her in stark and almost photographic contrast to the water and the boat.

"Maybe it's cancer," Tabitha said loudly. She thought she could feel a lump, a large lump, about the size of her palm where her fingers were pressing into her skin.

"It's not cancer," Ravia said, not looking up.
Best in Show in AmLit's 2011 Spring Issue.

from A Benediction and a Crown
The King is dead.

The pinpricks of light that had been placed in the shapes of constellations on the ceiling swirled in Ella's vision. The crowd before her -- all lightly toasted, with a warm energy that came from companionable drinking and good music, blurred into simple darkness. The telesect, its green carapace catching the light of the stage, clicked its front legs together expectantly. It had discharged its duty in delivering its message and now it wanted to know whether there was something for it to return with.

Ella eyed the mechanical bug, one hand around her microphone, the other holding the piece of paper it had delivered. Beyond her spotlight, the crowd waited. Her drummer continued to set the beat, the trumpet played on, improvising around her sudden silence. It wasn't all that unusual for her to get messages in the middle of performances, they probably thought it was just a note about what she should sing next, not something that could spread chaos.

Gently, she tapped the telesect's back. It whirred to life, taking off and seeming to disappear into the ceiling of the Constellation Club. Ella took a short breath, deciding in that moment what she was going to do. Then she focused her attention on the crowd.
A work in progress.

from Orange Wars
The astronomical improbabilities involved in time travel have produced several strange effects, the most prominent being the single rule of time travel: facts change, timelines remain stable. While to an outside observer this would seem to indicate a fundamental paradox of the universe, it hasn't stopped the universe from doing it anyways. The practical upshot of this rule, the physicists have stated, is that you can go back in time, muck about and return to the present without having to worry about whether or not your actions caused yourself not to be born.

The philosophers call this poppycock and say that all actions must have equal and opposite reactions. Thus far however, they have been unable to come up with empirical proof.
A work in progress.

from Encoding
I hate the post office. It's a fucking nightmare in there. All the florescent lighting, and the hunched, trolls who work behind the desks in their blue uniforms with beady little eyes that are glowering at me like I'm gonna fuck something up.

Okay, so I usually fuck something up, but it's not like I was trying to knock over all those boxes. I was trying to get into my employer's mail box, like I'm supposed to do. And usually I'm pretty graceful. I mean, I'm in training to be a body guard -- I can be a fucking swan if you need me to be.

But one of the trolls had put all these ready to mail boxes right in front of the boxes and I had to lean in a funny way and suddenly all the boxes were falling all over the ground. And now all the workers are looking at me like I'm some sort of delicious fly and they're toads.

See, that's a better metaphor -- toads.
A work in progress.