I’m publishing my science fiction novel Pareidolia in slow motion. A new chapter will be published every week. The premise is available here.

MARCUS

Downtown Philadelphia | July, 2000

It’s early. Too early to deal. I’m back on the mirrored elevator with Zeke and Todd at the downtown hotel. Round two with Holcomb. I get this weird feeling that our reflections in the elevator doors are the old us from last time, and that they’re looking in wonderment at the future us, and I clearly shouldn’t have smoked up this morning like an idiot. The ride is just as uncomfortable as last time: we’re all doing our best to ignore our reflections. Continue reading “Pareidolia: Chapter Sixteen” →

I’m publishing my science fiction novel Pareidolia in slow motion. A new chapter will be published every week. The premise is available here.

BALERO

Society Hill, Philadelphia | July, 2000

I’m awake. I don’t remember where I am for a few seconds. There’s a phone in here, on the nightstand next to the bed. That’s a nice touch. I call home but get the machine. I don’t leave a message. I’m in one of Willow’s many guest rooms. It’s morning, still dark. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes. I need a shower.

Continue reading “Pareidolia: Chapter Fifteen” →

I’m publishing my science fiction novel Pareidolia in slow motion. A new chapter will be published every week. The premise is available here.

BALERO

Society Hill, Philadelphia | July, 2000

It’s weird to be back here. So quiet and empty. I’m back on one of the leather couches in Willow’s library. There’s no fire in the fireplace, no butlers, no party, no guests.

Continue reading “Pareidolia: Chapter Fourteen” →

I’m publishing my science fiction novel Pareidolia in slow motion. A new chapter will be published every week. The premise is available here.

LEAH

Northwest Philadelphia | July, 2000

There isn’t any moisture left in my head but somehow I’m still crying. Vicky, a neighbor two doors down, dragged me into her house and now we’re ducking under a living room window in case there are more shots fired and keeping an eye on whatever’s happening outside. Her son is in the kitchen, about to call the cops. I explain that under no circumstances should the police be involved, but I’m having trouble speaking. I’m trying to get it out between sobs that Dad’d never actually shoot anyone, and that anyway the gun was full of blanks. Vicky doesn’t understand me, or she does and she still isn’t going to risk it, and so we crouch between a La-Z-Boy and an end table. The trail into the woods is barely visible across the street and off to the left. Vicky is hugging me to her body. Her son has hung up the phone and is crab-walking back to the window.

Continue reading “Pareidolia: Chapter Twelve” →