Diaspora: Someone Else’s Mail

“Wake up, Boss.” Nora’s voice came from somewhere near the center of the dark compartment that served as a stateroom aboard the frameship. The lights began coming up and the recorded sounds of flowing water faded to silence. “It is 1143 and we are approaching 2004 XR190. Braking maneuver will begin in 22 minutes, 15 seconds.”

Bound By Silence: Bygones In The Street

Dust rose from the cobbles along with the day’s heat. The casks on the tilting cart were dangerously close to falling. A gang of workers struggled to lift the cart and repair it while the teamster calmed the horse harnessed at the front. The frightened animal had sidestepped when the left wheel had failed and slewed the rig to the right blocking the whole street. It wasn’t long before a crowd gathered to watch and tempers began to flare.

With apologies…

Dear readers,

Please accept my apologies for not having a story added to The Charred Tree this week. I could list the reasons but they would sound too much like excuses. And I really dislike excuses.

Where excuses are concerned, I have none. I will have extra time this week to write (yay vacation!) so I should have multiple stories to post toward the end of the week.

Again…my apologies.

Dean Bryant Johnson

Bound By Silence: Catching Up

“Thomas!” Faithe rose from her chair and ran across the room. “I am so glad you came. You’ve been gone far too long.” Her embrace brought the smell of roses to Thomas’s nose—not cloying like with their mother, but fresh and clean. “Come sit. Collette, please have Mags send more tea and breakfast.” The serving girl left the room through the door Thomas had entered.

The Price of Four Minutes

Frank Davenport burst into the coffee house and scanned the patrons for the man he had come to see. He spotted Jimmy McTiernan dressed in a white suit sitting in one of the big comfortable chairs near the back of the shop. He was sitting with his ever-present companion in chinos and a linen sportcoat. Frank strode toward the overstuffed chairs occupied by the loan shark and his companion. He dropped the duffle bag on the small table in front of the men. “There’s your money, Mr. McTiernan—every penny I owe you.”