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It is with a heavy heart that I announce Isotropic Fiction will be going on hiatus for the foreseeable future. The key word here is hiatus. Know that we will be back. It is a question of when and not IF.
Call it PTSD from a decade of war and economic collapse. Call it viral hope. But culturally we are in a moment where stories of survival feel important.
There is an intentional stiffness to many of the scenes as if one were paging through a collection of old time photographs. This adds to the suspense during the darker and more challenging moments of Tesla’s life, giving the characters a cloak and daguerreotype atmosphere.
The Watchboy’s monotone voice echoed between the close walls of the street. “You are in violation of ordinance three, two, four, one, dash, five, six…” The numbers continued without inflection. I’d never heard a Watchboy speak before. It sounded so unreal, inhuman. As the kid finished the sequence, Christian turned and spit on the ground between them.
In the world I imagined, religion still existed, but where freedoms are limited, religious freedoms are also repressed. I don’t believe a lack of religious thought has anything to do with technology, other than how much that technology might allow others to control our behavior. I have a friend from Poland who cried when she read this story. She said it reminded her of her childhood under communist rule, and that my portrayal of the US under similar circumstances was so realistic that it brought her to tears.
Max opened the box, and the marker told him that if he picked any other color he was a dead boy. The marker was absolute black and flashing bright like a TV screen stuck in the instant of being turned off. Static prickled Max’s fingertips when he touched it. “What color are you called?” Max asked.
When writing a review, a good reviewer usually hides far behind the words so readers can focus on the book or movie. But when it comes to a fitness regime like the Zombies, Run! 5k Training, it might be nice to know if the reviewer is a total jock with zero percent body fat and a college education paid for by track and field scholarships. I wish that was me.
I want to tell her about the rancid air. About the stinking, decaying bodies of the men and the woman who broke into our house. How much worse it is outside. How there are bodies lying on the road: adults, children, animals. Unrecognizable.
Without ever venturing into overt fantasy, Café Insomniac paints a fantasy landscape local to any city in the world in shades of sleepless deep grays and headlight yellow-whites.
We stepped into a burned, ravaged town exploding with guerrilla warfare. Infantry soldiers in full body armor fired weapons that emitted devastating pulses of plasma energy. I was in the midst of it, in the flesh! It would be one thing if Death had brought me along in non-corporeal form but I was actually there. I guess he wanted me to get the full effect, which I did.