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.
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.
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.
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.
A stranger’s last hour in New Orleans captures the organized chaos of jazz in Jay O’Connell’s “Snapshot.”
“I don’t think every story has been told before. If it has, then we would probably have tuned out long ago and relied on re-runs.”
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