David Accampo | January 24, 2009
This story was originally written as a short to complement a script concept entitled The Beautiful People. It was my first attempt at science fiction. I don’t know the original date of creation, but it would have been circa 2001. By David Accampo Today my name is Leopold Atari. My father, a bronze ambassador from [...]
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
This story originally saw print in Transfer #75, Spring 1998 By David Accampo Leroy leaning on the black iron gate, Leroy owes me forty dollars. He’s thin as a lamppost, bent over, brown skin faded. Shit, I mean look at me. I’m black, white, everything, all mixed up, he tells me, thin arms outstretched, scant [...]
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
By David Accampo Marc and Annette lie on the bed, staring up at the tiny white topographical map of ceiling above the bed. A single sheet stretches between them, covering the odd angles of their naked bodies. “I don’t know how you can say I’m being selfish,” says Annette. “Bullshit.”
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
By David Accampo Charlie sets the notebook computer down on his lap, slides the clasp, opens it. Presses the power button. The machine grinds gently to life as Charlie sips from the steaming cup of green tea on the bench beside him. As the computer screen runs its epic start up screens, Charlie sighs through [...]
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
Midsummer oily heat haze on the black asphalt roads when the devil came to Rockville, and Henry was the only one who noticed, out of breath, pushing his black-and-chrome silver Huffy bicycle across the sidewalk and into the flat gray parking lot of the Savings Corner Market. Out of breathe, pumping up and down the gentle wave of Snipes Road, hot air scorching his mouth and lungs, watching the shimmering obsidian heat mirage in rhythmic time, foot down, breath in, foot down breath out and finally, the Exxon station, comes into view, then Harmony’s ice cream stand, then the post office, and then the Savings Corner market.
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
When there is nothing left between two people, the physics of the room appear to change. A stillness overcomes the space between them, lazy dust motes trapped in a shaft of light. There is movement, of course — the nervous fidget of fingers, the swaying of legs, the tilt of the head to a slightly sharper angle. A yawn. But these movements become infinitesimal in the void between the occupants of the room.
David Accampo | January 24, 2009
Allen talks, a little too loud, a little too fast. A little too much. He’s telling Dawn something, and she’s listening, really she is, but more to the rhythm and cadence, wondering if he’s going to stop and take a breath. It may sound annoying, but Dawn doesn’t mind; she doesn’t really want to contribute to the conversation, and Allen doesn’t appear to require any collaboration.
David Accampo | January 23, 2009
As noted in a previous entry, I recently gave several writers a visual story prompt as part of a flash fiction challenge. This was a photo I had found online. I didn’t have any personal connection to the photo, I just wanted to see what people would come up with. And seeing several entries, I [...]
David Accampo | January 23, 2009
The following story is the answer to a writing challenge from Paul Montgomery, and inspired by the this prompt: “An old bachelor, having just moved to the country, discovers something strange in his back yard.”
David Accampo | January 23, 2009
Jude’s ability was — in the larger scheme of the universe — rather unimpressive. And yet, he took pride in his ability, as he felt it was something that was solely his, to grow and shape.Jude didn’t tell anyone of his ability. They wouldn’t understand. “Time travel,” they would say, “Bah.”
The way it worked was this: by closing his eyes very firmly, so that he could see nothing at all, Jude could travel into the future. He couldn’t travel very far, of course. A short blink could only get him one, maybe two seconds into the future. But as he became a teenager, Jude realized that longer blinks, with a great deal of concentration, could move him three, sometimes even five seconds into the future.