Posts Tagged ‘Short Fiction’

War Games

Posted: August 18, 2015 in Lucas Nguyen, Short Fiction

“Your grandparents were so lucky,” the bigger boy said to me at play time.  “They didn’t have to live through the Depression like mine did.”  He fiddled with the toy train.

I thought of my grandparents’ stories of civil war, of street vendoring for pennies a day.  But my foreign-born shame followed my family’s bloodline to this nation, where I was born, so I kept quiet.

“I mean, I guess you Vietmanese had a war, too, but it wasn’t like the World War II.”  I thought about the absurdity of boasting “My War Can Beat Up Your War.”  I mentally counted another American who couldn’t pronounce Vietnamese.

“It was a pretty bad war,” I said.


TQP LOGO ready 


TODAY is Short Fiction Monday, I guess.  Please enjoy this short story.  Or don’t, you can do what you like in life, that’s none of my business.


The second part of our Short Fiction Friday Event, brought to you by TQP contributor Ryan Crutchfield. Part One can be found here, probably read that one first.

Today’s Short Fiction Friday even is brought to you by TQP contributor Ryan Crutchfield. It’s in two parts, enjoy them in order or out of order, at your discretion.  (But “in order” is best.)


They found the cemetery shortly after lunch, exactly where it was not supposed to be. It was slung low and wide across the southern shadowed side of the small hill that they stood upon, stretching out of sight down into the murky edges where the forest became the swamp. The headstones where scattered like dominoes after a knife fight and a number of them were broken or knocked over. The cemetery looked ancient.

Using the power of TECHNOLOGY!, I have made a new short story collection available, electronically, ON THE INTERNET.  All you need is PayPal, or access to PayPal, a willingness to read PDF files, and eighty-three cents!

That’s right, just EIGHTY-THREE CENTS!

Troubled by the fact that my many fans — the ones who purchased the first edition of The Translated Man — couldn’t read the extra short stories in the new edition without buying the whole thing again, I have done something kind of amazing.

I have made a collection of six short stories available to you, the internet.  Second Errata (the name of the collection) contains the three short stories from The Translated Man and Other Stories:  “The Hangman’s Daughter” (first published by Black Gate Magazine), “Beckett’s Job” (available also here at TQP) and “Cresy and the Sharpsie” (so far only available in the book).

As a bit of a bonus, I’ve also thrown in “We Are Shepherds,” “My Heinleins Crumble to Dust in My Hands,” and “The Locked Eye.”  All of these are available here on the site, but whatever, now you can get them all in one place, or easily share them with your friends.

HERE IS WHAT YOU MUST DO!  Send $0.83 USD via PayPal to

threatquality (at) gmail (dot) com

That’s it, you suckers.  Then enjoy some short stories.


The Curse

Posted: November 16, 2009 in Braak
Tags: ,

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, “but you don’t look very much like a witch doctor.”  Olivia Austen Mortimer (Livvy to her friends and the women that ran the $3,000 a month infant-to-preschool daycare, “Miss Livvy” to the maid) said this with a certain tentativeness, equally concerned with her guest’s feelings as she was with his credentials.


[Part Two of Two.  Part 1 is available here.]

What lies beyond doesn’t worry me.
Suppose you break this world to bits, another may arise.

Mahmoud Truely awoke as his shuttle approached Ceres.  He was in one of the short-term isleep chambers.  Even though the trip to the asteroid belt only took a week, they put people into isleep anyway.  The ship could go faster if the passengers’ vital functions had all been suspended.  When the isleep door opened, Mahmoud saw the man with the black-and-white beard, the yellow shirt, the weird sunglasses.  He was munching on a paper control panel across the hall.  The man turned to look at him, and Mahmoud panicked.  He didn’t want the man to see him.  He tried to hide his face, to duck down, as the man turned, but he couldn’t move his body.  He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.