K. Marvin Bruce

The Space between Atoms will continue next week.   (The episode is already written.)   This week instead I wanted to pass along the timely and happy news that my story, “Friday before Senior Year,” has been published in The Corner Bar .   You may read it here: http://cornerbarmagazine.com/pdfs/corner-bar-volume-05-issue-06.pdf . This particular tale delves back into my own high school days.   Those among us timid and shy wondered what other kids did on the weekend while we were curled up at home with books.   And the monsters of this story were conjured by an article like that mentioned by the protagonist. Many of us who write fiction draw from the well of our own experience.   I knew bullies in school.   Other guys in the locker room bragged of what they’d done with girls we’d only ever seen fully clad.   They talked of secret and scary places.   Some of them died. The young might be classified as a different species.   Those kids I knew in high school, at least those wh

Fear notwithstanding, Terah crept close to the fire.   Pulled off his gloves to hold out his hands.   He looked at Mich in the dim light.   Young guy, not yet shaving.   At least it didn’t show.   What was his story?   “What do you do for food?” he asked. “Well, I’m stocked up at the moment, but I go out at night when I need supplies.   Found a few places with locks that accept MasterCard.   Only take a little from each, though.   Nobody ever misses it, I’m sure.   I try to avoid fresh snow, though.”   He gave Terah a small scowl. “I didn’t mean to bust in on you, man.   I’m just heading west.” “West to California?   Long way from here.   Most guys head south.” “I’ve got family west of here.” “Just passin’ through, then?” “Yup.” “Well, do me a favor and wait til the snow melts.   I can’t have your big feet givin’ me away.” They sat in silence for a while, watching the small fire. “You could probably do with a bite,” Mich said at last.   “I don’t much like givin’ stuf

“Who are you?”   The simple words echoed through the concrete grotto, but Terah was still confused by the disappearance of the couple in the room.   Instinct kicked in and he turned to face his accuser.   Dressed in layered rags like he was, the owner of the voice looked hardly old enough to be a runaway. “California,” he said, knowing the homeless often named themselves.   Given that he was wanted, it was safer that way. “I’ll call you Cal.   I’m Michigan.” “Mich, then.” “What ya starin’ at, Cal?   Most guys don’t like to let their guard down, even for a second.” Terah ignored the question.   “What are you doing here, Mich?”   Now that the age dynamic had kicked in, he felt a little superiority. “I live here.” “In an asylum?” “Very good, Sherlock.   You figured it out.   This is one of those places everyone knows you shouldn’t know about.” “You’re awfully young—” “You dint answer my question.   What were ya starin’ at, Cal?” The young man’s self possession struc

His walk had begun before dawn, but already the sun hung at that dangerous winter angle warning of imminent night.   Terah’s initial impression of Fonthill Castle shifted more toward Mercer Museum.   Instead of opening into a grand foyer, the front hall was a narrow, claustrophobic passageway.   There were two right-angle turns that set him back to his original direction.   That was an odd architectural feature.   With no interior lights, he had to wait for his eyes to adjust.   At least he was out of the wind, although the temperature in the poured concrete didn’t improve much on the outdoors.   The climb had made him sweat, so opening his jacket seemed logical. The passage opened onto rooms about twelve feet in, and then continued on toward the center of the building.   He glanced into the rooms, noting abandoned equipment he couldn’t identify.   Vaguely medical enough to make him squeamish, he looked across the hall to find an office with papers, damp and moldy, strewn across the