Anthony Diaz
Bio
Writer of Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Horror, and sometimes Poetry.
Stories (42)
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Welcome to Hyperphantasia
Welcome to hyperphantasia. Or perhaps hyper imagination? It doesn’t really matter what label you call it, but I often thought that other people could imagine a scene play out right in front of your eyes on command. Sitting in the office chair staring at the work screen, then suddenly a tiny human-like figure morphs into existence on your desk and is now karate chopping the mechanical pencil in front of you, but you casually continue on with your work, sound familiar? It happens to me all the time. Can you almost smell the coffee from the made-up tavern where a six-foot elven merchant behind the counter is brewing, talking to other patrons while you write the next scene of the book no one is going to read until you stop self-doubting the work you do? Hmm? I can. Or how about playing out scenarios in your head where the imagery is so real that you accidentally trigger fight or flight responses, do you do that? This may sound cliche, but I really wish I had given in to the imagery and pursued my first love of the arts. But here is something that is interesting. Can you turn it off? Can you shake the imagery out of your head? I can. It is weird how it occurs, too. Let us take the original scenario of you sitting on your office chair, then the miniature manlike figure starts karate chopping the mechanical pencils in front of you. Then let us say that a pink cat calmly struts its way towards the little martial artists and then spontaneously morphs into a nine-tailed kitsune; all the while, a small army of undead creeps behind our two new heroes. Before the action kicks off, you notice that you misspelled a word you were actively typing while fully engaged with your work. No missed sentences, no confusion on what was going on with your job, nor any missed strides with the potential epic fight scene happening in real time in front of you, in full color, with dialogue! You tell yourself, okay, time to turn this off, then poof. The imagery is gone, and you seamlessly continue on with your day. Interesting, is it not? What is frustrating is that a lot of the time, I can’t focus a narrative out of it. It has happened plenty of times, but the majority of instances, it is full-on randomness, until I give it complete control. If I focus my energy on what imagery is playing out in front of me, I can carve out a story. The problem? As a storyteller, I can imagine the most intense of scenes and the more serene of scenes, but my skills as a writer are still coming around. This is where frustration kicks in. You see, I never nourished this imagery, and I never thought about what I could do with this “theater of the mind” in the form of expression or even attempt a career out of it. I was too traditional in the first half of my existence. And I confidently say, “first half” because I am a firm believer that life doesn’t really have a definition of when something starts or ends. I mean, of course, there are basic things like adolescence and developmental stages, but I’m talking about this thing we made up called “careers.” It sucks that I am now trying to tap into my imagination and explore the creative side of existence because this is fun, but the fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter when you start embracing your thing; as long as you embrace it. But for me, trying to funnel these fantastical characters and all of their quirks onto paper so that others may enjoy, I’m still working on that. But in the meantime, I’ll keep karate chopping mechanical pencils and convert that into stories.
By Anthony Diaz6 months ago in Fiction
The Mind Wanders
Before I begin, I would like to tell you, the reader, that I’m okay. This narrative is prompted by a Vocal challenge entitled “The Metamorphosis of the Mind.” This challenge is a no more than 2,500-word and no less than 1,000-word piece where I, the author, am supposed to share a transformative moment from my mental or emotional journey. For the past few years, while being a Vocal Plus member, I have been entering these challenges in the hopes of likes, reads, subscriptions, and, of course, prize money. My entries, thus far, have been mostly fictional pieces of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and the occasional poetry. I report that to date, I have not won nor have had an honorable mention, which is okay. I am hopeful that I will at least sharpen my skills to where someone enjoys my writing enough to continuously want to read what I put out on Vocal. This challenge, however, is different. This challenge wants us to explore our own psyche and present a moment of our lives to you, the reader. I did not know where to begin with this entry, for you see, I believe I have experienced a more than average share of personal growth. Let me quickly explain.
By Anthony Diaz9 months ago in Psyche
The Villa Pisani Labyrinth
Lost within the new Villa Pisani labyrinth, the world's most challenging hedge maze, Anthony felt his heart racing as panic began to set in. Anthony knew there was something amiss about that drink offered to him by his hostess. He smartly tried to excuse himself to vomit the foreign substance out of his system but was ushered out in a mental haze. He was the only guest to be led to the labyrinth. Anthony couldn’t remember if he was the sole guest in this Italian mansion; the faces that prefaced this encounter became blurred and misshapen. Fight or flight had not set in yet—as if the bodily response had been deactivated. Anthony stood in front of the iron gate into the maze. The time of day, for Anthony, shifted from sunset to a completely lightless sky. The iron gate opened. On either side stood identical marble statues of a young boy wrestling an animal of some sort. Anthony couldn’t focus on the statues, his eyes briefly caught a flashlight strobing the center spiral tower with a marble statue resting on top. The tower shifted, disappeared, sank, grew to enormous heights, and then it instantaneously became a frightening dark. A voice whispered into Anthony’s left ear, instructing him to hurry through the maze, find the center, and claim the prize.
By Anthony Diaz9 months ago in Fiction
The Homestead
The hubris of human existence is a delicate balance of technological advancements and the impending demise that accompanies them. With each invention, our livelihood is met with growing comfort and complacency, which, within a few years' time, must be addressed as it has become a burden or may directly shorten our lifespan. In 2030, one such technological invention was hailed as the pinnacle of human evolution. Project Genesis, the transfer of consciousness to a machine, was the beginning of our subsequent scheduled downfall. The consciousness of a person could be slowly transferred over the course of a week. Electrical signals, unfelt by the person, extract specific information from memories buried from infancy to how the person prefers their coffee. One by one, the information is transferred to a sophisticated set of drives, chips, and components. A new and revolutionary battery source could maintain the mechanical brain and body for roughly one thousand years. The new body, the price of which was controlled by one company and one company alone, could be completely customizable to the client's wants and desires. This process was very costly but guaranteed to be completely safe and reliable. By 2032, competitors and knock-offs were being forced to yield any production as the ramifications of anything within the process going array, were punishable as high as life in prison without the possibility of parole and even death. For those who could afford it, this procedure was originally intended as the greatest cure for dementia and Alzheimers and the fountain of potential everlasting life. The choice to die was left to the individual, and not by disease, or by mother nature. In the fall of 2035, legislation was passed that lifted the age and condition requirement for consciousness transfer; the only remaining requirement was that the body must be in a state of “uselessness.” At the end of the year 2040, the only requirement needed was the requirement of payment.
By Anthony Diaz9 months ago in Longevity
Editing Isn't Fun
When I relit my creative candle, I knew that one of the most dreaded steps in being a writer and content creator (I have recently learned that being a content creator does not include being a writer) was going to be editing. Typically, when I edit my work, it includes approximately an hour of self-hate and intense criticism, so much so that the actual editing process doesn’t start until at least the two-hour mark of my dedicated editing time. This, however, only becomes true if I even get to the two-hour mark of editing. Now that I am a slightly more experienced writer, I can make very small edits on the fly when I’m writing, even when I’m experiencing a writer’s high. Eight years ago, when I was beginning to find a voice and style that I could seriously narrow on, I was still in the experimental stage of finding who I am as a writer. The following is an excerpt from a vocal challenge four years ago:
By Anthony Diaz10 months ago in Critique
Coffee Run
Nestled at the very end of a long ominous hallway was the door to a New York Tribeca Park apartment 405.5. Ominous, of course, until Smokey Joe, the apartment’s “super,” finished repairing a damaged lighting fixture. Once the necessary 120 volts of electricity had powered through, thus revealing an art deco décor, the once-scary corridor was no longer. Tacky art choice, it was not. However, Jonathan, the gentleman residing at apartment 405.5, began to grow fond of the art style after repeated debates with his neighbor, Jonah Fishmen. Jonathan sided with a more Art Nouveau style, which he says “feels like a dream.” Today, however, Tuesday, for all intents and purposes, began less like a carefree dream and more like a groggy five-minute nap.
By Anthony Diaz10 months ago in Humor
Replay. Content Warning.
Since my birth in the early 1980s, or as my son so lightly puts it, the late 1900s, I have seen enough historical events that when I try to piece together my timeline, it becomes a mesh of chaotic old memories to this March of 2050. My hospital room smells like slightly lemon disinfectant and an oddly pleasant lavender. The holographic image beside my bed displays a menu for various ice creams, soft-serves, and frozen yogurts, and the virtual screen on the wall in front of me is playing old YouTube videos of games I never got to play.
By Anthony Diazabout a year ago in Futurism
One Simple Rule. Content Warning.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The six of us sat in the middle of the lightly furnished room. For an undisclosed amount of money, we six of various backgrounds, genders, strengths, and weaknesses, agreed to sit in this dimly lit room with only one rule—don’t open the door. Our phones and our watches were confiscated, with the promise they would be returned once we completed whatever task they wanted us to do. I now realize that the instructions were too vague to be a contest. This was a game not for a clear winner but for sadistic tendencies. Initially, there were eight of us. The first “test,” which we began calling them, came as a gas seeping through the lower vents. I recognized it immediately as CS. The gas density, at first, was low—until we chose to attempt to block the vents; then it leaked from outlets and holes in the ceiling that went unnoticed until then. I instructed those who were standing to get low and cover their face with cloth—one panicked, the kind of panic that would mean certain death on the battlefield. She was a nice-looking woman, kind, or at least seemed to be. She opened the door. Any light emitted from the bulbs extinguished to a type of darkness that didn’t feel real; we all heard her grunt, gag, and then silence.
By Anthony Diazabout a year ago in Horror
