Joseph "Mark" Coughlin
Bio
Mark has been writing short stories since the early 1990s. His short story "The Antique" was published in the Con*Stellation newsletter in 1992. His short story "Seconds To Live" was broadcast in the Sundial Writing Contest in 1994.
Stories (36)
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Recycled
I don't remember how I got there, my most recent memories have gone well past the 'fuzzy' level, which added to my confused state. I looked about the scene, which appeared almost unreal as a lovely section of beach with a gentle lapping of water against the sand, sunlight seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. I tried to recall what I had been doing and where I was before this, but to no avail. What was even stranger was the fact that I felt... nothing. My bare feet felt no heat from the sand, my bare skin felt no tingling from the ultraviolet light converting skin cells, no wind in my short hair, no pain, no pleasure... just confusion.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Fiction
Red Sky, Early Morning
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The small, round port hole afforded only a limited view, its triple panes protecting the interior of the captain's wardroom. She felt a trepidation at the forthcoming journey that bored into her soul. Her captain had been her lover for a time, and his ardent invitation for her to join him for the trip to the New World meant leaving home for good. Sadness mixed with exhilaration as she tried to watch as they prepared to leave their home port.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Futurism
Home of Their Dreams
The widower had settled into the recliner, looking across the living room and through the picture window at the peaceful scenery outside. The water of the lake was rippled by a fish popping up to munch a hapless bug that had landed on the surface. The trees stood tall and verdant, and the man admired the perfection of the vista. It was indeed the home of their dreams, but the thought brought back the old pain, the memory of the day he was going to announce to his wife that he had found the lake house they had discussed for so long. As soon as he signed the contract, he hurriedly drove towards home, tried to call to give her the great news. It went to voicemail. That was odd, he thought. At least the caregiver should have answered. Curiosity turned to dread as he imagined what he would find. As he turned the corner onto their street, he could already see the ambulance in their driveway. Dread turned to panic as he slammed the brakes in front of the house and jumped out of the car to find the caregiver stepping out of their front door, the expression on her face telling him his fears were confirmed.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Futurism
Ding Dong
It all started with a text from "UNKNOWN" that read, "Ding Dong". WTH, I thought. Then the sound of my doorbell made me jump. I pulled up the video feed of my surveillance cams, and I got a fleeting glimpse of a drone backing away from my doorstep.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Horror
Bad Noise In The Wood
Was the same all life, until see something in sleep. Saw small animal no fur in wood, not food, too small. Feel danger, but it small. Something not same, different. Not scared all life, only when wind turns over in sky and fall. But this scares. It comes closer. Eyes open.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Fiction
AH-12: Space Hero
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. If I had still had pressure in my air sacs, I might have tested that theory. But I had acted out of my version of instinct, as I was being ejected through an airlock and I expelled my air sacs to prevent damage from the sudden decompression. If I had been an organic human, I would have had about thirteen seconds before my lungs exploded. Surprisingly, space is not generally a true vacuum, as there are grams of molecules, even breathable oxygen per meter, but the dispersal is exceedingly thin. So, the aforementioned human would fail to draw enough oxygen to survive. Also, it would be noteworthy that here in interstellar space, beyond the heliopause, the temperature was much warmer than previously thought. The Voyager probes sent out back in the twentieth century found that along their respective paths the temperature was more like 5500 degrees Kelvin. An organic human would more likely cook than freeze.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin3 years ago in Fiction
The Beat of Leathery Wings
“There weren't always dragons in the Valley,” this being said by our village Elder Everwind, “Was it not that long ago that we thought them only as legends of the old ages?” He looked about the semi-dark of the tent interior, at the worried faces of the village elders. We were convened in emergency council to address the coming of the dragons. The council was attended by the elders of all of the families in the center house, a large tent structure used for village functions and meetings. Torches lit the darkness, casting warm light across the worn faces of the elders as they engaged in a contentious discussion. There was much disagreement over what course to take in dealing with the threat of dragons. Our village mage Maythorn was being interrogated by several elders, who seem to regard her as something of a major Wizard, mostly due to her being adept at the healing arts. She is yet wise and honest and can debate with the best of us, but she was no Wizard.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
Discovery of the Machine
The early summer day in 1900 on the Sea of Crete had been alternately friendly and fitful. The waters had been choppy at times, then placid at others. The Sun peeked out from behind cumuli, on and off, casting bright warmth on the crew tending their equipment on the deck of the tirhandil, gently rocking to and fro in the waters off the Grecian coast. They had come from the port of Kalymnos in search of sponge. They numbered seven, just enough for the 24-foot boat of ancient Phoenician design, they studiously maintained the scaphandros, the suits that allowed the divers to stay deeper and longer underwater. They routinely dove to 150 feet or more as they dared, and with the dive charts available as a guide, they pushed their endurance to the limit. Recompressing was recommended at a rate of three feet per minute, but some of the more adventurous pushed their luck, sometimes with serious injury.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
Aye
I lowered myself to my knees to install a length of edging along the sidewalk from my porch to the driveway. It is a good feeling to find the moistness of the grass wetting my knee as I press down the decorative along the edge of the walk. As I go along, I pull clumps of grass-bladed sod that have extended over the side of the concrete, having impeded my progress. The soggy mud-encrusted clumps feel cool in my hands as I clear them. I imagine that I am renewing a connection to the good earth while I scoot my knees along, and reminding myself that a presence is ever with me. Twenty-five feet along and I stop to stand up and review my efforts. The edging is relatively straight, straight as the concrete of the walk would allow, but lumpy as it had not been completely flattened. I walked the line and tamped down the high spots with my foot, eyeing the line as I went along. I hoped my calming thoughts and attention to the detail of my project reflect well on my score.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
