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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Prologue: A Day In The Life
The street was deathly quiet, the lanes choked with wrecked and abandoned vehicles. All five lanes were a jumble of rust and broken plastic and glass, the dust that had settled on the cars and trucks having rendered everything to the same sepia tone as the sky above. The scene had the quality of an old faded photograph, still life captured forever in its present state of deterioration. Along both sides of the street, the hulks of ranchers and split-levels stood precariously on their ruined foundations, some burnt out while others merely suffered broken doors and windows. Evidence of looting lay about their yards, detritus of modern-day living strewn about, all covered with that brownish dust. All of their trees and bushes had been stripped of every scrap of greenery, every bit of bark sliced and consumed, even the cores gnawed at until all that remained were thin reeds of dried somethings bereft of any nutritional value. Even the grass of all their yards had been pulled by the scrawny handful, until they also turned to the same dusty shade.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
The Last Arrest
Twinkle lights clicked against the window's exterior, threatening to break in the freezing wind. She was warm inside, too warm, unlike the people rushing by the small coffee shop. Her blunt fingernail repeatedly tapped the steaming cup, her second one, while her other hand clutched the badge hidden beneath her coat. The bell on the door kept chiming and her neck was starting to get sore from looking up...
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Futurism
New Show Coming To Town
I have had the distinct pleasure to have been invited to interview the most illustrious showman and owner of Wiley Kiley's Enchanting East Extravaganza earlier this week. As I entered his lavish hotel room at the West Savoy in New Dutch City, his man Panto halted me for a moment and quickly and expertly searched my person for hidden weapons. I was not about to resist such an imposing a figure as this muscle-bound Saquinte native. His short, yellow hair set off his squareish head, looking a bit out of place in his dandysuit, his serious demeanor dripping with savage pride, a deeply devoted servant to the merrily flamboyant emcee of the aforementioned production.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
Fate of The Asimos
The merchant ship Asimos was large by its contemporary standards, a good two hundred feet or more in length, with a beam of thirty feet. It sported two masts and thirty-two oar, arranged as that of a trireme. There were no less than five massive anchors, and its capacity was in excess of five hundred tons. It's captain was a Minoan well-versed in the trade routes from Ephesus to Rome, and as such was considered to be reputable and honest. His crew consisted of an eclectic variety from across the Mediterranean, but mostly fellow Minoans. All handpicked and loyal to the captain.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
The Hell You Say!
So, the demon was getting very annoyed with my attitude, as I had already likened his appearance to the traditional image of a devil, with the horns and Pan-like lower extremities, and his sulfuric stench. I said he looked like that devil-like creature being accosted by the handsome gentleman in the cover art of the album A Trick of The Tail. He seemed to take great pleasure in correcting me by explaining that my vision of his appearance was due to my own prejudices of how a demon should look. He literally looked the way I wanted him to look. He haughtily declared that he was actually quite a beautiful fallen angel, and his kind had gotten a bad rep over the millenia with all the Church propaganda and the very fanciful and horribly inaccurate illustrations by those 'snooty monks'.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Fiction
... For A Better Tomorrow
Remembering that time the plain wrapped box had shown up in the post, I thought it was odd, considering there was no return address printed on the label, only the distinctive curls of a double helix. I was a bit on edge, having heard some alarming things on the newsfeed of the time about terrorist attacks, containers of white powder most of the time. I considered the alternatives: Toss it into the trash, turn it in to the authorities for testing or even suiting up in protective gear before opening the box. I had to chuckle at the latter, envisioning myself in a hazmat suit, wearing a gas mask and elbow-high rubber gloves, using the kitchen tongs to gingerly remove the brown paper and open the box.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Futurism
What Happens When You Forget To Carry The One...
Scott Kim walked into the Director's office almost hesitantly, carrying a portfolio and an iPad under one arm. NASA Director Kathryn Garrett was behind her desk, mulling over papers and it took a moment for her to look up over her reading glasses at Kim standing opposite her. She was a no- nonsense administrator known as a stickler for details, and the arrival of her PR attache meant another of a series of figurative brush fires for her to put out. This was not going to be pretty, she thought.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin4 years ago in Futurism
To Allan, Though Whose Spelling Differs
I had refused adamantly to discuss this singular vision with all who matter in my brief existence, but for the want, nay the need that approaches a level biologic in nature, I hereby lay upon the page an extraordinary experience of body and soul that a mind was hardly able to comprehend. I had on previous occasions waxed philosophic on the vagaries of ideations that imperiously invaded my consciousness, preyed upon me as a vulture eyeing fresh carrion, until I had formally and finally concreted their permanence in words flowery and poetic. This state does not appreciatively change with the seasons of Life, no matter my health or sobriety or that which alters same. Even with the indolence of fever, these stray thoughts contrive to occupy my every waking hour, an itching unwilling to abate when scratched, eternally urging.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin5 years ago in Fiction
Absense (The original edit)
It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Her name is Tracy. She is fourteen years old in this picture. The picture in the heart-shaped locket on a gold-plated chain. Her long, brown hair is parted in the center and cinched up in two pigtails. Her big, brown eyes sparkle and the curl of her smile makes me wonder what mischief she is up to. I think as I walk through unfamiliar forests, will I recognize her if I find her, no, when I find her. How will she react when she sees me? I continuously practice what I will say to her as I tramp through fallen leaves and weave my way around twigs and branches and other detritus, my ears keen to hear anything of danger to me. I have little to steal: A bedroll, a knife, an air rifle and a few sundries that make the journey a bit less of an ordeal. The most valuable item is, of course, Tracy in a locket. She is the only thing keeping one foot in front of the other.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin5 years ago in Fiction
Absense
Her name is Tracy. She is fourteen years old in this picture. The picture in the heart-shaped locket on a gold-plated chain. Her long, brown hair is parted in the center and cinched up in two pigtails. Her big, brown eyes sparkle and the curl of her smile makes me wonder what mischief she is up to. I think as I walk through unfamiliar forests, will I recognize her if I find her, no, when I find her. How will she react when she sees me? I continuously practice what I will say to her as I tramp through fallen leaves and weave my way around twigs and branches and other detritus. I have little to steal: A bedroll, a knife, an air rifle and a few sundries that make the journey a bit less of an ordeal. The most valuable item is, of course, Tracy in a locket. My head throbs, has been since before I left. There was that week I was down sick and delirious, it scared me. So, I packed up and snuck out of the neighborhood, dodging patrols all along the way.
By Joseph "Mark" Coughlin5 years ago in Horror
