Paul Wilson
Bio
On the East Coast of England (halfway up the righthand side). Have some fiction on Amazon, World's Apart (sci-fi), and The Runechild Saga (a fantasy trilogy - I'm a big Dungeons and Dragons fan).
Stories (31)
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In The Blood
Leanne Thompson sat quite still at the bottom of the stairs, her husband's favourite cream shirt held in white-knuckled fists. Her face remained glacial, ice-blue eyes fixed upon the door; it was the only way to keep the raging vortex churning beneath her breastbone imprisoned.
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
The Other Me
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. At least, that's how it seemed at the time. My face was there, obviously: brown eyes; straight, flat nose; thin, pale lips; all arranged in the typical fashion. But, somehow, it still wasn't me. It was like looking at a stranger for the first time, albeit a stranger that looked exactly like me. I thought, “Is this how separated twins feel when they met?”
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
Room 66b
"Hello, Mike. What can I do for you today?" Jack Nielson studied the man on the other side of the desk. Mike Charles evidently needed somebody to do something for him; his face was creased by worried lines, his eyes sunken and furtive like lost animals in a burrow, and his normally pristinely-ironed shirt had dishevelled valleys and mountains all over it. He wasn't wearing a tie, either, Jack noted. Very unusual.
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
From Here to Everywhere
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It was a stellar paradox, as far as Izak Marlan was concerned, for how did 'they' know? It was all well and good to accept the science behind it all – that sound waves vibrate molecules in the air, so when there is no air for the waves to interact with how can sound possibly exist? – but in order to test that idea, really test it, surely someone without a vacuum suit on needed to be out there calling to someone else without a vacuum suit on. They would only have a few time units to register anything, of course, because exposure to hard vacuum would soon be fatal. Who would volunteer for such a thing?
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
The Outside Within
No one can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say, but Miriam Bennett wasn't so sure. She could hear it. The first time she had heard it was three weeks ago. Her sleep cycle had finished, the lights of her personal area had flashed on, and she had rolled off her mat to get dressed and go to work, repeating a series of events that never seemed to change. Only this time it did change. This time, as she looked bleary-eyed into the deep black void beyond the window of the waste cubicle, her ears tuned out the whirring of the toothbrush sweeping her gums and detected something else, something previously unknown and altogether different.
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
All the King's Horses
“Stop me if I haven't quite understood things.” The man on the other side of the low coffee table sat in a wooden chair whilst I laid neatly on a leather-bound couch. His pale, oval face pointed toward the notepad in his hands, the one he had been furiously jotting down information on for the last half hour or so while I spoke, but his eyes were fixed upon me like knives flung at a bullseye. My gaze followed the lazy spirals winding across the ceiling, but I knew the look all too well. It was the same look they all gave me after an 'event', the look that made them appear more like a disapproving teacher than a highly trained psychotherapist.
By Paul Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
